Andre Norton - Derelict For Trade

At the end, he offered no comment, nor did Jellico ask for any. He thanked the captain for the report, then said, "So how is Tooe adjusting? Or should I say, how is everyone adjusting to her?"

Jellico’s grim face eased as he gave a slight smile. "She’s divided her time between these runs to the Spinner and sitting in the cargo bay with Thorson cramming data on Trade lingo, and customs, trade, and cargo stowage."

"Could she possibly be a cargo wrangler?" Tau asked doubtfully, thinking of the sinewy Thorson and Jan Van Ryke, whose comfortable-looking bulk hid a very powerful musculature.

"Van and Thorson both insist she knows more about the intricacies of null-grav cargo moving than both of them together. We’re used to planetside dealings, and gravity, where size can make a difference. If we’re going to push further afield, then we need to adjust to the exigencies of null-grav trade," Jellico said.

Tau, sifting the words, nodded in agreement. "We’ve access to loading machines if it comes to that. But what I’m hearing here is that they both seem to be in favor of hiring her on."

"At least on a trial basis," Jellico said. "Van put it to me just today. He doesn’t want anything said to Tooe yet, though—there’s no use in it until we settle our problems with Trade."

Tau sighed. "Right. For a nice moment I’d forgotten that."

Jellico gave a short laugh. "You won’t for long. Dane and Ali and Rip will see to that."

Rip Shannon heard a rap on his cabin door.

He opened it, saw Dane standing in the doorway of his cabin across the narrow corridor. Thorson was strapping a sleeprod to his belt. "Ready to go?" he asked.

"You really think we’ll need those?" Rip asked as Dane reached into his cabin and pulled out another sleeprod to hand over.

Thorson shrugged. "Nunku and Tang both said that it’s inevitable that the ferret is going to trigger alarms, in which case they’ll figure out where the data is going. One of these times we’re going to find a welcome party waiting for us down there."

"Do these things even work on Shver?" Rip asked as he hastily strapped his to his belt so he’d have both hands free. "With our luck a zap from this will hit them like Dirjwartian Joy Juice and they’ll be stampeding after us for more."

"Either that or it just makes them really, really mad," Dane said with a grin. "Anyway, I asked Tau about that. He says these things are a broad-band neural disruptor. They’ll deck pretty much any being we’ve come across—though not for long if they mass a lot, like Shver."

"Long enough for us to show them our heels suits me fine," Rip said. "All right, let’s get this over with."

Dane grinned again, leading the way. They left the Queen and pulled themselves down the dock. Rip looked around, breathing in the featureless habitat air. If you ignored the weird visual proportions this was like any spaceport: lit at all hours, and busy at all hours. As they moved toward the maglev, Rip wondered if the dock workers lost all sense of the passage of time, or if they had their ways of reestablishing diurnal/nocturnal physiological ryhthms.

The maglev was crowded. Rip hadn’t bothered to bring a chrono, since the lack of recognizable (planet-dictated) work-and-sleep cycles rendered time measure meaningless for humans. At least in the Kanddoyd parts of Exchange, it seemed that life went on pretty much round the clock. Though he wondered if they’d inadvertently set out at some generally acknowledged shift-change time, for there were Kanddoyd workers in all of the pods, their fiddle-voices chattering away with the eternal

accompaniment of hums, chirps, whistles, taps, and clicks. None of them sat still, but moved about as they communicated.

Rip found that watching them as the pod accelerated was a mistake, especially after the pod emerged from the interior of the habitat’s end cap and the interior burst into light around them. The odd horizon out the window and the movement of the pod amid the strangely angled, tube-shaped Kanddoyd domiciles did not accord well with the immediate prospect of Kanddoyds swarming about in zigzag patterns. Dizziness made him clutch at his seat.

He closed his eyes and tried to let the sound pass over him like an audio tide. After a time he had to admit that, so long as he didn’t watch the Kanddoyds, their noises were more pleasing than not.

At any rate they did not stay on the pod long; as they started the descent toward the surface and gradually heavier gravity, the Kanddoyds disappeared from the pod, a few at each stop.

For a short time they were alone, then Shver started boarding. Each time Dane eyed the newcomers, his hand straying near his belt. None of the Shver molested them in any way; few of them even looked at the Terran Traders.

Presently Rip’s inner ear gave him that steadying sense that one grav affords humans. He stretched out and breathed deeply. All too soon he felt his limbs gain weight, as if his own mass fought against him. He flexed his muscles in some stationary isometrics, figuring he’d turn the experience into a workout.

Presently they started the curve that meant they’d reached the surface, and Rip was relieved. He felt his lungs laboring to breathe; if he tried to breathe too fast, he felt the faintest burning sensation.

He turned to Dane, saw a look that reminded him of Captain Jellico. Dane’s bony face was set hard, his jaw grim. But when the pod slid to a halt at their stop, the big cargo apprentice got up with no diminution in his usual speed.

"Walk," Dane said a moment later. "This way."

His voice was quiet. Rip felt his heart rate increase, which was almost

painful. He forced his body to move at Dane’s pace, being careful to keep his knees slightly bent and to place each foot carefully. He did not want to fall down in this grav—broken or shattered bones were much too likely a result.

"Where’s the problem?" Rip asked softly when they were well away from the nearest Shver. He saw the huge, elephantine beings moving about, but none seemed to be particularly menacing.

"Other side of the pod," Dane said, tipping his head back the other way. "A couple of Khelv and a Zhem, all of Clan Golm. I’ve been learning the clan skin markings as much as I can."

"Where’d you get the data?"

"Here." Dane indicated his eyes. "They won’t permit anything written down. But I know what Golm clan looks like now." His deep voice took on a steely edge. "These three were prowling along looking in the pods."

"Then they’re onto us?" Rip asked. "Shouldn’t we go back?"

"I don’t think they are, or they’d be waiting at the mail drop," Dane said. "I’ll bet they heard about a Terran Trader being here, which is probably rare enough to put whoever is watching out for that kind of news on his guard. So they’re nosing about."

"Khelv. Zhem," Rip repeated. "Aren’t those levels in the noncitizen rank?"

"Kind of," Dane replied. "It’s technically a rank for single beings. A Khelv has only contributed one ’gift’ to his or her clan, and they tend to be the hungriest for some kind of score. A Zhem has only one more to make the sacred five; a Jheel has three more. When they reach five, they can find a mate and reproduce, and once they do that, then they get citizenship within the clan, which means speaking rights at clan meetings. They can also be assigned a task in order to advance in rank again."

"Assigned?" Rip asked as they entered the building.

Dane glanced around, as did Rip. To Rip’s eyes the Shver seemed peaceable enough; at least they were thoroughly ignoring the Terrans. Dane apparently didn’t see the Golm, because he said as he led the way to

the communications chamber, "That’s right. The group can assign them a task. If they don’t like it, or don’t complete it, that’s it for career advancement. If they refuse out of what the clan terms cowardice, they’re cast out."