Andre Norton - Sargasso of Space

There were no strict caste lines in Trade, the divisions were not by rank but by employer. The large dining room at the port was open to every man wearing the tunic of active service. Most of the Companies maintained their own sections there, their employees paying with vouchers. But transients and newly assigned men who had not yet joined their ships drifted together among the tables by the door.

Dane got to an empty one first and triggered the check button. He might be a Free Trader but this party was his, he was not going to eat any meal provided by Artur—even if this gesture swept away most of his credits.

They had some minutes to look around them after dialing for meals. A short distance away a man wearing the lightning flash badge of a Com-tech was arising from the table. He left two companions still methodically chewing as he went off, his wide chest—that of a second or third generation Martian colonist—unmistakable, though his features were those of a Terran Oriental.

The two he left behind were both apprentices. One bore on his tunic the chart insignia of an astrogator-to-be and the other an engineer’s cogwheel. It was the latter who caught and held Dane’s gaze.

The cargo-apprentice thought that never before had he seen such a handsome, daredevil face. The crisp black hair which framed the finely cut, space tanned features, was cropped short, but not short enough to hide a wave. The heavy lidded eyes were dark, and a little amused smile held more than a hint of cynicism as it quirked the corners of his too-perfectly cut lips. He was a Video idea of the heroic space man and Dane disliked him on sight.

But the perfect one’s companion was as rough hewn as he was faceted. His naturally brown skin could have taken no deeper tan for he was a Negro. And he was talking animatedly about something which sparked languid answers from the budding engineer.

Dane’s attention was brought back to his own table by a waspish sting from Artur.

“Solar Queen.” he spoke the name much too loudly to suit Dane. “A Free Trader. Well, you’ll get to see life, Viking that you will. At any rate we can continue to speak to you—since you aren’t on any rival listing—”

Dane achieved something close to a smile. “That’s big-minded of you Sands. How dare I complain if an Inter-Solar man is willing to acknowledge my existence?”

Ricki broke in. “That’s dangerous—the Free Trade, I mean—”

But Artur frowned. To a dangerous trade some glamour might still cling, and he refused to allow that. “Oh, not all the Free Traders are explorers or fringe system men, Ricki. Some have regular runs among the poorer planets where it doesn’t pay the Companies to operate. Dane’ll probably find himself on a back and forth job between a couple of dome-citied worlds where he can’t even take a breath outside his helmet—”

Which is just what you would like, isn’t it? Dane concluded inside. The picture isn’t black enough to suit you yet, is it, Sands. And for a second or two he wondered why Sands got pleasure out of riding him.

“Yes—” Ricki subsided fast. But Dane was aware that his eyes continued to watch the new Free Trader wistfully.

“Here’s to Trade anyway you have it!” Artur raised his mug with a theatrical gesture. “Best of luck to the Solar Queen. You’ll probably need it, Viking.”

Dane was stung anew. “I don’t know about that, Sands. Free Traders have made big strikes. And the gamble—”

“That’s just it, old man, the gamble! And the chips can fall down as well as up. For one Free Trader who has made a stroke, there’re a hundred or so who can’t pay their Field fees. Too bad you didn’t have some pull with the powers-that-be.”

Dane had had enough. He pushed back from the table and looked at Artur straightly. “I’m going where the Psycho assigned me,” he said steadily. “All this talk about Free Trading being so tough may be just meteor light. Give us both a year in space, Sands, and then you can talk—”

Artur laughed. “Sure—give me a year with Inter-Solar and you a year in that broken down bucket. I’ll buy the dinner next time, Viking, you won’t have credits enough to settle the bill— I’ll wager an extra ten on that. Now,” he glanced at his watch, “I’m going to have a look at the Star Runner. Any of you care to join me?”

It seemed that Ricki and Hanlaf would, at least they arose with dispatch to join him. But Dane remained where he was, finishing the last of a very good dinner, certain that it would be a long time before he tasted its like again. He had, he hoped, put up a good front and he was heartily tired of Sands.

But he was not left to his own company long. Someone slipped into Ricki’s chair across the table and spoke: “You for the Solar Queen, man?”

Dane’s head snapped up. Was this to be more of Artur’s pleasantries? But now he was looking at the open face of the astrogator-apprentice from the neighbouring table. He lost part of his bristling antagonism.

”Just been assigned to her.” He passed his ID across to the other.

“Dane Thorson,” the other read aloud. “I am Rip Shannon —Ripley Shannon if you wish to be formal. And,” he beckoned to the Video hero, “this is Ali Kamil. We are both of the Queen. You are a cargo-apprentice,” he ended with a statement rather than a question.

Dane nodded and then greeted Kamil, hoping that the stiffness he felt was not apparent in his voice or manner. He thought that the other looked him over too appraisingly, and that in some mysterious way he had been found wanting after the instant of swift measurement.

“We are going to the Queen now, come with us?” Rip’s simple friendliness was warming and Dane agreed.

As they boarded the scooter which trundled down the length of the Field towards the distant cradles of the star ships, Rip kept up a flow of conversation and Dane warmed more and more to the big young man. Shannon was older, he must be in his last year of apprenticeship, and the newcomer was grateful for the scraps of information about the Queen and her present crew which were being passed along to him.

Compared to the big super ships of the Companies the Solar Queen was a negligible midget. She carried a crew of twelve, and each man was necessarily responsible for more than one set of duties—there were no air tight compartments of specialization aboard a Free Trader spacer.

“Got us a routine cargo haul to Naxos,” Rip’s soft voice continued. “From there,” he shrugged, “it may be anywhere—”

“Except back to Terra,” Kamil’s crisper tone cut in. “Better say goodbye to home for a long while, Thorson. We won’t be hitting this lane for some time. Only came in on this voyage because we had a special run and that doesn’t happen once in ten years or more.” Dane thought that the other was getting some obscure pleasure in voicing that piece of daunting information.

The scooter rounded the first of the towering cradles. Here were the Company ships in their private docks, their needle points lifted to the sky, cargoes being loaded, activity webbing them. Dane stared in spite of himself, but he did not turn his head to keep them in sight as the scooter steered to the left and made for the other line of berths, not so well filled, where the half dozen smaller Free Trade ships stood awaiting blast off. And somehow he was not surprised when they drew up at the foot of the ramp leading to the most battered one.

But there was affection and honest pride in Rip’s voice as he announced, “There she is, man, the best trading spacer along the lanes. She’s a real lady, is the Queen!”

Dane stepped inside the Cargo-Master’s office cabin. The man who sat there, surrounded by files of microtape and all the other apparatus of an experienced trader, was not at all what he expected. Those Masters who had given lectures at the Pool had been sleek, well groomed men, their outward shells differing little from the successful earth-bound executive. It had been difficult to associate some of them with space at all.