And yet . . . he'd managed it. Near to a textbook perfect landing, in fact. Now, so long as Porlumma's authorities didn't recognize them, all they had to do was get the Venture repaired and get back into space again. Once they were out of detector range, they'd have to make use of the Sheewash Drive to get to the Imperial Capital in time. But, according to the calendar of the customs official who was coming to give the "Evening Bird" the once-over, they still had ten days.
The question, of course, was whether they could get the Venture repaired and space-borne before then. Even with the Sheewash Drive, it was going to be a close thing.
* * *
The engineer from Saltash and Gryfin, Ltd. was not encouraging. "The tubes will have to come out entirely, Captain Aron. They're just about completely shot. And half of the instrumentation needs to be junked. The fact that you managed to set your ship down without leaving a crater in the landing field fills me with admiration for your skill as a pilot, though I have grave doubts about your common sense. I'll let you have a quote in the morning, but brace yourself for something steep. Frankly, if you could afford it, it would make more sense to haul your drive out and scrap it."
Captain Pausert sucked breath through his teeth. He was painfully aware that the Venture's current bank balance was comfortable enough for regular running, but not really in good shape for massive repair bills. "How steep is 'something steep,' and how long is this going to take?" he asked warily. "I've got a contract to fulfill and it's got really harsh noncompletion clauses. We'll need to make this a rush job."
The engineer grimaced. "Captain, I've never seen engines or even control systems that have taken this kind of battering and still functioned, and I was once a Navy engineer. What'd you do? Pick a fight with a neutron star? I've seen craft towed in from battles that looked better. I'll give you a precise figure as soon as I can, but we're talking the better part of half a million maels, I'm guessing. And to reengineer and recalibrate the engine . . . call it three weeks. It's a big job."
"Oh." The captain sat down. So, by the sudden dent on the couch beside him, did Goth. She'd plainly been keeping an eye on the engineer while she was in no-shape. "Well," said the captain weakly, "will you get back to us with the exact quote?"
The engineer nodded. "As soon as I've done the calculations, Captain Aron. But as I said, it's a big job." He left the captain and Goth to stare at each other in despair.
"A half a million maels. And you know what these repair quotes are like," said the captain gloomily. "Never under."
Goth was already calculating. "We've got about three hundred and fifty thousand maels left in the account. And we can run into the red another fifty thousand or so. We'll be a long way short, Captain. And I just don't see how we can get Hantis and Pul to the Imperial Capital in time, if it's going to take them that long."
"It'd be quicker to haul the engines out and put a new drive in. They could do that in a couple of days."
"Well, then, that's what we need to do," said Goth, decisively.
The captain shook his head. "If we had a couple of spare million, we could do it. And stop thinking of Wansing's jewels, Goth. They'd catch us for sure. And besides, it's not right."
"It's an emergency, Captain," said Goth thoughtfully. By now her reserved manner fooled him not at all. The captain knew that she was thinking seriously about larceny.
Well, to be honest, so was he. They had a vital mission to complete, after all. But it still went against his grain.
He sighed. "Give me a few minutes to think. We must have some way of raising the money."
"I could go and play some poker," said the Leewit, appearing from behind the couch, the Agandar's cards in her hand.
"I suspect they might think that they were marked, child," said the captain, managing at least half a smile.
"Oh, they are," said the Leewit cheerfully. "Look. Here on the edges." She dealt a card out, face up. "See that pattern around the edge? It's different on some of them. Lisol and Ta'himmin spotted it back on Nartheby. Those Sprites have got sharp eyes."
"But that's on the face of the cards. That's no good. It's got to be on the edges or on the backs." Goth was betraying more knowledge of cardsharping than the captain would have expected.
The Leewit snorted. "So why is the royal flush marked then, smarty?"
The captain felt that odd scalp-crawling sensation that he got from klatha events. He reached slowly for the cards. "Not," he said in a hushed voice, "to enable the previous owner to cheat at cards."
"What?" said Goth, puzzled.
The captain looked at the two of them, and, dealing the cards out face up, separated out the suits. "Just who was the previous owner of this pack of cards?" he asked.
"The Agandar. Criminy! You mean . . . ?"
"Yes," said the captain, sorting the suits into order. "I think this pack of cards that the Leewit has been carrying around in her pocket is what the Agandar's pirates were looking for all along."
He drew the royal flush out of each suit and laid them out. "I think . . . I'm sure the answer is right here. Right in front of our eyes." He stared intently at the picture-cards. Patterns imported centuries ago from Old Yarthe, that had altered gradually over the centuries.
The Agandar had been on Uldune. Bloody-historied Uldune. The world whose pirate fleets had once spread fear and terror across a huge sector of the galaxy. The world that had turned from piracy and raiding to become the clearing house of half the dubious merchandise in the galaxy. A place that still welcomed pirates, at least successful ones.
Why had the Agandar been on Uldune? To follow up the rumor of a new spacedrive? Or had he been on Uldune anyway, for another purpose?—when his spies had brought him the rumor that the Venture was being renamed the Evening Bird by courtesy of the Daal's highly efficient staff of forgers.
Uldune still welcomed pirates. Successful pirates.
It provided, among other services, a fence for stolen goods and . . . banking. The pirates of ancient history hid their loot in secret hoards on desert islands, but the modern pirate was more likely to use a bank vault. Or a numbered private account. Kleesp's accomplice had actually said as much! Pausert was willing to bet that the cards in front of him held the key to just such a numbered account. But the question was: how? He studied the pattern on the edge of the cards. It was a simple repeat-pattern, hand-painted and skillfully so, but still nothing more than that, at least as far as he could see.
"I'll bet it's supposed to give us the numbers of the Agandar's bank accounts. Probably with the Daal's Bank. But for the life of me I can't see what the numbers could be. I suppose you could count which number of the repeat pattern was wrong, but what order would they go in?
He picked up the four sets of marked suits. "See," he said, dealing them out again. "There are sixteen repeats of this pattern on the top margin. Each one of these cards has a different one of those repeats altered." He moved the cards around, arranging them in the order of the altered repeat pattern on the top edge. "We can make pretty patterns, but they don't . . . ulp."
As he laid the last card in the row, the altered patterns linked up. There was a brief hum and a small hyperelectronic screen and keypad appeared above the cards.
Letters began forming on the screen: ENTER ACCESS CODE.