Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“Well, what does it say on your cardmeter?”

“It identifies me as a Commonwealth citizen. That’s all.”

“I’ve never seen an ident like that.” The skinny interrogator chewed his lower lip, moved to tug the hem of his shirt and decided not to. “Profession?”

“Free-lance fehdreyer.”

Again the youth hesitated. “That’s not a Terranglo word, is it?”

“No, it’s not a Terranglo word,” September assured him.

“What is it in Symbospeech?”

“There’s no Symbospeech direct equivalent. It’s a phonetic rescription of an old Terran word from a language called yi’ish.”

“Oh well, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“When do we go in?” Ethan eyed the large wooden door nervously. September’s replies were likely to provoke the skittish clerk if they continued much longer.

“I’ll check.” He touched another switch. “Sir?”

“I’ve been monitoring since you keyed me, Avence,” a rich baritone responded. “They can come in. Be careful, Mr. September. You may have to duck. Our ceilings are designed for average human beings and thranx, not athletes or sifters.”

Ethan looked startled, but September simply smiled, pointing to a spot in the ceiling between the Commonwealth symbols and the top of the wooden door.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to duckin’. And I’m neither athlete nor sifter.”

They rose and walked to the entrance. September’s finger continued to point until Ethan spotted the spy-eye in the ceiling.

“Then he’s been listening to and watching us the whole time?”

“Naturally, feller-me-lad. What do you expect from a good politician?”

The pyramid building had three sides, the room they entered three corners and walls. Both exterior walls were perfectly transparent, providing a sweeping and by now familiar view of the harbor and the city of Arsudun backed against uneven, white-clad hills. Between hills and harbor the steep-roofed houses looked like a vast spill of gray paint.

Much to Ethan’s surprise, the usual desk was absent from the room’s furnishings. Several large couches in freeform design were positioned around the three-sided chamber. Each was covered in a different variety of local fur. Without knowing anything about their durability, Ethan tried to estimate their worth on the open market based on color and thickness alone. It was substantial. Any life-supporting world as cold as Tran-ky-ky was bound to produce some extraordinary fur-bearing creatures. The treated skins in the room gave ample proof of riches no synthetics could match.

“I’m Jobius Trell,” the room’s sole inhabitant told them, moving to shake his visitor’s hands in turn. He was tall, quite tall, standing midway in height between Ethan and September. His mouth seemed positioned naturally and permanently in a gentle, almost boyish grin. That saved him the necessity of worrying about when to smile in ticklish situations. Blue eyes, a square face, small if unlikely dimpled chin, and thick gray hair combed straight back. Ethan estimated his weight at around a hundred kilos, distributed on the build of an ordinary athlete. That is, one blessed with no athletic ability other than what was provided by more than usual size and weight, coupled with average coordination.

Between the Commissioner and September, Ethan felt dwarfed in the room. A gesture directed the visitors to one couch. Trell took the recliner opposite. Ethan could now pick out numerous controls and devices, even thick tape files, set cleverly into the furniture.

A casual wave at September, and Trell spoke. “You noticed my small preview eye, Mr. September. Have you been familiar with espionage work and equipment in the past?”

“Nope. But I’ve been in the offices of a lot of politicians.”

The Commissioner not only didn’t take offense, his laugh sounded quite genuine. “So there’s a sense of humor floating around inside that enormous frame of yours. Good. Let’s see if I can save us some time.” Leaning back into the couch, he ticked off points on his fingers as he talked.

“One: I’ve already heard the report you gave the postmaster, so I know everything you’ve told him. Rest assured I agree with him completely on expediting your passage off this world. After what you’ve been through, it’s the very least I, as Resident Commonwealth representative, can do. You must’ve had a terrible time of it among the primitives.”

“Not as terrible as everyone seems to think.” September spoke easily, inviting challenge.

Trell chose not to accept, or perhaps didn’t perceive the giant’s comment as challenging. “Two, that ship you arrived in. I’ve had recordings made, solidos formed. Quite a piece of engineering.” His voice altered, became slightly more intense as he inquired, “Where did the natives get the duralloy for five runners of that size? Surely the locals haven’t mastered nuclear metallurgy somewhere out in the snow?”

“No.” Ethan explained. “They cut them as best they could, with our help, from the hull of our wrecked lifeboat.”

That apparently satisfied Trell. “I suspected something like that. While our Commonwealth charges here aren’t stupid, they’re much longer on muscle than brains.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said September.

Ethan shook inside. Instead of the expected protest at this slur on their friends, September had reacted with agreement and a beatific smile.

He thought furiously. Since September did nothing without good reason, it followed that he had one for concurring with the Commissioner. As Trell nodded in response, he saw that the Commissioner had been waiting for precisely the answer the big man had given him. But if their purpose in coming here was to convince the Commissioner that the Tran were worthy of associate Commonwealth status, they weren’t off to a very good beginning.

Or were they? Come to think of it, reacting emotionally instead of with reason would be the worst way to get the Commissioner on their side. “Longer on muscle than brains, but not stupid”, was an evaluation of the Tran with which Sir Hunnar himself might readily have agreed.

“Native affairs, you mentioned?” Trell looked at Ethan.

He rose. “We spent quite a number of months among them, sir.” Pacing the plushly carpeted room, he felt himself relax. As always, he was most at ease when punching a product he believed in. He believed in the Tran.

“Environment and ecology have conspired against the natives, sir. They’re widely dispersed, forced to cling to scattered, often barely accessible islands for survival. While they’ve adapted well to this harsh climate, their numbers don’t seem to be great. I don’t know why, but they aren’t as numerous as they should be. That also works to their disadvantage.

“And yet,” he continued enthusiastically, “Considering their extreme climate they’ve not only staved off extinction, but have advanced to a fair level of civilization. Their technology is unusually advanced in certain areas, such as iceship building and cold weather farming. Races inhabiting more pleasant worlds have not done as well.”

“I agree with you.” Ethan stopped pacing, astonished. First Trell described the Tran as having more muscle than brains, and now he was all but concurring with Ethan’s optimistic assessment of their accomplishments.

“Well then?”

“Well then what, Mr. Fortune?” Trell was watching him closely.

Ethan was forced to discard all the arguments he had mustered mentally to build a case for the Tran’s abilities and jump ahead. “If you agree with my assessment, sir, consider the benefits to this world of associate Commonwealth membership. They could send delegates to Council as observers. They’d learn a great deal and would be eligible for all kinds of government assistance for which they presently can’t qualify. That would raise the planetary standard of living, which in turn would…”