by Andre Norton
“Company,” Ryzk commented. “Trouble for you?” With that question he disassociated himself from any failure of mine. He was strictly a wage man and would get his pay, from the value of the ship if need be, if I went under.
“We shall see,” was the best answer I could make as I unstrapped to go and see the flitter and make a try at finding a nomad camp.
V
My advantage lay in that I had been to Lorgal before, though then the trade responsibility had lain with Vondar, and I had only been an observer. Our success or failure now depended upon how well I remembered what I had observed. The nomads were humanoid, but not of Terran stock, so dealing with them required X-Tee techniques. Even Terrans, or Terran colonist descendants, could not themselves agree over semantics, customs, or moral standards from planet to planet, and dealing with utterly alien mores added just that much more confusion.
The small converter I selected as my best exhibit could be crowded into the flitter’s tail storage section. I strapped on the voca-translator and made sure that a water supply and E-rations were to hand. Eet was already curled up inside waiting for me.
“Good luck.” Ryzk stood ready to thumb open the hatch. “Be sure to keep contact beam—”
“That is one thing I will not forget!” I promised. Though we had little in common, save that we shared the same ship and some of the duties of keeping it activated, we were two of the same species on an alien world, a situation which tended to make a strong, if temporary, bond between us now.
Ryzk would monitor me all the time the flitter was away from the ship. And I knew that should disaster strike either of us the other would do what he could to aid. It was a ship law, a planet law—one never put onto actual record tape but one which had existed since the first of our breed shot into space.
My memory of my first visit to Lorgal gave me one possible site for a nomad meeting, a deep pool in the river bed which had been excavated time and time again by the wandering tribes until they were always sure of some moisture at its bottom. I set off in that direction, taking my marking from two volcanic cones.
The churned ground passing under the flitter was a nightmare of broken ridges, knife-sharp pinnacles, and pitted holes. I do not believe that even the nomads could have crossed it—not that they ever wandered far from the faint promise of water along the ancient courses of the river.
While most of the rock about the Big Pot had been of a yellow-red-brown shade, here it was gray, showing a shiny, glassy black in patches. We had planeted about midmorning and now the sun caught those gleaming surfaces to make them fountains of glare. There were more and more of these as the flitter dipped over the Black River, where even the sands were of that somber color.
Here the water pits broke the general dark with their side mounds of reddish under-surface sand, which had been laboriously dug out in the past by the few native animals or the nomads. And on the inner sides of those mounds, ringing what small deposits of moisture there might be, grew the stunted plants which were the nomads only attempts at agriculture.
They saved every seed, carrying them where they went, as another race on a more hospitable world might treasure precious stones or metal, planting them one by one in the newly-dug sides of any hole before they left. When they circled back weeks or months later, they found, if they were fortunate, a meager harvest waiting.
Judging by the height of the scrubby brush around the first two pits I dipped to inspect, the Lorgalians had not yet reached them—which meant I must fly farther east to pick up their camp.
I had seen no sign of life about that other ship as I had taken off. Nor had my course taken me close to it. However, I had noted that its flitter hatch was open and guessed that the trader was already out in the field. Time might already have defeated me.
Then the Black River curved and I saw the splotch of tents dotted about. There was movement there, and as I throttled down the flitter to lowest speed and came in for a set-down I knew I was indeed late. For the cloaked and cowled figures of the tribesmen were moving with rhythmic pacing about the circumference of their camp site, each swinging an arm to crack a long-lashed whip at the nothingness beyond, a nothingness which they believed filled with devils who must be drien away by such precautions before any ceremony or serious business could be transacted.
There was another flitter parked here. It had no distinguishing company markings, so I was not about to buck a combine man. Of course I hardly expected to find one here. The pickings, as far as they were concerned, were too small. No, whoever was ready to deal with the camp was a free lance like myself.
I set down a length from the other transport. Now I could hear the high-pitched, almost squealing chant voiced by the devil-routers. With Eet on my shoulders I plunged into dry, stinging air, and the glare of a sun against which my goggles were only part protection. That air rasped against the skin as if it were filled with invisible but very tangible particles of grit. Feeling it, one did not wonder at the long robes, the cowls, the half-masks the natives wore for protection.
As I approached the ring of devil-lashers two of the whips curled out to crack the air on either side, but I did not flinch, knowing that much of nomad custom. Had I shown any surprise or recoil, I would have labeled myself a demon in disguise and a shower of zoran-pointed spears would have followed that exposure of my true nature.
The tribesmen I passed showed no interest in me; they were concentrating on their duty of protection. I cut between two of the closed tents to a clear space where I could see the assembly the whippers were guarding.
There was a huddle of nomads, all males, of course, and so enwrapped in their robes that only the eye slits suggested that they were not just bales of grimy lakis-wool cloth. The lakises themselves, ungainly beasts with bloated bodies to store the food and water for days when there was need, perched on long, thin legs with great wide, flat feet made for desert travel. These were now folded under them, for they lay to serve as windbreaks behind their masters. Their thick necks rested across each other’s bodies if they could find a neighbor to so serve them, and their disproportionately small heads had the eyes closed, as if they were all firmly asleep.
Facing this assembly was the suited and helmeted figure of one of my own race. He stood, some packages about his feet, making the Four Gestures of Greeting, which meant, considering his ease, that he had either visited such a camp before, or else had made a careful study of record tapes.
The chieftain, like everyone else in that muffled crowd, could certainly not be recognized by features, but only by his badge of office, the bloated abdomen which was the result of much prideful padding. That layer upon layer of swaddling was not simply a shield against assassination (chieftainship among the Lorgalians was based upon weapon skill, not birthright); to be fat was a sign of wealth and good fortune here. And he who produced a truely noticeable belly was a man of prestige and standing.
I could not even be sure that this was the tribe with whom Vondar had traded. Only luck might help me in that. But surely, even if it was not, they would have heard of the wonder machine he had introduced and would be the more eager to acquire one of their own.
When I had entered the gathering I had come up behind the trader. And the nomads did not stir as they sighted me. Perhaps they thought me one of the stranger’s followers. I do not think he was aware of me until I stepped level with him and began my own gestures of greeting, thus signifying that he was not speaking for me, but that I was on my own.
He turned his head and I saw one I knew—Ivor Akki! He had been no match for Vondar Ustle; few were. But he was certainly more than I would have chosen to contend against at the beginning of my independent career. He stared at me intently for a moment and then grinned. And that grin said that in me he saw no threat. We had fronted each other for several hours once at a Salarik bargaining, but there I had been only an onlooker, and he had been easily defeated by Vondar.
He did not pause in his ritual gestures after that one glance to
assess his opposition and dismiss it. And I became as unseeing of him. We waved empty hands, pointed north, south, east, and west, to the blazing sun, the cracked, sandy earth under us, outlined symbols of three demons, and that of the lakis, a nomad, and a tent, signifying that by local custom we were devout, honest men, and had come for trade.
By right Akki had the first chance, since he was first on the scene. And I had to wait while he pulled forward several boxes, snapped them open. There was the usual small stuff, mostly plastic—some garish jewelry, some goblets which were fabulous treasure to the eye but all plastic to the touch, and a couple of sun torches. These were all make-gifts—offered to the chief. And seeing their nature I was a little relieved.
For such an array meant this was not a return visit but a first try by Akki. If he were here on spec and had not heard of Vondar’s success with the food converter, I could beat him yet. And I had had this much luck, a small flag fluttering by the chieftain’s tent told me—this was the tribe Vondar had treated with. And I needed only tell them that I had a more easily transported machine to sweep all the zorans they had to offer out of their bags.
But if I felt triumph for a few seconds it was speedily swept away as Akki opened his last box, setting out a very familiar object and one I had not expected to see.
It was a converter, but still more reduced in size and more portable than those I had chanced upon in the warehouse, undoubtedly a later and yet further improved model. I could only hope that he had just the one and that I might halve or quarter his return by offering two.
He proceeded to demonstrate the converter before that silent, never-moving company. Then he waited.
A hairy hand with long dirty nails flipped out from under the bundle of the chieftain’s robes, making a sign. And one of his followers hunched forward to unfold a strip of lakis hide on which were many loops. Each loop held a chunk of zoran and only strict control kept me standing, seemingly indifferent, where I was. Four of those unworked stones were of the crystalline type and each held an insect. It was a better display than I had ever heard of. Vondar had once taken two such stones and the realization of their value off world had seemed fabulous to me. Four—with those I would not have to worry about a year’s running of the ship. I would not even have to trade at all. We could be off after the zero stone after a single sale.
Only Akki was the one to whom they were offered, and I knew very well that none of them was ever going to come to me.
He deliberated, of course—that was custom again. Then he made his choice, sweeping up the insect pieces, as well as three of the blue-green-purple stones of size large enough to cut well. What was left after his choices had been fingered seemed refuse.
Then he raised his head to grin at me again as he slipped his hoard into a travel case, clapped his hand twice on the converter, and touched the rest of the goods he had spread out, releasing them all formally.
“Tough luck,” he said in Basic. “But you’ve been having that all along, haven’t you, Jern? To expect to fill Ustle’s boots—” He shook his head.
“Good fortune,” I said, when I would rather have voiced disappointment and frustration. “Good fortune, smooth lifting, with a sale at the end.” I gave him a trader’s formal farewell.
But he made no move to leave. Instead he added the insulting wave of hand signifying among the Lorgalians a master’s introduction of a follower. And that, too, I had to accept for the present, since any dispute between us must be conducted outside the camp. A flare of temper would be swift indication that a devil had entered and all trading would be under ban, lest that unchancy spirit enter into some piece of the trade goods. I was almost tempted to do just that, in order to see Akki’s offerings ritually pounded into splinters, the zorans treated the same way. But though such temptation was hot in me for an instant, I withstood it. He had won by the rules, and I would be the smaller were I to defeat him so, to say nothing of destroying all thought of future trade with Lorgal not only for the two of us, but for all other off-worlders.
I could take a chance and try to find another tribe somewhere out in the stark wilderness of the continent. But to withdraw from this camp now without dealing would be a delicate matter and one I did not know quite how to handle. I might offend some local custom past mending. No, like it or not, I would have to take Akki’s leavings.
They were waiting and perhaps growing impatient. My hands spun into the sign language, aided by the throaty rasping my translator made as it spoke words in their own sparse tongue.
“This”—I indicated the converter—“I have also—but larger—in the belly of my sky lakis.”
Now that I had made that offer there was no turning back. In order to retain the good will of the nomads I would have to trade, or lose face. And inwardly I was aware of my own inaptitude in the whole encounter. I had made my mistake in ever entering the camp after I had seen Akki’s flitter already here. The intelligent move would have been then to prospect for another clan. But I had rushed, believing my wares to be unduplicated, and so lost.
Again that hairy hand waved and two of the bundled warriors arose to tail me to the flitter, cracking their whips above us as we crossed the line kept by the lashing guards. I pulled the heavy case from where I had so hopefully wedged it. And with their aid, one protecting us from the devils, the other helping me to carry it, I brought it back to the camp.
We set it before the chieftain. Either by accident or design, it landed next to Akki’s, and the difference in bulk was marked. I went through the process of proving it was indeed a food converter and then awaited the chieftain’s decision.
He gestured and one of my assistants booted a lakis to its feet, the creature bubbling and complaining bitterly with guttural grunts. It came up with a splayfooted shuffle which, awkward as it looked, would take it at an unvarying pace day after day across this tormented land.
A kick on one foreknee brought it kneeling again and the two converters were set beside it. Then proceeded a demonstration to prove the inferiority of my offering. Akki’s machine might be put in a luggage sling on one side of the beast, a load of other equipment on the other—while if it bore the one I had brought, it could carry nothing else.
The chieftain wriggled his fingers and a second roll of lakis hide was produced. I tensed. I had thought I would be offered Akki’s leavings, but it would seem I was too pessimistic. My elation lasted, however, only until the roll was opened.
What lay within its loops were zorans right enough. But nothing to compare with those shown to Akki. Nor was I even allowed to choose from his rejects. I had to take what was offered—or else return to the ship empty-handed, with a profitless set-down to my credit, or rather discredit. So I made the best of a very bad bargain and chose. There were, naturally, no insect pieces, and only two of the more attractive yellow ones. The blues had faults and I had to examine each for flaws, taking what I could, though in the end I was certain I had hardly made expenses.
I still had the second converter, and I might just be able to contact another tribe. With that small hope, I concluded the bargain and picked up what still seemed trash compared with Akki’s magnificent haul.
He was grinning again as I wrapped the pieces of my choice into a packet and stood to make the farewell gestures. All this time Eet had been as inert as if he were indeed a fur piece about my shoulders. And it was not until I had to walk away from the camp, badly defeated, that I wondered why he had not taken some part in the affair. Or had I come to lean so heavily on him that I was not able to take care of myself? As that thought hit me I was startled and alarmed. Once I had leaned upon my father, feeling secure in his wisdom and experience. Then there had been Vondar, whose knowledge had so far exceeded my own that I had been content to accept his arrangement of both our lives. Soon after disaster had broken that tie, Eet had taken over. And it would seem that I was only half a man, needing the guidance of a stronger will and mind.
I could accept that, become Eet’s puppet. Or I c
ould be willing to make my own mistakes, learn by them, hold Eet to a partnership rather than a master-servant relationship. It was up to me, and perhaps Eet wanted me to make such a choice, having deliberately left me to my own bungling today as a test, or even an object lesson as to how helpless I was when I tried to deal on my own.
“Good fortune, smooth lifting—” That was Akki mockingly echoing my farewell of minutes earlier. “Crab pearls next, Jern? Want to wager I will take the best there, too?”
He laughed, not waiting for my answer. It was as if he knew that any defiance on my part would be in the nature of a hollow boast. Instead, he tramped off to his flitter, letting me settle into mine.
I did not take off at once to follow him back to his ship. If he also expected to hunt another camp, I did not want him to follow my path—though he might put a scanner on me.
Triggering the com, I called Ryzk. “Coming in.” I would not add to that. The channels of all flitter corns were the same and Akki could pick up anything I now said.
Nor did I try to contact Eet, stubbornly resolved I would leave him in mental retirement as I tried to solve my own problems.
Those problems were not going to become any lighter, I saw as I took off. There was an odd greenish-yellow cast to the sky. And the surface of the ground, wherever there was a deposit of sand, threw up whirling shapes of grit. Seconds later the very sky about us seemed to explode and the flitter was caught in a gust which even her power could not fight.
For a space we were caught in that whirlwind and I knew fear. The flitter was never meant for high altitudes, and skimming the surface beneath the worst of the wind carried with it the danger of being smashed against some escarpment. But I had little choice. And I fought grimly to hold the craft steady.
We were driven south and west, out over the dead sea bottom. And I knew bleakly that even if I did get back to the Wendwind my chances of finding another tribe were finished. Such a storm as this drove them to shelter and I could spend fruitless weeks hunting them. But I was able bit by bit to fight back to the Big Pot. And when I finally entered the hatch I was so weak I slumped forward over the controls and was not really aware of anything more until Ryzk forced a mug of caff into my hands and I knew I was in the mess cabin.
