Гарднер Дозуа - The Good Old Stuff

“You give up too easily,” said Alen. “For a scientist, much too easily. If we turn you over to the watch, there will be hearings and testimony and whatnot. Our time is limited here on your planet; I doubt that we can spare any for your legal processes.”

The trader let go of the intruder’s shoulder and grumbled, “Why you no ask we have iron, I tell you no. Search, search, take all metal away.

We no police you. I sorry hurted you arms. Here for you.” Blackbeard brought out a palmful of his sample gems and picked out a large triple-fire stone. “You not be angry me,” he said, putting it in the Lyran’s hand.

“I can’t—” said the scientist.

Blackbeard closed his fingers over the stone and growled, “I give, you take. Maybe buy iron with, eh?”

“That’s so,” said the Lyran. “Thank you both, gentlemen. Thank you—”

“You go,” said the trader. “You go, we sleep again.” The scientist bowed with dignity and left their room.

“Gods of space,” swore the trader. “To think that Jukkl, the Starsong’s wiper, knows more about electricity and magnetism than a brainy fellow like that.”

“And they are the key to physics,” mused Alen. “A scientist here is dead-ended forever, because their materials are all insulators! Glass, clay, glaze, wood.”

“Funny, all right,” yawned blackbeard. “Did you see me collar him once I got on my feet? Sharp, eh? Good night, Herald.” He gruntingly hauled himself into the hammock again, leaving Alen to turn off the hissing light and cover the slow-match with its perforated lid.

They had roast fowl of some sort or other for breakfast in the public dining room. Alen was required by his Rule to refuse the red wine that went with it. The trader gulped it approvingly. “A sensible, though backward people,” he said. “And now if you’ll inquire of the management where the thievish jewel buyers congregate, we can get on with our business and perhaps be off by dawn tomorrow.”

“So quickly?” asked Alen, almost forgetting himself enough to show surprise.

“My charter on Starsong, good Herald—thirty days to go, but what might not go wrong in space? And then there would be penalties to mulct me of whatever minute profit I may realize.”

Alen learned that Gromeg’s Tavern was the gem mart and they took another of the turbine-engined cabs through the brick-paved streets.

Gromeg’s was a dismal, small-windowed brick barn with heavyset men lounging about, an open kitchen at one end and tables at the other. A score of smaller, sharp-faced men were at the tables, sipping wine and chatting.

“I am Journeyman-Herald Alen,” announced Alen clearly, “with Vegan gems to dispose of.”

There was a silence of elaborate unconcern, and then one of the dealers spat and grunted, “Vegan gems. A drug on the market. Take them away, Herald.”

“Come, master trader,” said Men in the Lyran tongue. “The gem dealers of Lyra do not want your wares.” He started for the door.

One of the dealers called languidly, “Well, wait a moment. I have nothing better to do; since you’ve come all this way, I’ll have a look at your stuff.”

“You honor us,” said Alen. He and blackbeard sat at the man’s table.

The trader took out a palmful of samples, counted them meaningfully, and laid them on the boards.

“Well,” said the gem dealer, “I don’t know whether to be amused or insulted.

I am Garthkint, the gem dealer—not a retailer of beads. However, I have no hard feelings. A drink for your frowning friend, Herald? I know you gentry don’t indulge.” The drink was already on the table, brought by one of the hulking guards.

Alen passed Garthkint’s own mug of wine to the trader, explaining politely: “In my master trader’s native Cepheus it is considered honorable for the guest to sip the drink his host laid down and none other. A charming custom, is it not?”

“Charming, though unsanitary,” muttered the gem dealer—and he did not touch the drink he had ordered for blackbeard.

“I can’t understand a word either of you is saying—too flowery. Was this little rat trying to drug me?” demanded the trader in Cephean.

“No,” said Men. “Just trying to get you drunk.” To Garthkint in Lyran, he explained, “The good trader was saying that he wishes to leave at once.

I was agreeing with him.”

“Well,” said Garthkint, “perhaps I can take a couple of your gauds.

For some youngster who wishes a cheap ring.”

“He’s getting to it,” Alen told the trader.

“High time,” grunted blackbeard.

“The trader asks me to inform you,” said Alen, switching back to Lyran, “that he is unable to sell in lots smaller than five hundred gems.”

“A compact language, Cephean,” said Garthkint, narrowing his eyes.

“Is it not?” Alen blandly agreed.

The gem dealer’s forefinger rolled an especially fine three-fire stone from the little pool of gems on the table. “I suppose,” he said grudgingly, “that this is what I must call the best of the lot. What, I am curious to know, is the price you would set for five hundred equal in quality and size to this poor thing?”

“This,” said Alen, “is the good trader’s first venture to your delightful planet. He wishes to be remembered and welcomed all of the many times he anticipates returning. Because of this he has set an absurdly low price, counting good will as more important than a prosperous voyage. Two thousand Lyran credits.”

“Absurd,” snorted Garthkint. “I cannot do business with you. Either you are insanely rapacious or you have been pitifully misguided as to the value of your wares. I am well known for my charity; I will assume that the latter is the case. I trust you will not be too downcast when I tell you that five hundred of these muddy, undersized out-of-round objects are worth no more than two hundred credits.”

“If you are serious,” said Alen with marked amazement, “we would not dream of imposing on you. At the figure yon mention, we might as well not sell at all but return with our wares to Cepheus and give these gems to children in the streets for marbles. Good gem trader, excuse us for taking up so much of your time and many thanks for your warm hospitality in the matter of the wine.” He switched to Cephean and said: “We’re dickering now.

Two thousand and two hundred. Get up; we’re going to start to walk out.”

“What if he lets us go?” grumbled blackbeard, but he did heave himself to his feet and turn to the door as Alert rose.

“My trader echoes my regrets,” the Herald said in Lyran.

“Farewell.”

“Well, stay a moment,” said Garthkint. “I am well known for my soft heart toward strangers. A charitable man might go as high as five hundred and absorb the inevitable loss. If you should return some day with a passable lot of real gems, it would be worth my while for you to remember who treated you with such benevolence and give me fair choice.”

“Noble Lyran,” said Men, apparently almost overcome. “I shall not easily forget your combination of acumen and charity. It is a lesson to traders. It is a lesson to me. I shall not insist on two thousand.

I shall cut the throat of my trader’s venture by reducing his price to eighteen hundred credits, though I wonder how I shall dare tell him of it.”

“What’s going on now?” demanded blackbeard.

“Five hundred and eighteen hundred,” said Alen. “We can sit down again.”

“Up, down—up, down,” muttered the trader.

They sat, and Men said in Lyran: “My trader unexpectedly endorses the reduction. He says, ‘Better to lose some than all—an old proverb in the Cephean tongue. And he forbids any further reduction.”