Chanur's Venture

Chapter Two

The door hissed back and revealed two guards, which at Meetpoint might have been any oxy-breathing kind but stsho, considering the stsho's congenital distrust of violence. They hired all their security. Fortunately for the peace at present, these were both mahendo'sat.

Pyanfar stopped in her pacing of the narrow room — waiting area, they had called it: stsho euphemism. Other species had other names for such small rooms with doorlocks facing outward.

"Where's my crew?" she spat at the mahendo'sat forthwith, ears flattened despite herself. "Gods rot it, where are they?"

"Director wants," one said, standing aside from the door. "You come now, hani captain."

She pulled in her claws and came, since something finally seemed in movement, and since neither of the two mahendo'sat were armed with more than nature gave them and showed no desire for confrontation. They would not talk, not this pair; not threaten or swerve from duty: mahendo'sat at punctilious, honest best.

"Here," was their only other word, at a lift door some distance through the maze.

More traveling. The lift went a long zigzag distance through Meetpoint's bowels, and let them out again in white, pastel-decorated halls. Lights obtruded here and there in seeming random — stsho, this section, not making apology to other species' tastes, all pastels and opal colors, vast spaces, odd-angled panels riddled with random holes and alcoves. The tall black-furred, black-kilted mahen guards and the splash of her own scarlet trousers and red-gold hide were equally alien here.

A last door, a last hallway of twisting plasti-form shapes. She flicked her ears so that the rings chimed, flexed her claws with one deep breath as if she contemplated a leap from some height, and let herself be shown into a pearl-toned hall, a splendor of bizarre walls and white-upholstered depressions in the level, gleaming floor. One gossamer-clad stsho stood to meet them, recorder in hand. Another sat serenely important in the central bowl. Gtst — (stsho had three sexes at one time, and neither he, she, nor it was really adequate) gtst was ornamented in subtlest colors ranging into hues invisible to hani eyes, but detectible at the verges, whites with low violet shimmerings on the folds. Gtst tattooings were equally illusory on gtst naturally pearly skin, and shaded off into green and violets. Pearl-toned plumes nodded from augmented brows, shading moonstone eyes. The small mouth was clamped in disapproving straightness and nostrils flared in busy alternation.

Pyanfar bowed before this elegance, once and shortly. The stsho waved a languid hand and the servant-translator, it must be, came and stood near, gist own robes floating free on invisible breezes— stsho-silk and expensive.

"Ndisthe," Pyanfar said, "sstissei asem sisth an zis-" with the right amount of respect, she reckoned. Feathery eyebrows fluttered. The assistant clutched gtst recorder and drew back in indecision.

"Shiss." The Director motioned with one elegant jeweled hand. The translator stopped in gtst retreat. "Shiss. Os histhe Chanur nos schensi noss' spitense sthshosi chisemsthi."

"Far from fluent," Pyanfar agreed.

The Director drew breath. Gtst plumes all nodded in profound agitation. "Sto shisis ho weisse gti nurussthe din?"

"Did you know-" The translator flung gtstself into belated action. "-the riot in the market took four hours to stop?"

"— ni shi canth-men horshti nin."

"— Forty-five individuals are treated in infirmary-"

Pyanfar kept her ears erect, her expression sympathetic.

"Ni hoi shisisi ma gnisthe."

"— and extensive pilferage has taken place."

"I do share," said Pyanfar, drawing down her mouth in yet more distress, "your outrage at this disregard for stsho authority. My crew likewise suffered from this kifish banditry."

That got rendered, with much fluttering of hands.

"Shossmeinn ti szosthenshi hos! Ti mahen-thesai cisfe llyesthe to mistheth hos!"

"— You and your mahendo'sat co-conspirators have wreaked havoc-"

"Spithi no hasse cifise sif nan hos!"

"— involved the kif-"

"Shossei onniste stshoni no misthi th'sa has lies nan shi math!"

"— A tc'a ship has undocked and fled during the riot. Doubtless the chi are disturbed-"

"Ha nos thei no lien llche knnni na slastheni hos!"

"— Who knows but what this may also agitate the knnn?"

"Nan nos misthei hoisthe ifsthen noni ellyes-theme to Nifenne hassthe shasth!"

"— You and your crew within three hours of docking have created havoc with every species of the Compact!"

Pyanfar set her hands at her belt and lowered her ears deliberately. "As well say all victims of crime are guilty of incitement! Is this a new philosophy?"

A long silence once that was translated. Then:

"— I am put in mind of papers lately recovered, hani captain. I am in mind of heavy fines and penalties. Who will recompense our market? Who will see to our damages?"

"It's true," Pyanfar said with a direct, baleful stare. "Who dares charge the kif — excepting hani. Excepting us, esteemed Director. Tell me, what would happen without hani traffic here? Without mahendo'sat? How would the kif behave at Meetpoint then? Not simple pilferage, I'll warrant!"

Plumes fluttered. Round eyes stared, dark centered. "-You make threats without teeth. The han does not bend at your breath. Less so the mahendo'sat."

"Neither will the han look with favor on a hani ship beset, on a hani captain detained — I omit mention of the locked door!"

"— Have you such confidence you will relate to the han how a Chanur captain suffered such embarrassment? I have heard otherwise. I have heard Chanur's affairs are less than stable with the han in these days."

Pyanfar drew a long, long breath, wrinkling up her nose so that the translator drew back a pace. "There is no profit in such a wager, esteemed Director."

"— What profit to any dealing with Chanur? We restore your papers and see how you repay us.

Where are our damages? Where will you obtain the funds, who claim to be a terror to the kif? We fine you. You dare take nothing from them."

"They by the gods steal nothing from us except where we have relied on stsho authority."

The moonstone eyes acquired wider, darker centers. "-You have brought a male of your kind here. I hesitate to breach this delicacy, but it is well known that this gender of your species is unstable.

This surely contributed-"

"This is a hani affair."

"— Other hani find the state of affairs on your ship disturbing and improper."

"A hani matter."

"— A deputy of the han has shown concern. The deputy has assured me that this is not new policy, that the han deplores this action-"

"It's none of the deputy's gods-rotted business. Or anyone else's. Let's stay to the issue of safety on the docks."

"— Hani have not found it wise to bring their males into foreign contacts, for which they are naturally unsuited and unprepared. Other hani are shocked at your provocation."

"The docks, esteemed director. And public safety."

"— You have violated law. You have brought this person-"

"A member of my crew."

"— This person has a license?"

"He's got a temporary. All in order. Ask your own security."

"— A permit granted at Gaohn station. By a Chanur ally, doubtless under pressure. He is here without permissions-"

"Since when does Compact law require permissions for listed crew?"

"— Since when does listed crew take liberty during unloading and visit bars?"

"This is my ship and my affair!"

"— It became a stsho affair."

"Indeed it did! And any other question is utter persiflage. Let us stay to the issue: a kif attack on personnel of my ship; on personnel of my ship, who relied on the security assured by stsho law and custom. We have suffered outrage; I have suffered personal outrage in being detained for hours while kif assassins doubtless do as they please on the docks, to the hazard of life and property, some of which is mine — and who guarantees the safety of my goods waiting loading, when we are the victims of this outrage? I hold the station responsible. Where are my crew, esteemed Director? And who pays the indemnities we're due?"

This was perhaps too much. The translator wrung gist hands and stammered on the words, bowed like a reed in the wind on receiving the reply.

"— Why not ask the mahendo'sat you conferred with?"

Pyanfar's ears went tight against her skull. She brought them up with utmost effort, smoothed her nose and assumed a bland expression. "Would the director mean perhaps the mahendo'sat whose registry board malfunctioned in this well-ordered station?"

Another exchange. The translator's skin lost its pearly sheen and went dead white. "-The director says gtst knows about this board. A subordinate has been disapproved in this malfunction."

"It would be impolite to suggest higher connections. It would be stupid to doubt them."

The translator made several gasps for air and performed, with further hand-wringing. "-The subordinate in question had no inkling of higher complicities, such as you and your co-conspirators arranged. This mahen ship has elected departure during the disturbance. The disturbance reached also to the methane-breathers. The director asks — are you aware of this? Are you aware of hazards with tc'a and chi?"

"Not my affair. Absolutely not my affair."

"— The director asks — do you want the merchandise this person left?"

Pyanfar took in her breath, feeling an impact in the gut.

"— It is," the translator rendered the next remark, "perishable."

"I take it then station will deliver this merchandise. . recognizing its obligation."

"— There are entanglements. There is, for instance, the question of our damages. This shipment is impounded."

"I refuse to be held to account for thieving krf! Take it up with the mahendo'sat you dealt with!"

"I cannot translate this," the translator said. Gtst eyes were round. "I beg the esteemed hani captain-"

"Tell gtst if I behaved as the kif did gtst would not be speaking to me about damages."

"Ashosh!" the Director said: the translator turned and folded gtst hands on gtst breast, lisped in softest tones, turned with moonlike eyes at widest.

"— We will speak of damages later. Now this merchandise, this — perishabie merchandise."

Pyanfar set her hands within her belt, stood with feet set. "In the estimable Director's personal keeping, I trust."

"— Four canisters. Am I a menial, to keep such goods personally?"

"Gods rot it-" She amended that, flicking up her ears, trying for a quieter tone. "Considering they are perishable, I trust there is some care being taken."

The translator relayed it. The Director waved a negligent hand. Gtst eyes were unblinking, hard. "-Customs matters. Unfortunately the consignor in his haste for departure left papers in disarray, lacking official stamps. Have you suggestions, hani captain, that would prevent this property being sold at public auction? There would, I am certain, be interested bidders — some very rich. Some with backers.

Unless the esteemed Chanur captain takes personal responsibility."

A blackness closed about the edges of the room, on everything but the graceful nodding stsho.

"— Also," the stsho continued, "the matter of papers lately cleared. This station is dismayed. .

utterly dismayed at the betrayal of its trust. I am personally distressed."

"Let's talk," Pyanfar said, "about things good merchants like us both understand. Like fair trade. Like deal. Like I take my small difficulty out of Meetpoint within a few hours after getting my cargo in order, and I take it elsewhere without a word to anyone about bribes and mahendo'sat. You want to talk trouble, esteemed Director? You want to talk kif trouble, and word of this getting back to your upper echelons? Or do you want to talk about the merchandise, and finding my crew, and letting me take this off your hands — with my permits in order — before it gets more expensive for your station than it already is?"

The translator winced, turned and began to render it in one hand-waving spate.

"Ashosh!" the Director said; and other things. A flush came and went over gist skin, mottlings of nacre. The nostrils flared in rapid unison. "Chanur sosshis na thosthsi cnisste znei ctehtsi canth hos."

Another flinch from the translator, a rounding of round shoulders as gtst turned.

"Tell gtst," Pyanfar said without waiting, "gtst is in personal danger. From the kif, of course. Say it!"

It was rendered. The Director's skin went white. "-Unacceptable. There is a debt which in your doubtless adequate if unimaginative perception you must acknowledge was incurred by your crew, to have released a member of your species widely acknowledged to be unstable-"

"A member of my crew and my mate, you fluttering bastard!"

Nostrils flared. "-The debt stands. No agreement embraced such damages."

She drew her own breaths with difficulty, trying to think, hearing words that sent small fine tendrils into quite different territory. Goldtooth, blast you - There was a setup, all the way….

And her ears sank, so that the translator edged back a pace, gtst eyes wide and showing the whites about the moonstone round of them. The director's plumes fluttered, hands moved nervously.

"I make you a deal," she said. "We get that cargo, we get the money for you."

"— You will sign affidavits of responsibility."

"Don't push it, stsho."

"— Your visa is canceled," the answer came back. "And the visas of your crew and this male hani, under whatever pretext you secured civilized permits for this unstable person. You will forfeit your permission to enter our docks and forfeit any Chanur ship's clearance to dock here until this debt is paid!"

"And this cargo?"

"Do you doubt us? I make you a gift of it. In appreciation for your own damages, of course."

Pyanfar bowed. Gtst waved a hand at gtst attendant.

"Sthes!"

It was not at all the courteous farewell.

More corridors. There was an affidavit to be signed, the terms of which set a cold misery at her stomach. She looked up from the counter and the stsho clerk backed all the way around the desk dropping papers as gtst went.

"That do it?" she asked with, she thought, remarkable calm.

The stsho babbled, refusing to come closer.

"— Gtst say got more," one of the guards translated. She had heard that much. She wrinkled her nose and the stsho dropped more papers, gathered them, gave them to the mahendo'sat to avoid bringing gtst self closer.

"Customs release, hani captain. All fine you sign this."

"Wait, hani captain. Must secure permission to leave."

She drew small even breaths, signed this, signed that, kept directing no more than baleful stares at the stsho official and gtst fluttering aides.

At last: "No more forms?"

"No, hani captain. All got."

"Crew," she demanded, for the third time and this time with a broad, broad smile.

"Ship, hani captain; they long time got release. Same got release Ayhar clan. We go you ship now."

"Huh," she said then, and took the open door, stalked out, with her mahen escort to key the lift for her.

No other word. None seemed apt. She stared at the uninteresting pearl-gray of the lift doors while the lift zigged and zagged its way through Meetpoint station.

She thought, during that interval. Thought very dark wordless thoughts that involved stsho hides and a certain mahe's neck, until the lift stopped and opened its doors on the cold air and noise of dockside.

She oriented herself with a quick glance at the nearest registry board, a black, green-lit square above the number 14 berth: Assustsi. She drew a cold, wide-nostriled breath of the dockside taint-oil and coolants, cargo and food-smells and all the mongrel effluvium of Meet-point, like and unlike every other station of the Compact.

Leftward was Vigilance's berth, number 18. Ehrran clan ship. Doubtless someone of the deputy's staff was nosedeep in reports, writing it all up for the han in the worst possible light. Gods knew what that white-skinned bastard had spilled to willing ears.

Or what Ayhar had had to say, to save its own skin. Gods-be-bound that Prosperity and Ayhar would never claim responsibility, financial or otherwise.

Chanur's enemies in council would pounce on it, first chance.

She started walking, constantly aware of the two dark shadows that stalked behind her, but ignoring them. Gantries towered and tilted in the curved perspectives of the station wheel. The dock unfurled down off the curtaining horizon as she walked, and she made out The Pride's berth, counting down from fourteen to six.

There should have been canisters outside The Pride's berth. She made out none, and thought further dark thoughts, still not looking back.

She passed berth 10, which had been Mahijiru. That berth was sealed completely, the gantry drawn back with its lines in store-position. Number ten board remained dark, not listing the name or registry of the outbound ship.

Malfunction. Indeed, malfunction.

Connivances, mahendo'sat with stsho-with stsho who ran before every wind that blew — and now, with Mahijiru on the run and Goldtooth unable to break the director's neck in person — was the prevailing wind kif-tainted?

It rankled, gods, it rankled, that stsho had dared confront her, stsho, that she could break with one swipe of her arm. And dared not. That was the crux of it. Stsho showed one face to the kif, one to the mahendo'sat-yet a third to hani: non-spacing, stsho law had regarded hani till a century ago, because (though hani preferred not to recall the fact) it was the mahendo'sat had given hani ships. An artificially accelerated culture. Hani were still banned from stsho space, on their very border. Trade was at Meetpoint only, or inside non-stsho space.

And hani in their good nature were patient with these fluttering dilettantes who bought and sold-everything. They backed Chanur to the wall. It was stsho doing. Everything. And the han being political, and the han being shortsighted, and most of all because she was a fool who expected otherwise, Chanur was in trouble at home. Of course the stsho knew it, sure as birds knew carrion-had gotten news even a hani ship like Prosperity had not; and threw it up in her face at first chance.

Gods, that the han fed stsho bigotry and wielded it for a weapon - A deputy of the han has shown concern - Or — a cold, fully sensible fear got past the outrage: the stsho had independent sources and played everyone for a fool — Goldtooth, the han, even the kif. They were capable of that.

Thoroughgoing xenophobes and slippery as oiled glass. Lately the stsho had a new xenophobia to keep them busy. They had humankind to worry about, with concerns and motives world-bound hani had no least idea of.

Goldtooth, rot you, how much does gtst know? How much the bribe? Nothing holds a stsho that's already paid.

Nothing persuades one against gtst own profit.

She walked past nine, eight, seven. She saw no activity outside The Pride. No sign of any loaders, the cargo ramp withdrawn, the canisters missing. The cans were inside, she hoped. She kept alert for any sight of kif on the docks and found none. The few passersby with business on the dock were mostly stsho, a few mahendo'sat, no hani. If they noticed the rare spectacle of a hani captain being trailed by two hulking mahendo'sat station guards, they gave no sign of it. This was Meetpoint, after all, where folk minded their business, knowing well how trouble tended to travel down line of sight. At the upward-curved limit of the horizon, only its bottom third visible, the great seal of the market zone was still shut, on gods knew what kind of damage. Money was being lost while that market was out of action.

Hourly the tab went up.

The Pride's ramp access gaped ahead, berth six. She ignored her escort, not even looking back at them as she took out the pocket com. "Haral. I'm coming in."

No answer.

"Haral." She walked up the rampway into the chill, yellow-lighted access, hearing no footsteps behind — walked warily, thinking of kif ambush even here. Ambush and stsho treacheries.

She met a shut hatch beyond the bend of the tube. She had expected that, and hit the bar of the com unit in the accessway. "Haral. Haral, gods rot it, it's Pyanfar. Open up."

The hatch shot open at once, with a waft of warmer, familiar air. Tirun was there; and Chur, appearing armed from the lower-deck ops room down the corridor. Both showed the plasmed seams of recent wounds on their red-brown hides, Chur with a stripe of plasm visible across the leather of her nose, a painful kind of cut.

"Huh." She walked in past the lock. "Close that. Everyone aboard?"

"All accounted for, nothing serious."

She came to a stop and gave Tirun one long stare. "Nothing serious. Gods and thunders, cousin!"

Tirun's ears fell. "On our side," Tirun said.

"Huh." She turned and stalked for the lift, with their company as the inner lock hissed shut at her back. "Where's Khym?"

"Na Khym's up in his quarters."

"Good." She shoved that distress to the hindmost, swung about in the lift as they got in with her. Chur anticipated her reach for the button, tucked her arm behind her again in haste when she had pushed it. Pyanfar glared at her. "What else is wrong? What's Haral doing up there?"

"Got a lot of messages in," said Tirun. "Still coming. Board's jammed."

"Huh." The lift slammed upward. Pyanfar studied the door in front of her till it opened and spat them out on main, then strode for the bridge with a cousin on either side. "Who's called in?"

"Stsho, mostly," Chur said. "One message from Ayhar's Prosperity. Banny Ayhar requests conference at soonest."

"And some mahen nonsense," said Tirun. "No ship code."

She gave Tirun a second hard look, caught the lowered ears, the tension round the nose. She snorted, walked on into the bridge where Haral stood to meet her, where Hilfy got up from com- o gods, Hilfy — with her side patched in bandages. Geran with her right ear plasmed along a rip.

"You all right?" Haral asked. "We got a message from stsho central. . said you were coming."

"How courteous of them. They give you any trouble?"

"Kept us locked up filling out forms," said Geran. "Sent us out about an hour ago."

"Huh." She sat down in her own place, at The Pride's controls, swung the chair about in its pit to look at the solemn row of faces. Hilfy, her niece, young and white about the eyes just now. Haral and Tirun, tall, wide shouldered, daughters of an elder Chanur cousin; Geran and Chur, wiry and deft, daughters to Jofan Chanur, her third cousins. A row of earnest, sober stares. She gazed last and steadily at her brother Kohan's favorite daughter, at Hilfy Chanur par Faha with a scratch down her comely nose and her ears, gods forfend — plasm on a nick in the left one. Heir to Chanur's mercantile operations, while-and-likely-after Kohan Chanur ruled at home. On the last edge of adolescence. Fearfully proud.

Once and silently she wished Hilfy safe at home, but she did not say that. Home was a long, long way away and Chanur interests were at stake.

"I want a watch on com," she said. "I want scan set to alarm if something comes in, if something budges from this station. I don't care what it is. I want to know."

"Aye," said Haral.

"Tally's back."

Ears went up. Eyes went wide. Hilfy sat down.

"Good gods," Chur said.

"Mahijiru's here. Was here. Goldtooth's cut loose and run." There were other things to break to them, like being backed into agreements, like a fool of an aging captain who had believed for one moment in a way out of what she had gotten Chanur into, a way into human trade and all it meant.

"He was going to slip us a canister with a special cargo. Don't blame me-" She waved a hand.

"Goldtooth's originality, gods help us. But the stsho are playing power games. That can's tied up in red tape in customs. I think I've got it fixed."

Chur and Tirun sank into seats where they were, ears back.

"Sorry," Pyanfar said tautly. "Sorry, cousins."

"Got a chance?" Haral asked. Meaning lost trade. Lost chances. A whole variety of things, in loyalty too old to be completely blind. "The mahendo'sat've come through?"

"Don't know. They just headed out and left us the package. There's worse news. The kif are onto it."

"Gods." Geran leaned onto the back of Chur's couch. "And the bar fight-"

"Set up. Absolutely it was a set-up." She recalled with chagrin the kif watcher while she had been on the docks. "Maximum confusion. Goldtooth kited out. Under what circumstances- gods know.

Messages were going up and down that dock like chi in a fire drill. Maybe it was a kifish smash-and-grab. Maybe not. Likely it was targeted at the stsho. They've sure got the pressure on."

"The kif know about that can?" Tirun asked.

"Gods-rotted mahe shoved a shipment out in the middle of bolting dock like their tail was afire

— what else could they guess? Gods know who's been bribed. Gods know how long the bribes will hold.

— Khym all right, is he?"

Silence for a moment. Haral shrugged uncomfortably. "Guess he is," Haral said.

"He have anything to say?"

"Not much."

"Huh."

"Said he'd be in his quarters."

"Fine." She bit it off. They were blood kin, she and the crew. All Chanur. All with the same at stake, excepting Khym, Mahn-clan, male, past his prime and his reason for living and belonging anywhere. Her brother Kohan Chanur relied on her, back home. Meetpoint in ruins. Kif on the loose.

Stsho facing her down. The Pride nose-deep in it again. She had gone softheaded as well as softhearted. Hani everywhere muttered to that effect. Only her long-suffering crew would not say it, even yet. And Hilfy, of course Hilfy. Worship shone undimmed in those young eyes.

Fool kid, she thought. And to the crew at large: "What happened with our cargo out there?"

"Cans on the dock were gone when we got back," Tirun said. "We filed a theft report with station. Cans still inside are safe."

"Kif are fast. Power her up. We go on using station's hookups, but we keep our own online. Look sharp, hear? Don't ask me how long this goes on. I don't know. Contact customs. I want to know where that incoming shipment is."

No one mentioned costs or what the stsho might do. No one mentioned licenses, and the docking rights and routes it had cost too much to regain. No one mentioned Khym, a private folly that had long since become a public one. Not a backward look. No protests. Just a quiet moving toward stations, the whine of chairs receiving bodies all about her as she powered her own chair about and keyed in the old com messages.

From a mahendo'sat, unidentified: "I leave paperwork, leave cans same station office. Good voyage. Got go quick. Same you."

She drew one long, quivering breath.

From Ayhar's Prosperity: "Banafy Ayhar to Pyanfar Chanur: We have a matter between us.

I suggest we keep it private. I suggest you bring your witnesses to my deck. Expecting immediate reply."

"In a mahen hell."

"Captain?"

She restrained herself from violence to the board. "Reply to Ayhar: Tell it to the kif."

"Captain-"

"Send it."

Geran ducked her head and bent to the keys. Other messages crawled past, mostly stsho: a dozen threats of lawsuit from irate bazaar merchants; two scurrilous letters from stsho vessels in port, impugning Chanur sanity; others were rambling. Four were anonymous congratulations in mahen pidgin, some sounding inebriate, one babbling obscure mahen religious slogans and offering support.

From Vigilance, not a word.

"Tirun," said Chur behind her. "Got that customs contact." And a moment later:

"Captain," Tirun said. "Got the customs chief on. Claims the papers aren't in order on that shipment."

She spun the chair about. "The Director cleared that! Tell gtst so."

"The customs chief says you have to come and sign."

"I signed that god-rotted thing!"

Tirun relayed as much, politely phrased. Amber eyes lifted. Ears flicked. "Gtst says that was the customs release. Now they want a waiver against claims by the consignor-"

She punched it in on her own com. "This is Pyanfar Chanur. If I come over there I bring my whole ship's company. Hear? And you can explain that to the Director, you flat-bottomed bureaucrat!"

Silence from the other end.

She broke the contact. "Tirun: you and Geran get across that dock to that office and watch those cans all the way."

"Kif," Tirun said.

"Gods-rotted right the kif. They've got their bluff in on the stsho."

"Customs is back on," Chur said. "Give it to five." She punched it in. "Well?"

"I have schedule, hani."

"You just put us at the head of it. Hear? I'm sending my own security. I've been robbed once at this forsaken station. Not again!"

She broke the connection, leaned back and exhaled a long, long breath, staring at Tirun.

"Get!"

"Aye!" Tirun and Geran scrambled up and headed for the door.

"Arm and take a pocket com!" she shouted after them. "And be gods-rotted discreet about it!" She spun the chair left to Haral. "I want that forward hold warmed and pressurized."

"How long's Tully been in there?" Hilfy asked.

Pyanfar shot a glance at the chronometer overhead. "Figure six hours. At least."

"How good's that lifesupport?"

"The way Goldtooth's set up the rest of this mess — who knows?" She shoved her chair around and keyed up comp, hunting cargo lists, mass records. "This list updated?"

"No," Hilfy said.

"I need that list, gods rot it, niece." "I'm on it," Chur said, "Scan to your number four, captain."

She smoothed her nose with an effort, twitched her ears and heard the jingling of the several rings. Experience, they meant. Wealth. Successful voyages. She sat and watched for anything untoward, monitoring station corn, scan, every pulse and breath of information Meetpoint central let them have.

Their own systems showed live in a series of amber lights.

"Pressure's coming up," Haral said.

"Estimate of mass loss to three, captain."

She shunted it to Records. Comp brought up the revision. "Fine that down, Chur. Navcomp's taking main five." "You've got them."

Nav's five segments unified themselves in comp and shunted other programs to different banks: command screens acquired nav's displays. Maing Tol. From Meetpoint that was Urtur to Kita Point to Maing Tol at best.

"We can't singlejump." she said at last. "Not with the cargo we've still got, not anything like it."

Silence all round. "Aye," — finally, from Haral.

She sat staring at the graphs. "Aunt," Hilfy murmured, and turned her chair with a wide-eyed look and the comset pressed in her ear. "Aunt, it's Geran. Says customs has those cans loaded and out already; they have a bunch of mahen security on it, too."

"Good gods. Something's going right. How long?"

"How long?" Hilfy relayed; and her eyes flickered as she listened. "They're coming now."

"How's that pressure?"

"Pressure's good," Haral said.

"Captain-" Chur. "Someone's down at the access com — It's Banny Ayhar, captain. She wants to talk to you."

"Gods rot!" She punched in all-ship com. "Ayhar, get clear, hear me!"

"Who is this?"

"Pyanfar Chanur, rot your eyes, and clear my dock! There's an emergency in progress."

"What emergency? Chanur, I'm not in a mood for more connivances. You hear me, Chanur-"

"I've got no time for this." She spun the chair about and left it. "Haral, stand by to open up that hold. And tell Ayhar get herself out of the way. Hilfy, Chur, come on."

They heeled her down the corridor at an almost run, into the lift for downdecks. She hit the button.

Com snapped from the panel above the lift controls, at the first lurch of the car down.

"Captain." Haral's voice. "Geran's on. They've got kif out there."

She put a claw in the slot before the lift had a chance to pass the next level and stopped the car right there, on a level with the airlock. "Hilfy!" she said in leaving, before Hilfy had a chance to follow her and Chur. "Go on below and get that bay opened up."

"Aunt-" One youthful protest, hands lifted, before the door closed between.

They ran all-out, she and Chur, stopping only for the weapons-locker and the com-panel in the hall.

"Get that hatch open!" Pyanfar yelled at Haral, and headed for the lock.