Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“The kidnappers themselves are dead,” September added. “I killed one of ’em myself. If there’s a reward I’d like to lay claim to it.”

“Naturally. That is your right.” The portmaster touched another switch, prepared to make a fresh recording. “If you’ll just give me your name, world of origin, home address and financial code I’m sure we…”

“Actually, that wouldn’t be the fair thing to do.” September gestured at his companion. “It was this here lad who was responsible for most of what happened. He deserves any credit.”

Ethan turned a startled look on September, opened his mouth to comment. An experienced salesman is a specialist in reading expressions. A multitude of meanings were available for interpretation on the big man’s face just then. To his credit, Ethan picked up most of them.

“If there is any kind of reward, I’ll worry about that later.” September relaxed ever so slightly. “The main thing we’re concerned about is getting off this place as fast as possible.”

“I can imagine.” Xenaxis sounded properly sympathetic. “I do not myself find the company of the natives particularly pleasant. One can do business with them, but it is next to impossible to socialize. Besides the differences in temperature each race is accustomed to, they are argumentative and combative by nature.” Ethan said nothing, maintaining a blank expression.

“The local trade is profitable then?” September somehow sounded as if there was more behind his question than just polite conversation.

Xenaxis shrugged. “Keeping the commercial end of this post open is my principal task, sir. There are three large warehouses here in Brass Monkey whose contents change frequently. Of course, I’m only a civil employee, straight salaried.” Ethan thought he detected a note of envy in the portmaster’s voice. “But some companies or individual entrepreneurs are certainly making money off this frozen wasteland.”

“What kind of trade?” Xenaxis shouldn’t find that question suspicious, Ethan thought. It was his business.

“What you’d expect.” The portmaster leaned back in his chair. Ethan heard the faint hiss of posturic compensators. Xenaxis had a bad back, it seemed. But he appeared anxious to talk. New faces were no doubt an infrequent sight in Brass Monkey.

“Mostly luxury goods: art works, carvings, furs, gemstones, handicrafts, some of the most remarkable ivory sculptures you’d ever want to see. The natives look clumsy, but they’re capable of fine work.” Ethan thought of a stavanzer tusk and what a good local artist might make of one.

“You know all about such things, of course,” the portmaster continued. “When a civilization grows as modern as that of the Commonwealth, excellently crafted machinery and the mechanisms necessary for day to day living become cheap. People have a lot of excess credit to dispose of. So they spend on luxuries and art works and other nonessentials.” His chair returned to the vertical, his tone to businesslike.

“As far as your taking passage off-planet, I’m assuming you require shuttle space for the both of you and the du Kanes.”

“And one other, a teacher, name of Williams,” Ethan said.

“Five. Should be able to manage that, given your unusual circumstances. I don’t know a shipmaster who’d refuse you space.” He turned to his tridee screen again and pushed buttons. “I’ll put out notification of your survival to anyone you want to know about it, place it on the outpost bill. You’ve probably both got friends and relatives who’ll be happy to hear you’re still around. Maybe you’re not as important to others as are the du Kanes, but you’re important to yourselves.”

Despite his possible dislike of the Tran, Ethan decided he liked the little portmaster very much. “I was told by Colette du Kane to use the code 22RR. She said it might help you expedite matters.”

“If that’s the family financial code, I’m sure it will,” agreed Xenaxis. He checked a hidden readout. “The next ship due in stop orbit is the freighter Palamas. I’ll make your boarding arrangements via satellite relay as soon as the Palamas is in range.” He sounded apologetic. “We’re not nearly big or important enough here to qualify for a deep-space particle beam. The Palamas is a border-run ship, if I remember right. But she eventually orbits Drax IV, and you can make passage to anywhere from there.”

“When’s she due in?” Ethan was startled by the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

“Oh, six fifteen on the twenty-fourth.” Xenaxis studied the two blank faces a moment, then smiled slightly. “Sorry. I forgot you probably haven’t been aware of local time since you touched down.”

“A couple of us had chronometers,” Ethan explained. “They didn’t survive the crash. Those that did didn’t survive the climate. Mine survived both, but didn’t survive…” He held out his right hand, showed the portmaster where the gash in his survival suit had been patched from hand to shoulder.

“Lost it to a stavanzer.”

“You mean those shipsized herbivores that weigh a couple of hundred tons each? Never seen one myself, only tridees taken by the scientific survey.”

“We had to turn one around.”

“Yes.” Xenaxis eyed them both respectfully. “ Palamas should break out of space-plus in a couple of days. Leave another two days, three at most for her to decelerate and insert. I’m sorry I can’t offer you passage out of here any sooner. We don’t even have a habitat station I can ferry you up to. But if I can break away from my own duties, I’ve a request to make.”

“What’s that?”

Rising and walking around his desk, the portmaster moved to the side window, stared out across the roofs of Arsudun. Snow skipped like fat white fleas across the insulated transparency. “I can see the masts of the ship you arrived in from here. It’s much bigger than anything we’ve recorded so far. I’d love to have a close look at it.”

“Talk to her Captain, Ta-hoding,” Ethan advised him. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to show you around. He’s proud of his ship.”

“He has reason to be.” Xenaxis turned reluctantly from the window. “I suppose I’d better get back to work. Forms to fill out.” He made a face.

“If you like, you can stay the five days until departure here in the post. We’ll make room for you.”

“Can’t speak for the others.” September was moving toward the door. “Myself, I think I’ll stay with our Trannish friends.”

“As you like.” Xenaxis resumed his seat, turned toward Ethan. “Just a moment, Mr. Fortune. As I recall, there are two or three small cases consigned to you waiting in Number Three warehouse.”

“My sample goods. One of them contains a dozen or so small, inert-element heaters. A year ago I’d have given a thousand credits for one. I guess I’ll try and sell a few over the next couple of days. Thanks for reminding me.” Odd, he mused as they exited from the portmaster’s office, how he’d completely forgotten his sale goods. For some inexplicable reason, things such as profit margin, customer acceptance and territory expansion seemed childish to him now. Had Tran-ky-ky modified more than his tolerance to cold weather?

WHEN THEY REACHED THE first floor, September put a restraining hand on Ethan’s shoulder, halted him. “Sir Hunnar and his companions won’t mind waitin’ a bit longer, feller-me-lad.” He pointed down the corridor, in the direction away from the main entrance. “Let’s go have a gander at your samples.”

“Skua, I’ve got so much fighting for attention in my skull right now I really couldn’t care less about those cases.”