Andre Norton - Derelict For Trade

It was a neutral gesture of respect.

Jellico responded with the same gesture. Rip noted the only sign that the captain made of the effort it took to match the speed of the gesture was how his muscles tightened up his arm and shoulder.

"Come you this way," the lead Shver said.

He turned and started walking. The other four stepped out to the sides, closing in around the others as they proceeded in silence down a pathway past some thick, rubbery-looking shrubs that effectively curtained off the countryside around them.

Rip found himself paced by a tall female who, if he remembered aright what Dane had told him, was wearing the sign of a Khelv. Curious, he tried without moving his head much to scan the signs of the other four; they all wore different signs. He recognized one of them, the sign of a Jheel.

Again, a neutral signal, in that their company ranked one from each level. Five Zhems would have been an insult. Five Khelvs comprised an honor guard.

The path led downward, and Rip felt his thigh muscles protesting at each step. He did not look forward to walking back up that hill—if, of course, they lived through whatever was coming next—but at least it would agonize a different set of muscles.

At the bottom of the hill again they passed a line of boundary shrubs, and found two ground cars waiting. They were motioned into one; Jellico hesitated, and Rip could see how much he hated trusting their lives to these Shver. The leader of the group climbed in with them; as soon as they were seated, the plasglas opaqued to a deep blue, and they moved forward.

No one spoke at all during the ride. Rip listened to the roar of the engine and the deep, thrumming growl beneath him that he finally realized was the sound of wheels moving over ground.

When they stopped, the door opened onto a flat area made of flagged granite with obscure patterns worked in different minerals. The field of honor was ovoid, screened off all the way around by the thick waxy-leaved trees.

Waiting in the center of the ovoid was the Zhem who’d challenged Dane. He was not alone. Stationed round half the perimeter of the field was a great number of adult Shver— probably most of his clan, Rip realized.

Was this a bad sign? It was too late to do anything about it now.

Dane walked out into the center, still holding his bag. Rip felt a corresponding burst of adrenaline, as though he were the one walking out there. No time to pursue that empathic reaction—obviously his vivid imagination.

The Shver had something long and shiny lying at his feet; he bent and hefted a sword at least six feet long, with a wickedly curving blade. Rip didn’t know whether to be relieved that he had not chosen a force blade—an energy weapon would at least afford a cleaner death than being hacked apart one limb at a time by that sword.

The Shver stood ready, speaking no words.

Dane carefully worked his bag loose, then tossed it behind him. What he held looked just as sinister as it had sounded in the maglev pod. Rip blinked at the great bladder, covered with cloth of a faded geometric pattern, transfixed by a number of black tubes protruding from it. His preconceived notion shattered: the haggis was some sort of sonic weapon, like Frank’s feedle pipe.

For a moment no one moved. Rip saw the sheen of sweat lining Dane’s brow.

The Shver then gripped the sword and swung it in a swift, humming circle to one side, then the other. At the same time Dane drew in a deep, rasping breath, and his face purpled as he put his mouth to one of the tubes and blew.

Everyone watched, Shver and Terran alike, as the great bladder filled, and then, without warning, Dane punched it viciously! The haggis screamed, droning in weird multiplicity as Dane’s fingers danced spasmodically on one of the tubes, a groaning, wailing, urgent cacophony that tore at Rip’s ears and filled his heart with fierceness.

Clang-g-g ! The sword hit the stones barely two centimeters from the side of Dane’s left boot. He stood his ground, squeezing the bag with his arm as he drew another breath. Rip could see sweat rolling off his purpling brow.

Clang-g-g ! The sword’s edge caused red sparks to fly scarcely a centimeter from Dane’s right boot.

The sword raised high above the Shver’s head, the vast, powerful muscles bunched under the gray hide—

And Dane took a third breath, blew, and this time the rudiments of a tune tweedled out of the droning voice of the haggis.

And suddenly the Shver flung down the sword, opened his mouth, and out came a mighty "Hoom, hoom, hoom."

He was laughing.

Around the perimeter the Shver hoomed along, like some kind of musical thunderstorm.

The sound ceased as Dane tucked the bladder under one arm, fighting for breath, grinning slightly.

Ali was right, Rip thought. At least—so far. And won't he crow , came the rueful after-voice, but then Rip thought: if we get out of this alive, then as far as I’m concerned he can crow about it until Sol goes nova.

The Terrans did not make the mistake of moving. They waited until the Shver stopped laughing.

In the center of the field, the challenger said, this time in Trade, "Performed you brave, Terran. Quarrel have I none with you." And he made the gesture of respect. "It is dead."

Dane returned it with his free hand, and though he was still gasping for breath, he growled out a short sentence in Shver tongue.

This time the Shver answered in his own language, slowing when Dane half-raised a hand and said a word.

They held a short exchange, then Dane made a speech, not long in words, but it took him some time, between the cost to his lungs and his fighting for the correct words.

But when he was done, it produced a profound effect. This time the Shver in the watching circle made different sounds, growls so low Rip felt his feet thrum and his back teeth vibrate. Danger thrilled along his nerves, and he fought the impulse to clutch at his sleeprod. He forced himself to stand still, not even wiping his sweaty palms; he’d take his cue from Captain Jellico, who had not moved an inch the entire time.

The Shver spoke a little longer to Dane, and then something surprising happened: a tough-looking older Shver stumped forward, her great legs like animated tree trunks. She spoke just a couple of words to Dane in Shver, but then she too made the gesture of respect, turned, and left the field through a hidden access in the shrubbery.

Her clan followed, all except the original guard, who motioned Dane and his crewmates back to the ground car.

Rip was certain within half a minute that they were taking a different route back, but just as alarm was again squeezing his heart, they drew up directly next to the maglev pod.

Relief flooded through Rip’s aching body as he lowered himself gratefully onto the bench in the pod. The others sank down around him, and the otherwise empty pod started to move slowly.

Dane leaned back and closed his eyes, sighing.

"Here’s Steen’s carryall," Frank Mura said, holding it out. He poked cautiously at the deflated bladder clasped under Dane’s arm, its tubes dangling, and said, "What is that thing, anyway? Some kind of ultrasonic torture device?"

"It’s a musical instrument," Van Ryke said, his voice husky with laughter.

Rip stared. "That weird noise was —music ?"

Everyone laughed.

"It’s called a bagpipe," Dane said, trying to catch his breath. "When I started blowing it up on the pod—Frank told me it’s airproofed with some sort of oil and molasses and the bladder walls tend to stick together—well,

I knew I was in trouble. Playing it was a nightmare." He laughed softly and somewhat painfully. "Well, it’s bound to sound better when played by someone who knows how. Steen just had time to show me how to cause the notes to play, and Ali and I roughed out the first section of melody of a