"Capcor is the government monopoly," O'Shieldssaid. "We own all the diamondiferous areas onthis planet."
Curious, Pat thought, as he tallied up all theoffers. Either the old man was lying or there was adiamond producing pipe somewhere unknown toCapcor.
Capcor's bid, written in the neat, precise hand ofT. O'Shields, listed sizes and weights, so that itwasn't necessary for Pat to tabulate. He worked onall the other offers and grinned when he saw thatby splitting the cargo into small lots, giving someof the independent traders a share, he'd bestO'Shields offer by a few carats, even if some of thestones were of lesser quality. He wasn't greedy.For some reason emeralds and rubies were common on most UP planets. He wasn't going to be come independently wealthy on this deal. It wouldbe a nice bonus, as he'd hoped, but that was all.Too many rubies and emeralds, beautiful as theywere.
But diamonds. The rarest. The king of stones.
Pat had a sudden flash of insight. T. O'Shieldsreminded him of his department head back atXanthos U. That clinched it for him.
"All right, gentlemen," he called out. "I've accepted the following offers. By lot number here weare. . . ."
Before Pat could finish reading off the names,O'Shields pushed his way through the grinning, back-slapping independents. "Dammit," O'Shieldssputtered. "You can call for a second round ofbidding and I'll top these boonie rats."
"Where I come from," Pat said, meeting O'Shield'sgaze with a smile, "an honest trader makes his top offer first time around." That was an outright lie, for all traders lived to haggle, but he didn't care if O'Shields knew it was a lie.
The knight in shining armor, soaring around the galaxy rooting for the underdog.
Pat accepted John Hook's official-sounding invitation to have lunch. The restaurant windows overlooked the not very scenic space port. The restaurantwas a popular place, crowded with executive types in business dress, a few of the independent traders in their worn outdoor clothing, working-class people in neat blue uniforms.
Taratwo's women seemed to average on theskinny side, with the predominant hair coloringsbeing shades of red and black. The men were alsouniformly spare, solemn, mostly unsmiling, butthen there didn't seem to be much to smile abouton Tara, planet of ashes, smoke, half-light. But thegreen salad was tangy. the dressing good sourcream, the meat slightly tough but well flavored.
Hook's conversation between bites was banal.He hoped that the morning's trading had beenprofitable. Pat assured him that it had been. Hookmentioned that there was no export tax on gem-stones. Pat said that was good news indeed. Without a government bite into his profits he just mightbe able to pay for a complete refitting of theSkimmer,make her more comfortable, put in a new storage capsule in the library, decontaminate thecloud chambers in the cranky computer.
Pat thought only once that afternoon of the oldman. He tended to believe T. O'Shields, especially when he asked Hook about diamonds and was toldthat Taratwo wasn't a good diamond planet. The chances of Murphy's having a king-size diamondseemed slim. Maybe the old man was a victim oftoo many nights alone in Taratwo's dismal outback,a little mixed up in the head.
Pat asked Hook a few questions about local conditions, and as long as his curiosity did not touchon politics, personal freedom, or the quality oflife-style he was answered. Hook's response to asensitive question was to cough, look away, andchange the subject immediately.
Pat had finished his meal and was having a taste of a very good local brandy. "Excellent," he said."Very good."
"Grapes like a volcanic soil," Hook said.
"Make a good export, this."
Hook laughed. "First we have to make enoughfor local consumption."
The buzz of conversation died around them. Thesudden silence was a silence of attention. Pat lookedup, saw that all eyes were directed to the windows. A sleek, modern atmospace yacht was waftingdown onto the largest space-port pad.
"The Man," someone at a nearby table said.
"Not likely," someone else said.
"We'll know soon enough."
"More likely the Man's redheaded friend."
"The Man's whore, you mean."
John Hook shifted nervously. He cast a glaretoward the voice, then looked quickly away. Thevoices died into whispers. Then there was silencethroughout the dining room as the port of thesleek yacht hissed open and a female figure dressedin purple skirts emerged and walked gracefully to a luxurious ground
car. "Definitely not the Man," someone said, andthere was a burst of relieved, nervous laughter. "The Leader's yacht?" Pat asked Hook. "But not Himself. He values his privacy. He's seldom seen in public these days." He pushed himself
away from the table. "My duty calls. I hope that you enjoyed your lunch." "I did," Pat said. "Should you wish to visit our city I have leftword at the terminal to arrange transport for you,"Hook said. "Thanks, but I think I'll go back aboard. I haven'tyet adjusted to Taratwo time." The street outside the restaurant was cordonedoff by lines of neatly uniformed men, tall, strong-looking
men armed with the latest in sidearms. Acaravan of big ground cars came blasting suddenly around the corner of the building, the leadvehicle wailing a warning. A late-model Zede executive limousine was sandwiched in between twoarmored police cars. As it swept past, Pat got justa glimpse of a pale, feminine face framed by fieryred hair. The Man's redheaded friend? The Man'swhore?
It was none of his affair. All he wanted fromTaratwo now was a passenger and a clear blinkroute for
space. Pat wasn't really sleepy, but he had no desire to go into the city. He stretched his legs by walkingtoward the passenger terminal. Inside there was dusty luxury in leather seats and wide spaces, allempty. Only one counter was manned. Pat caughtthe eye of the stiff-faced young man there andnodded.
"May I help you, sir?" the young man asked. "No, no.I'mjust having a bit of a walk." "Not much to see around here, sir. If you'd liketo go into the city, Captain Hook has arranged avehicle
for you."
"Very kind of him," Pat said. "But I think I'lljust have a walk and go back aboard." He turnedaway and started out of the terminal area. "Sir," the man behind the counter said, "it looksas if we're in for an ashfall this afternoon. I seethat you
don't have a breather. If you'll permit me. . ." He came out from behind the counter with alightweight
respirator unit in his hands. "I think I can make it to the ship without that,"Pat said, although the sky had darkened considerably in the short time since he'd left the restaurant.
"If you're not familiar with the effects of anashfall you've got an unpleasant surprise coming." Pat decided to humor the man, stood still whilethe mask was fitted to his face with adjustablestraps. He reached for his pocket. "Oh, no, sir," the young man said. "No charge.All visitors are furnished with breathers throughthe
generosity of Brenden."
Brenden was the Man, the ruler.
"Tell Brenden when you see him that I thank him," Pat said.
A brief smile crossed the young man's stiff face."That's not likely," he said. "But you're welcometo the breather. It's about the only thing that's free on this planet. Just leave it with the customs manwho checks you off."
Before he reached theSkimmer he was glad he'dtaken the mask. Ash was drifting in little windrowson the surface of the port, jetting up around hisfeet at each step. The decontaminator in the airlockwhined and puffed getting rid of the ash whichclung to his clothing and his shoes.
John Hook arrived late in the afternoon, escortedby four armed guards. By then the ashfall was sodense that although theSkimmer's instrumentswarned him of the approach of the vehicle, hedidn't see it until it was within a hundred feet ofthe ship. The decontaminator had to puff and whineagain, and then his gemstones were aboard. Hookwatched in silence as he checked the contents ofthe small cases.
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