Гарднер Дозуа - The Good Old Stuff

He will serve you well, for he has been taught that commerce and words, its medium, are the unifying bonds which will one day unite the cosmos into a single humankind. Do not conceive that the College and Order of Heralds is a mere aid to you in your commercial adventure.”

“Very well,” growled the trader. He addressed Men in broken Lyran: “Boy, how you make up Vegan stones of three fires so Lyran women like, come buy, buy again?”

Alen smoothly replied: “The Vegan triple-fire gem finds most favor on Lyre and especially among its women when set in a wide glass anklet if large, and when arranged in the Lyran ‘lucky five’ pattern in a glass thumb ring if small.” He was glad, very glad, he had come across—and as a matter of course memorized, in the relentless fashion of the Order—a novel which touched briefly on the Lyran jewel trade.

The trader glowered and switched to Cephean—apparently his native tongue. “That was well-enough said, Herald. Now tell me whether you’ve got guts to man a squirt in case we’re intercepted by the thieving so-called Customs collectors of Eyolf’s Realm between here and Lyre?”

Alen knew the Rector’s eyes were on him. “The noble mission of our Order,” he said, “forbids me to use any weapon but the truth in furthering cosmic utilitarian civilization. No, master trader, I shall not man one of your weapons.”

The trader shrugged. “So I must take what I get. Good Master Herald, make me a price.”

The Rector said casually: “I regard this chiefly as a training mission for our novice; the fee will be nominal. Let us say twenty-five percent of your net as of blastoff from Lyra, to be audited by Journeyman-Herald Men.”

The trader’s howl of rage echoed in the dome of the huge room. “It’s not fair!” he roared. “Who but you thievish villains with your Order and your catch-’em-young and your years of training can learn the tongues of the galaxy? What chance has a decent merchant busy with profit and loss got to learn the cant of every race between Sirius and the Coalsack? It’s not fair! It’s not fair and I’ll say so until my dying breath!”

“Die outside if you find our terms unacceptable,” said the Rector.

“The Order does not haggle.”

“Well I know it,” sighed the trader brokenly. “I should have stuck to my own system and my good father’s pump-flange factory. But no! I had to pick up a bargain in gems on Vega! Enough of this—bring me your contract and I’ll sign it.”

The Rector’s shaggy eyebrows went up. “There is no contract,” he said.

“A mutual trust between Herald and trader is the cornerstone upon which cosmos-wide amity and understanding will be built.”

“At twenty-five percent for an unlicked pup,” muttered blackbeard to himself in Cephean.

None of his instructors had played Polonius as Alen, with the seal of the Journeyman-Herald on his brow, packed for blastoff and vacated his cell. He supposed they knew that twenty years of training either had done their work or had not.

The trader taking Alen to the field where his ship waited was less wise. “The secret of successful negotiation,” he weightily told his Herald, “is to yield willingly. This may strike you as a paradox, but it is the veritable key to my success in maintaining the profits of my good father’s pump-flange trade. The secret is to yield with rueful admiration of your opponent—but only in unimportant details. Put up a little baffle about delivery date or about terms of credit and then let him have his way. But you never give way a hair’s breadth on your asking price unless—” Alen let him drivel on as they drove through the outer works of the College. He was glad the car was open. For the first time he was being accorded the doffed hat that is the due of Heralds from their inferiors in the Order, and the grave nod of salutation from equals. Five-year-old postulants seeing his brow seal tugged off their headgear with comical celerity; fellow novices, equals a few hours before, uncovered as though he were the Rector himself.

The ceremonial began to reach the trader. When, with a final salutation, a lay warder let them through the great gate of the curtain wall, he said with some irritation, “They appear to hold you in high regard, boy.”

“I am better addressed as Herald,” said Men composedly.

“A plague descend on the College and Order! Do you think I don’t know my manners? Of course, I call a Herald ‘Herald,’ but we’re going to be cooped up together and you’ll be working for me. What’ll happen to ship’s discipline if I have to kowtow to you?”

“There will be no problem,” said Men.

Blackbeard grunted and trod fiercely on the accelerator.

“That’s my ship,” he said at length. “Starsong. Vegan registry—it may help passing through Eyolf’s Realm, though it cost me overmuch in bribes. A crew of eight, lazy, good-for-nothing wastrels—Agh! Can I believe my eyes?” The car jammed to a halt before the looming ship, and blackbeard was up the ladder and through the port in a second.

Settling his robes, Men followed.

He found the trader fiercely denouncing his chief engineer for using space drive to heat the ship; he had seen the faint haze of a minimum exhaust from the stern tubes.

“For that, dolt,” screamed blackbeard, “we have a thing known as electricity. Have you by chance ever heard of it? Are you aware that a chief engineer’s responsibility is the efficient and economical operation of his ship’s drive mechanism?”

The chief, a cowed-looking Cephean, saw Alen with relief and swept off his battered cap. The Herald nodded gravely and the trader broke off in irritation. “We need none of that bowing and scraping for the rest of the voyage,” he declared.

“Of course not, sir,” said the chief. “O’course not. I was just welcoming the Herald aboard. Welcome aboard, Herald. I’m Chief Elwon, Herald. And I’m glad to have a Herald with us.” A covert glance at the trader. “I’ve voyaged with Heralds and without, and I don’t mind saying I feel safer indeed with you aboard.”

“May I be taken to my quarters?” asked Alen.

“Your—” began the trader, stupefied.

The chief broke in, “I’ll fix you a cabin, Herald. We’ve got some bulkheads I can rig aft for a snug little space, not roomy, but the best a little ship like this can afford.”

The trader collapsed into a bucket seat as the chief bustled aft and Men followed.

“Herald,” the chief said with some embarrassment after he had collared two crewmen and set them to work, “you’ll have to excuse our good master trader. He’s new to the interstar lanes and he doesn’t exactly know the jets yet. Between us we’ll get him squared away.”

Men inspected the cubicle run up for him—a satisfactory enclosure affording him the decent privacy he rated. He dismissed the chief and the crewmen with a nod and settled himself on the cot.

Beneath the iron composure in which he had been trained, he felt scared and alone. Not even old Machiavelli seemed to offer comfort or council: “There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things,” said Chapter Six.

But what said Chapter Twenty-Six? “Where the willingness is great, the difficulties cannot be great.”

Starsong was not a happy ship. Blackbeard’s nagging stinginess hung over the crew like a thundercloud, but Men professed not to notice. He walked regularly fore and aft for two hours a day greeting the crew members in their various native tongues and then wrapping himself in the reserve the Order demanded—though he longed to salute them man-to-man, eat with them, gossip about their native planets, the past misdeeds that had brought them to their berths aboard the miserly Starsong, their hopes for the future The Rule of the College and Order of Heralds decreed otherwise. He accepted the uncoverings of the crew with a nod and tried to be pleased because they stood in growing awe of him that ranged from Chief Elwon’s lively appreciation of a Herald’s skill to Wiper Jukkl’s superstitious reverence. Jukkl was a low-browed specimen from a planet of the decadent Sirius system. He outdid the normal slovenliness of an all-male crew on a freighter—a slovenliness in which Men could not share. Many of his waking hours were spent in his locked cubicle burnishing his metal and cleaning and pressing his robes. A Herald was never supposed to suggest by his appearance that he shared mortal frailties.