Derelict For Trade

7

Rip Shannon was glad to get back to the Queen, and said so as soon as he and Jasper Weeks stepped off the shuttle, magged their boots, and joined the other apprentices in the mess cabin.

"Things quiet on the Starvenger?” Ali asked, lounging back.

Rip glanced around at the cramped mess cabin, and lowered himself into one of the battered old chairs. The Queen was both restfully familiar and a little bit strange; it had been a long time since he’d really noticed just how small her cabins were. Small, but comfortable. Everything fit—like his favorite pair of boots. And yet. and yet.

"Quiet as vacuum," Rip said, forcing a grin. He wouldn’t talk about how he’d had to fight against envisioning himself piloting that ship. He looked across at Jasper Weeks, who was staring down at his tube of fresh jakek, and felt with a sudden, visceral certainty that Weeks’s moods of abstraction after he’d returned from checking the engine rooms during their two-day stretch probably owed much to the same kind of daydreams.

He saw a kind of sober assessment in Dane Thorson’s blue eyes, and knew, with the same kind of inner conviction, that both of the other two apprentices felt the same. But he also knew that no one was going to say anything out loud.

Relieved, he stretched out his arms. "So, what’d I miss? Isn’t it today you go back to registry, Thorson?"

Dane nodded. "Been three days Exchange time, so I’m going as soon as we’re done here." He waved a big hand at his half-eaten breakfast.

"Other than that," Ali said in his mild voice, "we’ve all been taking in the sights—and the sounds. Lots of sounds."

"Lots and lots," Thorson added with a twisted grin.

"Any clues on our mystery?" Rip asked.

All three shook their heads.

"Ah, well, I guess it was too much to hope for that one of you characters would happen to walk into some dim bar and sit down in the next booth to some mysterious spacers, just in time to hear them discussing the strange happenings to their old friends, the crew of the Starvenger."

"Only happens on the vids," Thorson growled.

Ali tapped his long fingers idly on the arm of his chair as he leaned back against the bulkhead. "Maybe it’s my wicked nature, but I wouldn’t believe it if I did hear it."

Jasper nodded. "Think we were being fed a load of horseradish."

"For someone else’s arcane and nefarious purposes," Ali drawled. "Exactly."

"Speaking of horseradish," Rip said, "how’s the master progressing with swapping that cargo for something we can use?"

Dane sighed. "Looks good. He’s found an eager Trader who likes Terrans. Name of Tapadakk. Some kind of complicated three-way deal is shaping up nicely, despite all the flowery apologies and excuses for their goods not being fine enough for the exalted Terrans."

"Van says dealing with these Kanddoyds is a fine lesson in patience,"

Ali put in. "As if he really needed the reminder."

"How are we holding out?" Rip said.

"It’s tight, but Captain says if we can get everything wrapped in a few days, we won’t tip into the red," Ali reported. "One option we have is to

move the Queen up to the heavy-grav section. It’s cheaper."

"I’d like it better," Jasper admitted. "I want to drink out of a mug, and not worry when I stand up too fast from a chair, if I forget to mag my boots, that I’ll bounce my brains out on the ceiling."

Dane said, "Except we’re a lot closer to the action here. May’s well not lose what time we have in traveling the mag-levs if we don’t have to." He rose—slowly, Rip noted. "Speaking of which, it’s time to find out whether we own two ships or not."

Rip said suddenly, "Mind company? Captain says I’m off-duty for another six hours."

Tnorson gave a nod. "Glad to have you along."

As they started out of the mess, Frank Mura appeared from the galley, frowning slightly. "Anyone here have a mysterious appetite for carrots?"

The men all shook their heads, and Ali laughed. "If we’ve got rabbits aboard, the one you should ask is Sinbad."

Mura sighed. "I don’t mind if someone got a sudden craving, but I just want to be told if they’re going into my hydrogarden. I like to know what I have at hand and what I need to grow." As he spoke, he hefted something in his hand.

Rip watched the object, some kind of tool, it looked like, spin slowly through the air in a lazy parabola, then arc down. "What’s that?" he asked, when Mura had finished talking.

Frank shrugged. "Found it on the deckplates outside the galley when I came on duty today. Kosti or Stotz probably dropped it. Looks like the kind of thing they’d pick up—it certainly isn’t anything I use."

"Can always ask Stotz when he gets back from his stretch at the Starvenger," Ali said, yawning. "Well, it’s been a long shift for me—I’m for some shut-eye. Night, gentlemen."

Rip demagged his boots and pushed off, following Dane through the outer lock into the tube leading to the access lock to Exchange. They emerged onto a concourse, and Rip looked around with interest as Dane

pointed out a few of the sights. He listened with part of his attention; the rest of his mind was involved with imagining what it might be like to design and build one of these habitats.

They found an empty bench on a maglev, and the transport zapped them down into the Spin Axis towards the vertical shaft—the hollow core of one of the habitat-spanning towers—that would take them directly to their destination.

"Hey—what’s that?"

Rip’s eye was caught by the sight of what looked like a lush island moving slowly along a beautifully lit tube way up at the North Pole.

"That’s the Movable Feast," Dane said, leaning toward the port. "We’re seeing it change level."

"The Movable Feast? What is it?"

"Just what it sounds like. It’s a kind of restaurant. Well, it is one, but it’s also the center of Exchange. I guess Dr. Cofort knows some weird stories about it."

Dane’s shoulders hunched a little, and Rip tried not to smile. Eventually the big Viking—who had to be about the shyest man Rip had ever met—was going to get used to being within two meters of a beautiful woman without feeling like she was going to have him killed for looking.

Rip said, "So what’s the lure?"

"I don’t know—food’s supposed to be great, but then it’s great in a lot of the eateries. Expensive, that I heard. But then you can just go in and get a bulb of drink. It stops at all the grav levels, which means everyone on Exchange finds it eventually at the grav they like best, and I guess over the centuries it became a kind of safe haven for talk. Nobody causes any trouble there."

"Let’s take a look when we get done, if we have the time," Rip suggested.

Dane gave a nod.

They exchanged a few more comments about the sights Exchange had to offer as the pod sped along. Rip had a lot of questions on his mind, but the captain had expressly forbidden the Queen's crew to discuss anything having to do with the Starvenger where they might be overheard, so he saved them. Besides, he thought as the maglev slowed and he followed Thorson to the exit, it made sense to first see what the officials said. Some of his questions might be answered.

They entered the splendid main garden of the trilateral Trade headquarters, and Rip looked around appreciatively. Soon he was feeling different emotions—a combination of amusement, bemusement, and impatience. He’d thought the others were kidding—or at least exaggerating—about the elaborate manners of the Kanddoyds, until they spent twenty solid minutes (he kept surreptitiously checking his chrono) walking around decorative herbaceous pathways and pausing to exchange smiling compliments with bowing, clicking, humming Kanddoyd functionaries.

"If I understand all this right, all we have to do is find this Prime Facilitator Koytatik and get her word on Starvenger's status," Rip muttered out of the side of his mouth just after the third functionary bade them follow her.

Thorson gave a quick nod. "Right. My guess is she’s busy with someone else, and the Kanddoyds consider it impolite to keep anyone waiting."

Rip fought against a grin. So, lines like those he’d grown up with back on Terra were impolite? He looked around at all the beings walking the pathways, pausing beside fountains, exchanging polite compliments. Maybe the Kanddoyds had a good idea after all. Walking around pleasant gardens seemed a lot more conducive to good moods than inching forward in a long line next to other long lines in a featureless gray building.

But the fifth time Dane had explained that they were expected by Prime Facilitator Koytatik, the latest Kanddoyd functionary, a Kanddoyd male sporting fabulous carapace designs in patterns of red, obsidian, and yellow stones, said, "It would please me the remainder of my days if the honored Terrans would permit me to escort them to the prime facilitator they seek, there to embrace quickly the important business that awaits."

While he talked, he was making all kinds of rhythmic noises. Dane tabbed his belt recorder and made similar noises as he said, "The greatest

pleasure of our day would be provided in following your excellent self to this meeting, O Locutor Telkdidd."

"Then," the locutor said, humming and clacking away, "may I humbly request the Terrans to fall in step with me?"

"We shall do so at once, with pleasure and alacrity," Dane said.

Again Rip felt the impulse to grin. This sounded so unlike the laconic Viking he was used to! But Dane had changed a lot since he first joined the Queen, he thought as once again they started wending their way under vine-decorated archways and past tiled doors. Only Dane’s change had been so gradual, no one had really noticed—any more than one notices oneself changing.

Finally they reached a fine set of doors with a beautiful mosaic depicting a nova. Inside, a splendidly decorated female Kanddoyd greeted them—adding, Rip suspected, five full minutes of compliments to honor Rip’s being along.

Dane responded patiently, his fingers working his belt to make noises that matched those of the facilitator.

Finally she said, "And now I bring myself with glorious emotions to the enabling of your completion of your exalted business. Your estimable colleagues at the Terran Free Trade headquarters have obligingly furnished us with a copy of the quitclaim that the heirs of the Starvenger made upon their ship, duly abandoned after serious illness rapidly overtook their crew. I salute with sympathetic gesture this ill luck." She paused, and the noises she made reminded Rip of the keening praifu-dogs of Ypsilon IV. "But so is life in the remorseless universe, as all beings must agree: one’s loss is another’s benefit, and this time, the benefit goes to the honorable Captain Jellico and his distinguished crew."

Dane grinned, forgetting to make Kanddoyd noises with his belt recorder; he and Rip raised their fists and rapped their knuckles together in the old gesture of triumph.

The facilitator watched, making high chirping sounds and a pleasant series of notes almost like a guitar being plucked in cheery major chords. "Herewith I tender to you the official papers, and the chip whereon your ownership has been duly recorded. Your good captain is now free to acquire items for trade from our splendid markets, and to go forth into successful business ventures in Terran space!" She started to rise, her noises merry and rapid.

Dane took the chip and slid it into his tunic pocket. He bent over the paper, scanning it quickly, then looked up. "Might we beg a few more moments of your time, Prime Facilitator? I have a question."

Her mandibles clacked; Rip suspected the sound indicated surprise.

"Is not the paper in correct Terran ideographs? Is something amiss with the information? Our offices will be desolated if we have effected error—"

"No, no, it looks fine," Dane said hastily. "It’s just that the paper here only lists the names of the former owners— Olben Kayusha and Nim Miscoigne. There’s no communication code or even a world of origin. All it says is that the claim is relinquished, and the official notations to that effect."

"I do not understand." The prime facilitator’s reedy voice dropped, now sounding like a violin slightly out of tune. "Here we have the correct forms, as agreed between our three estimable races in the venerable Concord of Harmony."

Rip saw Dane wince slightly and shake his head, and thumb the jeweled ring on his middle finger. Rip saw a blue light flash briefly. Then Dane looked up and said, "I just thought there’d be information about the former owners on these papers."

"Ah! You are careful, Gentle Trader, and this indicates an excellent being of business acumen. We congratulate you upon your perspicacity, for this is an attribute well loved among my people." She produced a flurry of sounds. "The papers are correct; if you had completed a sale, then indeed, gracing the forms would be all the information you refer to. But such is not traditional in relinquishment of title."

"Is there a way we can find out where the former owners are?" Dane asked.

Koytatik droned on a weird note. "Alas!" she keened. "To my sorrow I apprehend that our distinguished guests do not, in fact, trust the operatives of our registry precincts—"

"That’s not it at all," Dane said. He took a quick swipe at his brow, and shot a pained look at Rip. "I, uh, we just had a question or two we were hoping you’d help us with. What we’d like to do is find out where those old owners are, or who their heirs are, and, well—"

Rip heard Dane falter. Captain Jellico had said they could try to find out who the old owners were—but they both knew he would not authorize risking an upset with local authorities just to satisfy their curiosity. Rip said quickly, "It’s the custom where we come from to send our condolences to the relinquishing party. Just so there’s no hard feelings."

Again the prime facilitator produced an array of sounds. None of them were unpleasant, but Rip felt a slight twinge behind his eyes, as if the air pressure in the room had dropped briefly. "I perceive!" she exclaimed. "Abject apologies do I owe to you, good Traders, for the length with which my poor faculties were unable to comprehend the laudable sentiments under which you labor. Alas, it is my profound regret to inform you that such is not customary through my registry. I must abase myself before you; it will take time for me to supplicate my superiors, to discover the proper forms with which to afford you this special request."

Dane glanced up. Rip knew he was hearing the same thing: special request probably means special fees.

Dane got to his feet. "Perhaps we can return to this question some other time, then. You are busy, and we have to give this data back to our captain."

The prime facilitator also rose, and again began the long litany of compliments, but this time the sounds seemed subtly different. Rip watched the blue light flicker on Dane’s ring, and wondered what the ultrasonics meant.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the ubiquitous Kanddoyd guides, both men paused on the causeway. Rip said, "Deadend?"

Dane nodded. "Apparently so. I guess we could try to pursue it—if we had time, and money." He glanced down at the paper again. "The registry fees are stiff enough, but the captain said that they’d figured those into our budget. I hadn’t counted on extra fees for this data. Thought it’d be

included."

"I’ve got an idea," Rip said. "Why don’t we try Trade’s com center? If we get humans there, it might be easier to explain and initiate a search, at least."

"Good thinking." The tall cargo apprentice led the way back inside.

Rip realized that Dane had spent much of his free time exploring around; he knew exactly where to go.

Once again they encountered Kanddoyd functionaries, but this time, when they made it plain they wanted to go to the Terran Sphere’s office in the communications center, they were passed on with what must have seemed to the Kanddoyds incredible speed.

It was a relief to both apprentices when they walked into the office and saw the usual fabulous holos of different planets with their relative times and dates ticking off the passing seconds, and the illuminated directions flashing in countless alphabets. Trade Service communications offices were much the same everywhere, then, right down to the preponderance of humanoid workers behind the counters.

There were even, Rip noted with an inward smile, lines; they joined the one below a holographic designation that indicated communications going to Solar system planets and moons.

The woman immediately before them wore the insignia of Inter-Stellar. She glanced back with disinterest, then turned around again.

Rip nodded politely when his eyes met hers, but he felt no compunction to chat. They’d had too many unpleasant encounters with I-S in the past, and instinct warned him against having to answer even the easiest questions now.

But the woman showed no disposition to talk to them while the man at the front of the line finished his business. At last it was her turn; she handed over a chip, apparently pre-registered, received one in return, and she was gone a moment later.

The young man behind the counter scanned their Free Trader brown tunics with the apprentice insignia, then said in a bored voice, "Chip or

flimsy?"

"Neither—" Dane started.

The worker cut in. "We don’t write mail for you. Keyboards over there." He nodded to some little booths on the adjacent wall. "Translation charges flat fee."

Rip said, "We want to run an ID check first—Free Traders, just like us. We’re off the Solar Queen, Terra registry six-five-seven-two-four-nine-one-zero-JK."

The bored clerk keyed in the number as quickly as Rip spoke it, and waited with unconcealed impatience for a few seconds. He plainly expected the ID to come up green so he could get on with the request; after a long pause, he gave an impatient sigh and tapped at his console.

"Must be a data jam," he muttered. "Just to make sure, let’s have that number again."

This time Dane spoke it, slowly and clearly. The man typed it in equally slowly; then his boredom changed to perplexity as he stared at his blank screen. "My com must be down. Wait here." He shut down his console and disappeared through a narrow door directly behind him.

They stood at the counter as, on either side of them, several people came and went. Fewer people were left in the room now; none had come in for a time.

Presently Dane, who had been scanning the papers, said, "Interesting."

"What?" Rip asked, watching one of the techs close down her computer and blank the sign above her cubicle.

"Date the claim was registered is only in some local time or other. I thought everything was supposed to be in Terran Standard."

"Maybe not out this far," Rip said. "Look, that counter over there is empty—"

Just then the door behind the counter where they stood opened again, but instead of the bored young man, a tall Shver with arcane caste markings on his forehead and arms trod with heavy step to the counter, and looked down at the two Queen's men. "Inquire you?" he said, his voice so deep Rip almost felt it through the floor.

"Thanks, we’re just waiting for the other worker to return," Rip said.

"Is end of shift for his," the Shver said. "Am the Jheel of Clan Golm. Serve I now."

"We are trying to locate the IDs of some Free Traders, registered through Terran Trade Service, like ourselves," Dane said.

The Shver looked impassively at them, his thick fingers resting as if by chance on his shauv, the serrated honor knife all adult Shver wore. Rip wondered if the beings had any natural expressions besides a kind of detached glower. "Is your ID?"

"Dane Thorson, apprentice cargo master, Solar Queen, and Rip Shannon, apprentice astrogator, also of the Solar Queen," Dane said, and then for the third time quoted the registration number.

The Shver worked at the console, which was now tipped at an angle to accomodate his great height—and from which the others could not see his screen. "Is names of other Traders?" he asked presently.

"Olben Kayusha and Nim Miscoigne," Rip said, writing them hastily on a scrap of paper with his pocket stylus. He pushed the paper across to the Shver, who picked it up and laid it down again out of sight before he began to work at the console.

In silence the Queen's men waited. Rip noticed that they were the last in the room.

At last the Shver looked up and said, "Data jam; take too much hours. Is close time. Return you tomorrow."

Rip opened his mouth, but it was too late. The Shver had closed down the console, and lumbered back through the door, closing it firmly.

A moment later plasglas shields came down, walling off the counters, and the holo lights all went off.

Rip and Dane looked at each other, shrugged, then turned and left.

"So we come back," Rip said. "Come on, let’s go nose out the Movable Feast, see what’s so special about their beer."