potential?"
"I believe he has them. But he's still only a trainee, for Crock's sake. Do you want him to fail?"
"I certainly do not." Daddy-O's voice sounded cold and casual. "But my analyses convince me that a traditional Trader approach to the Strines would be useless for this problem. And you know that I, too, am interested in testing Asparian's potential. A conventional mission would fail to do that."
"Fine, test him by all means—but give him some help! It would be a real shame to lose him. I hope that you've at least picked out a first-rate Mentor."
"The best there is."
"Good. That's something. Then I'd better help Asparian get ready." Lyle Connery had cut the circuit when he had second thoughts. The best Mentor—for the Strine Interior? He reconnected to Daddy-O. "Toto Larsen is on other assignment. Who will Asparian's Mentor be?"
"Who else?" The voice circuit sounded weary. "Jack Lester knows more about the Strine psychology than Toto Larsen or any three other Traders."
"Lover-boy! How are you going to explain that choice to Mike Asparian?"
"I'm not." There was a slight pause while Daddy-O diverted part of his network to handle conversion of a large incoming database. "You are."
CHAPTER 7
An experienced Trader had three ways to reach the Strine mainland. If he had been there before and been well-received, he could go direct by air to Swales and BigSyd. Or he could go by sea, to one of the trading ports around the Strine south coast. And "he" meant he : the Strine mommas would not accept female Traders on the mainland.
If he was mad and quite desperate, there was the north approach. A Trader could go in by any damn fool way he liked through the northern badlands, where the southern fringe of the fallout had swept east. No one watched that coastline. Things still grew peculiarly there, even by Strine standards. And they acted worse than they grew.
Mike had looked at the northern approach for about five seconds, shuddered, and abandoned it. Get through the badlands, and then what? He would be carved up by the Interior tribes, unless he were very lucky or very skillful, before he got to Berra or BigSyd or anywhere else that counted.
As a neophyte on his first full mission, Mike decided he had no real choice. He had to take the second option of the southern sea-route. He would fly to Orklan, then go west by surface vessel to enter at BigSyd on the east coast. From there it would be a tough overland trek into the worst part of the Interior—only a few hundred miles south of the badlands.
And after he reached the Interior, the hard part would begin. According to Connery, the Strines were "expecting him." Instead of being reassuring, that somehow sounded ominous.
The flight to Orklan in a Trader transport was dull but comfortable. Mike spent the time taking a last look at briefing documents. The Strine penchant for swords and knives didn't sound promising. Mike had not seen a sword since he left the Darklands, and he certainly didn't know how to handle one. Nor did he intend to try.
Orklan was small and sleepy. The real culture shock began when he was dropped off at the jetty and went aboard the Strine ship waiting at the quayside. Although the three-funneled, broad-hulled vessel appeared to be totally deserted, within two minutes of his arrival the engines had started and they were maneuvering their way out of Orklan harbor.
"The crew—where are they?" Mike subvocalized the question deep in his throat. It went to the organic converter in his cerebellum, generated the hyperfrequency pulse, and sent a directional signal. Mike waited the necessary fraction of a second while the message went up to synchronous orbit, through a Chipponese relay satellite, down to the Azores, and back.
"Probably asleep." The thread of Jack Lester's voice came amused to Mike's left ear. "And there should only be one crew member. Read your briefing notes, matie. Don't worry, we'll find him once we're well on our way. Make yourself
"I believe he has them. But he's still only a trainee, for Crock's sake. Do you want him to fail?"
"I certainly do not." Daddy-O's voice sounded cold and casual. "But my analyses convince me that a traditional Trader approach to the Strines would be useless for this problem. And you know that I, too, am interested in testing Asparian's potential. A conventional mission would fail to do that."
"Fine, test him by all means—but give him some help! It would be a real shame to lose him. I hope that you've at least picked out a first-rate Mentor."
"The best there is."
"Good. That's something. Then I'd better help Asparian get ready." Lyle Connery had cut the circuit when he had second thoughts. The best Mentor—for the Strine Interior? He reconnected to Daddy-O. "Toto Larsen is on other assignment. Who will Asparian's Mentor be?"
"Who else?" The voice circuit sounded weary. "Jack Lester knows more about the Strine psychology than Toto Larsen or any three other Traders."
"Lover-boy! How are you going to explain that choice to Mike Asparian?"
"I'm not." There was a slight pause while Daddy-O diverted part of his network to handle conversion of a large incoming database. "You are."
CHAPTER 7
An experienced Trader had three ways to reach the Strine mainland. If he had been there before and been well-received, he could go direct by air to Swales and BigSyd. Or he could go by sea, to one of the trading ports around the Strine south coast. And "he" meant he : the Strine mommas would not accept female Traders on the mainland.
If he was mad and quite desperate, there was the north approach. A Trader could go in by any damn fool way he liked through the northern badlands, where the southern fringe of the fallout had swept east. No one watched that coastline. Things still grew peculiarly there, even by Strine standards. And they acted worse than they grew.
Mike had looked at the northern approach for about five seconds, shuddered, and abandoned it. Get through the badlands, and then what? He would be carved up by the Interior tribes, unless he were very lucky or very skillful, before he got to Berra or BigSyd or anywhere else that counted.
As a neophyte on his first full mission, Mike decided he had no real choice. He had to take the second option of the southern sea-route. He would fly to Orklan, then go west by surface vessel to enter at BigSyd on the east coast. From there it would be a tough overland trek into the worst part of the Interior—only a few hundred miles south of the badlands.
And after he reached the Interior, the hard part would begin. According to Connery, the Strines were "expecting him." Instead of being reassuring, that somehow sounded ominous.
The flight to Orklan in a Trader transport was dull but comfortable. Mike spent the time taking a last look at briefing documents. The Strine penchant for swords and knives didn't sound promising. Mike had not seen a sword since he left the Darklands, and he certainly didn't know how to handle one. Nor did he intend to try.
Orklan was small and sleepy. The real culture shock began when he was dropped off at the jetty and went aboard the Strine ship waiting at the quayside. Although the three-funneled, broad-hulled vessel appeared to be totally deserted, within two minutes of his arrival the engines had started and they were maneuvering their way out of Orklan harbor.
"The crew—where are they?" Mike subvocalized the question deep in his throat. It went to the organic converter in his cerebellum, generated the hyperfrequency pulse, and sent a directional signal. Mike waited the necessary fraction of a second while the message went up to synchronous orbit, through a Chipponese relay satellite, down to the Azores, and back.
"Probably asleep." The thread of Jack Lester's voice came amused to Mike's left ear. "And there should only be one crew member. Read your briefing notes, matie. Don't worry, we'll find him once we're well on our way. Make yourself
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