No Man's World

IV

The whimsical-looking man with the face that through years of labor had grown an indrawn, secretive look, was waiting for Caradine as he walked back to the Outworld Arms. Caradine remembered him from the fracas in the restaurant. The man lounged against the wall, idle in the sunshine. When Caradine was half a block along, the man pushed himself up with a shrugging motion from the wall, and sauntered after the outworlder.

So he was being tailed, then.

So he’d have felt naked if he wasn’t.

Harriet Lafonde would no doubt sort that little problem out when she reported in to her superiors. If he could persuade them he had no ulterior motive in visiting Alpha, they might lay off. Only then did the startling and rather funny thought occur to him that he’d gone to see the visa official with the more or less resigned acceptance that he wouldn’t get a permit. And that he’d rationalized that out. Oh, well. Times change and men have to change with them.

He made a good lunch at the hotel—a red, succulent fish not unlike salmon and heaps of fresh, crisp salad followed by a golden jelly and a generous pouring of rich double cream—and decided he’d better try one of the local cigars before he smoked through his stock of Kronos.

He stroded out into the foyer and stopped by the tobacco robot. Now here was one instance where a robot wasn’t in the same class as a human assistant. You could ask a robot what it recommended in the way of a smoke, and it would reply with great politeness and sauvity just as it had been programed by the concessionaires of the booth. Oh, well. Try one of those red blunderbusses Greg Rawson had been fuming.

He dialed his requirements and added his room number. Sliding open the transparent pack, he was about to light one when a voice from somewhere down by his stomach said: “If you’re used to Kronos, friend, I’d strongly advise against those firecrackers you’ve just bought.”

He looked down. The man was small and chirpy and wizened. He had crows’ feet radiating from the comers of his eyes and his mouth slit his face in half like a melon-man. Caradine felt a sudden warmth of affection, stemming, he supposed, from the instinctive liking in him for the small and cheerful.

“I appreciate your advice, friend. But I’ve bought them now. So I’m stuck with them.”

“Run out of Kronos?” The little fellow clucked his tongue. “Pity. Oh, well, try one of mine, they’re Western Ocean Kronos, and they’ll smoke differendy from yours.”

“True,” Caradine said peaceably. “Mine are Southern Jubilee.”

“Nice brand.” The little fellow tiptoed up and extended a light. Caradine sucked. That was one nice thing about Kronos; they hadn’t got around to fitting self-igniting tips yet. They hadn’t destroyed the artistry in smoking so far.

“Name’s Hsien Koanga. From Four.”

“John Carter. Five. Well, this calls for a little celebration.

On business?”

“Surely.” Koanga’s monkey-wizened face never seemed to be without that wide, quizzical smile. There was shrewdness there, masked, but plain to Caradine’s character-experienced eye. “Mind you,” Koanga went rattling on. “Gamma-Horakah isn’t so bad, compared with some planets I’ve horse-traded on. There was a dump out by the Barron Cluster— whew, boy, steer clear of there if you want your nostrils to function at all properly again.”

Caradine laughed. “Primitive?”

They were walking through to the bar of the Outworld Arms.

“Primitive? They still used internal combustion engines in their vehicles. The place stank. Incidence of lung cancer was staggering.” He shook his head. “I cut out smoking altogether whilst I was there. That would have been too much.”

They reached the bar and sat in a booth, opposite each other. The conversation flowed on over cool drinks, Caradine finding pleasure in introducing Koanga to the Pomcrush recommended by Harriet Lafonde. It was a nice drink. They, had a third and a fourth. By that time they’d dredged up two mutual acquaintances and were working over Shanstar Eight.

The sight and sound of a man from Shanstar reinvigorated Caradine. He’d been forgetting just how much Shanster had meant to him in the rush and scurry of Horakah and all the incidents, meaningless in themselves, that had happened. He mentioned the fracas in the restaurant and Koanga’s lined face frowned angrily.

“That’s a damned shame! All these worlds think they have to be one up on all the others. Just because those kids’ home worlds own a sizeable space fleet doesn’t give them the right to insult and maltreat a citizen from a planet that maybe doesn’t feel it necessary to maintain a gigantic space armada. It makes you sick.”

“It’s the way they think. I guess even we’d feel a little impatient with a man from a planet that was a single and owned perhaps only a couple hundred space battlewagons.”

“Well.” Koanga sipped his drink. “Perhaps I must own the truth of that. But anyway, a planet that is still a single with a space fleet as minuscule as that can’t be much good_; can it? And the men from such a world must be pretty slack bums.”

Caradine thought wearily, And that’s the mentality all right, brother. You the same as all the rest.

The conversation naturally worked around to their line of business and Caradine was told that Koanga was here on Gamma-Horakah selling spice-woods and precious-gem cabinets, one of Shanstar Four’s specialities. So far he had filled a bulky order book. Caradine was told all this. He reserved judgement. That was his inherently suspicious nature, he supposed; but nothing was what it appeared on the surface and he was too wise a hand to be caught believing the first things he was told.

Oh, sure, Koanga probably was selling Shanstar Four’s renowned spice-woods and he very likely did have a fat order book. But Caradine wondered cynically if that was all.

Kbanga stood up, smiling. He was looking over Caradine’s shoulder. Caradine did not look around.

He smelled the perfume—heady, exciting, promising.

“Oh, Mr. Carter, this is my niece, Allura Koanga. Allura, this is Mr. John Carter. He’s from Five.”

Caradine rose, turning, and putting out his hand.

“How nice—” the girl smiled warmly “—to meet someone from home.” She shook hands with a firm, cool clasp.

Caradine looked at her. He’d thought that Sharon Ogilvie, Greg Rawson’s girlfriend from Ahansic, was a beauty. Now he notched up another credit to his choice of Shanstar as a home planetary system. Allura was nothing less than beautiful and yet, with that beauty, there was a warmness and an aliveness that sheer beauty so often lacked.

Her aubum hair was softly tumbled about a classically perfect face and her eyes sparkled in the bar’s many concealed lights with a freshness and vivacity that charmed as well as excited. She wore a wide-sleeved blouse of some shim-mery material that changed sheen as she moved, and tight black pants that on her looked good. A single pearl drop glowed miliary from her left ear.

Watch it! Caradine said to himself. This woman is dangerous.

She sat down with a graceful motion and the robot dispensed a third Pomcrush.

“Mm,” she said. “Good. What is itr”

Caradine told her. “Recommended by Harriet Lafonde.”

Both the Koangas’ faces remained polite and smiling and friendly. But the expressions were frozen in those smiles.

Caradine perked up. Perhaps here might be the key…

“She’s the permit visa official for Gamma,” he said casually. “There appears some chance, odd though it may be, that I may be allowed to visit Alpha.”

“But no outworlder goes there,” Allura said quickly. Too quickly.

“So I’m told.” Caradine drank thoughtfully. “I’d more or less decided not to bother about Alpha. The usual system seems to be to sell to Gamma and let them worry after that. But, of course, if they really do let me visit Alpha, then I’ll go.”

“Of course.” Koanga set his drink down carefully. His expression, so overlaid with fine wrinkles, was hard to read. “I think you are very privileged, Mr. Carter.”

“Well, if I am I have no knowledge why.”

“Perhaps Mr. Carter has connections of which we are completely unaware,” Allura said gaily, with a toss of her head.

She didn’t fool Caradine a single little bit.

“Sorry, Miss Koanga. I can’t claim a single contact on this planet yet.”

“You sound as though you and the Lafonde woman got on well?”

“Oh, yes, in a purely formal way. The people of Horakah are mighty proud of their stellar grouping. They talk to us out of charity, I’d say.”

“One day—” Koanga started to say, in an ugly tone. His niece cut his words off with a fight laugh.

“One day well also have better than a thousand suns, is that it, Uncle? Well, so maybe we will.”

“No reason why we shouldn’t,” Caradine said. “One thing, you can’t run too many solar systems efficiently. Sheer size eventually breaks down the best of modern administration.”

Greg Rawson and Sharon Ogilvie walked into the bar and sat in a booth. They saw Caradine and waved across as the robot brought their order.

“You know them?” Koanga asked.

“Met them casually. That’s Greg Rawson. I was introduced to the girl at breakfast. Sharon Ogilvie.”

“Interesting people,” Allura said, a trifle sharply.

Oh, well, Caradine chuckled to himself. One beautiful woman saw another and the sparks flew for a bit. They’d sort it out eventually. Might be interesting to see who came out on top. At the moment, on current performance, it would be Allura by a parsec.

The heat of the afternoon wore on. Allura suggested a swim and they set off in a cab for the pool, situated about six miles out of town. The day was perfect for swimming and for lazing about on the edge, under a striped umbrella, while the busy robots scurried with cooling drinks. The sun was throwing long shadows when at last Allura was persuaded to leave the water, dress and head back to town for dinner.

Caradine had spent a lazily instructive afternoon watching a perfect female form in a brief bathing costume, and he felt quite confident that the swim and briefness of the bathing costume and the warmth of her smile had all been laid on for his particular benefit.

Wondering why was amusing. Not very profitable, but amusing.