That’s all? Spares?”
The port official was blond and very thin. He was only two-thirds of Slade’s bulk, though their eyes met on a level. “No spares,” the tanker admitted, “but they’re first-quality units, Goldstein & Trumpener, still crated.” Slade did not understand why the official was making written notes. GAC 59’s landing approach had been fully automated and flawless, so the port did have a master computer. Maybe the linking system was down.
“Passengers and crew?” the blond man said, making another notation. His voice sounded edgy, but he had displayed no more than professional interest in the vessel. A tic raised the local’s right cheek fractionally.
“Two hundred thirty-seven,” said Slade. Virtually all the men had poured out of GAC 59 as soon as the thrusters shut down. The attraction of dives and mere solid ground had something to do with the exodus; but so did graphic retellings of what had happened to the rest of the fleet, buttoned up on Mandalay. “Ah, it’s sort of a cooperative trading arrangement, a lot of veterans pooling our severance bonuses. Won’t be any trouble beyond, you know, a little wildness. I guess most of the boys are already anticipating their profits a little in your bars and knock shops.” Slade essayed a smile. It was warm enough, even in the shadow of the lifted cargo hatch, but there was something in the local man’s demeanor that made the tanker shiver.
“Yes, we have those,” the official said. His right hand teased the stylus across the back of his neck. Something flickered in his eyes, a moment’s cloudiness like the nictitating membrane of a reptile—but over the surface of the mind, not the pupil. “More of our visitors prefer the sorm once they’ve tried it, though, the tree. Not expensive, and very . . . satisfying.” The man’s stylus twitched again.
“Yeah, well . . .” said Slade. This was the only ship on the ground at the moment. That wasn’t surprising—they’d known Toler was pretty much of a backwater—but it didn’t augur well for a good price on the thrusters. “When I’ve got this business taken care of, maybe I’ll give it a try. Ah, who should I talk to about selling our cargo?”
“I’ll take care of that,” the official said with the absent look in his eyes. “You’ll be made a fair offer, as soon as I have, have fed in the data.” To Slade’s surprise, the man reached out and touched the tanker on the wrist. “You should try the sorm,”the local said in unexpected animation. “Not everyone can appreciate it, the rabble you’ve arrived with. But—”
The blond man cocked and lowered his head so that Slade could see the back of his neck. At the base of the hairline, the skin puckered into a wrinkled mound as large as the first joint of Slade’s thumb. A tiny droplet of blood and clear fluid leaked from the scab.
“I know what you think,” the official said as he straightened. “I did too, at first. But there’s no harm, no tissue damage, a trivial puncture. And it opens a universe, Mister Slade, that minds like yours and mine can appreciate.” He tongued his dry lips, again a reptilian gesture and not a sensual one.
Abruptly, the local man shuddered. His hair danced like a spill of chalky water. “I have to get back,” he said. He was already walking toward what seemed to be the port office. It was a low, inner-facing structure like all the other buildings. “Don’t forget what I’ve said.”
“Right,” Don Slade muttered to himself. “No bloody fear of that.”
Something was chirruping in the depths of the hold, a bird or lizard; probably neither, possibly not local to this planet, and Lord! how empty it made the ship sound.
The big man unsealed the hip pockets of his coveralls and thrust his hands in to occupy them. Nothing was moving on the earthen field since the official had gone inside. From the streets curving among the courtyard houses came raucous cries and an
The port official was blond and very thin. He was only two-thirds of Slade’s bulk, though their eyes met on a level. “No spares,” the tanker admitted, “but they’re first-quality units, Goldstein & Trumpener, still crated.” Slade did not understand why the official was making written notes. GAC 59’s landing approach had been fully automated and flawless, so the port did have a master computer. Maybe the linking system was down.
“Passengers and crew?” the blond man said, making another notation. His voice sounded edgy, but he had displayed no more than professional interest in the vessel. A tic raised the local’s right cheek fractionally.
“Two hundred thirty-seven,” said Slade. Virtually all the men had poured out of GAC 59 as soon as the thrusters shut down. The attraction of dives and mere solid ground had something to do with the exodus; but so did graphic retellings of what had happened to the rest of the fleet, buttoned up on Mandalay. “Ah, it’s sort of a cooperative trading arrangement, a lot of veterans pooling our severance bonuses. Won’t be any trouble beyond, you know, a little wildness. I guess most of the boys are already anticipating their profits a little in your bars and knock shops.” Slade essayed a smile. It was warm enough, even in the shadow of the lifted cargo hatch, but there was something in the local man’s demeanor that made the tanker shiver.
“Yes, we have those,” the official said. His right hand teased the stylus across the back of his neck. Something flickered in his eyes, a moment’s cloudiness like the nictitating membrane of a reptile—but over the surface of the mind, not the pupil. “More of our visitors prefer the sorm once they’ve tried it, though, the tree. Not expensive, and very . . . satisfying.” The man’s stylus twitched again.
“Yeah, well . . .” said Slade. This was the only ship on the ground at the moment. That wasn’t surprising—they’d known Toler was pretty much of a backwater—but it didn’t augur well for a good price on the thrusters. “When I’ve got this business taken care of, maybe I’ll give it a try. Ah, who should I talk to about selling our cargo?”
“I’ll take care of that,” the official said with the absent look in his eyes. “You’ll be made a fair offer, as soon as I have, have fed in the data.” To Slade’s surprise, the man reached out and touched the tanker on the wrist. “You should try the sorm,”the local said in unexpected animation. “Not everyone can appreciate it, the rabble you’ve arrived with. But—”
The blond man cocked and lowered his head so that Slade could see the back of his neck. At the base of the hairline, the skin puckered into a wrinkled mound as large as the first joint of Slade’s thumb. A tiny droplet of blood and clear fluid leaked from the scab.
“I know what you think,” the official said as he straightened. “I did too, at first. But there’s no harm, no tissue damage, a trivial puncture. And it opens a universe, Mister Slade, that minds like yours and mine can appreciate.” He tongued his dry lips, again a reptilian gesture and not a sensual one.
Abruptly, the local man shuddered. His hair danced like a spill of chalky water. “I have to get back,” he said. He was already walking toward what seemed to be the port office. It was a low, inner-facing structure like all the other buildings. “Don’t forget what I’ve said.”
“Right,” Don Slade muttered to himself. “No bloody fear of that.”
Something was chirruping in the depths of the hold, a bird or lizard; probably neither, possibly not local to this planet, and Lord! how empty it made the ship sound.
The big man unsealed the hip pockets of his coveralls and thrust his hands in to occupy them. Nothing was moving on the earthen field since the official had gone inside. From the streets curving among the courtyard houses came raucous cries and an
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