Andre Norton - Derelict For Trade

"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."

Captain Jellico lookedup at his cargo master, determined not to show any of the exasperation he felt.

"So you’re saying that I-S cargo master cut in and took your deal?"

Van Ryke’s white brows formed a line of perplexity in his face. "I wish it were that simple," he said. "I don’t think Mdango cut in on us—I think that Tapadakk offered her my deal, but did it in such a way as to make it look like I-S pulled the deal out from under us."

Jellico let his breath out slowly. "Any idea why?"

Van Ryke lifted his hands. "If I knew that, I could have done some fast talking and saved it. He’s been most apologetic, but only over the com. I can’t seem to get to him to agree to see me in person. But it’s only been an hour; for Kanddoyds, that’s an impossible rush. What I want to make certain of is if he’s suddenly changed his mind and doesn’t want to deal with us at all. If so, why?"

"Has Mdango or any of her crew been talking us down?"

Van Ryke rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It would be the most obvious explanation. The Queen had run afoul of Inter-Stellar ships in the past, and despite the fact that the Queen was only one ship, and I-S was a huge Company, big Companies were made up of human beings, most of whom were as loyal to their Companies as the Queen's crew were to the Solar Queen . Jellico knew that there were plenty of people in I-S who might like to see a bit of revenge taken for the Queen's wins over some of their colleagues.

"I don’t get the impression they’ve heard anything about us at all," Van Ryke said slowly. "I think their ship, the Corvallis , has been making runs in totally different lanes than we’ve been used to. No one in our crew has reported any negative encounters, or even any comments, from their crew up in the recreation areas—and we humanoid Traders stand out up there, so it’s not like they couldn’t find us if they half tried."

"All right," Jellico said. "Then we’ll rule out malice—at least on the part of I-S. Now, what about Tapadakk?"

Van Ryke sighed. "It is possible, except it wouldn’t make any sense. We spent four solid days dancing around in their interminable negotiations, and I can’t believe even a Kanddoyd would spend all that time for nothing. He seemed eager to deal; our cargo isn’t all that tempting, but he’s got a surplus of mosaic works of various sorts that we could move pretty well back in Terran space, where they are rarer, and he did have two or three buyers set up in a complicated ring. He just seemed to be waiting for us to get our papers on Starvenger and wind up our registry business."

"That was yesterday," Jellico said.

Van Ryke nodded. "Tapadakk and I finished our talk about the time Thorson and Shannon left registry yesterday, with our papers in hand, so we know it’s nothing to do with that. Anyway, that’s about the time we set up today’s meeting. Then an hour ago, I get this com message—just before I’m to leave for our meeting to accomplish what I hoped was the last stage of negotiation—and he ups and tells me that he’s not good enough, his goods aren’t good enough, he’s desolately and abjectly sorry but our exalted trade would grace another cargo better, et cetera et cetera. I thought I’d go over and try to get him in person again."

Jellico nodded. "Right. Do what you can. We’re running out of time."

Van Ryke nodded and walked out.

Jellico leaned back in his chair and glared at the various calculations Wilcox had printed out for him. Then he tabbed the intercom. "Ya."

"Captain?" came the comtech’s voice.

"Progress?"

"Still working—I have some algorithms roughed out that might be what we need."

"Keep at it."

"Right, Captain."

They both cut the connection. The hoobat let out a sudden metal-rending shriek, and Jellico grabbed his chair to anchor himself and reached to give the cage a swat.

"Fnerble," Queex squawked, settling down happily as the cage rocked and bounced.

"Just what I was thinking," Miceal Jellico said grimly.

Karl Kosti leaned back in the padded seat and stared out at the long tubes of the Kanddoyd buildings. He rather liked the crazy curves and angles, the strings of lights. He was in a good mood. His muscles ached from a good workout in heavy grav, and he had an excellent meal before him, and something interesting to look at. It entertained him to figure out how to power this habitat and the buildings inside it.

It would have been nicer if he could have eaten in decent grav, but the gym for Traders was down in Shver territory, a rare concession. Of course they wouldn’t have food places there. The Shver didn’t like outsiders, and they didn’t like public eating. Plain, straightforward. Karl rather liked the Shver. He preferred them to the gyrating, buzzing, clacking Kanddoyds who talked in such convoluted sentences it was like their mouths were full of mush. The Shver said exactly what they thought, or they kept silent. He appreciated that—and he also liked them as sparring partners in the gym. For once he didn’t have to worry about going easy on his partner, for they massed a lot more than he did. He liked that too. Few humans massed as much as he, and fewer of those were anywhere near as strong.

He tabbed the heat button on his bulb of spiced wine and sipped, enjoying the pleasant tang on his tongue, and the warmth down his throat. His eyes stayed on the buildings as, gradually, the chatter of the spacehounds around him resolved from white noise into individual words.

"... hijackers," someone said.

Hijackers? Karl didn’t want to look—ordinarily he despised gossip, but that subject would get anyone’s attention.

"I wonder how much credit it takes to smooth that one over," a woman said. Her voice was sharp.

"Kind of makes you wonder what registry is worth, don’t it?" a man’s voice grated. "Knowin’ you can get a quitclaim, free and clear, on someone else’s ship?"

"Eventually," the woman said, "the New Hope catches up with ’em. You gotta believe that."

Another man laughed. It was an ugly laugh. "Yeah, I like that," he said. "Sanford Jones holds out his hand in welcome—you ship with him for eternity."

"Sometimes," the first man said, "it’s a right fine thing to help old Sanford get that crew real quick."

"Yeah," the woman said. "As quick as the crew aboard the hijacked ship got sent to Jones."

Karl had forgotten the Kanddoyd buildings and his mental calculations of energy production. Who were these people? Seemed as if they were talking not just generally, but specifically—and if he understood them right, they were working up to taking someone out.

He looked around, and to his surprise saw three faces watching him.

A woman, short gray hair, big brown eyes narrowed in a mean look, and the strong arms of a cargo wrangler, stared right at Karl, and said, "Patrol might look the other way, but we don’t."