by Colin Kapp
‘What happens now?’ asked Catuul.
‘First they extract the heat from the surface by cooling the mass with water. Then they progressively add alkali to the water and this slowly dissolves the foam. By control of what they spray they can stop the process at any point to allow the removal of potentially dangerous masonry or to inspect for signs of arson before,the evidence is too much disturbed.’
The fire team was now spraying river water from its hoses, but such was the heat-insulating effectiveness of the cellular mass that very little of the intense heat still trapped below the surface was available to be carried away by the water. Pictor Don mounted a hydraulic hoist and climbed from it to the surface of the foam filling the building’s walls. The strength of the glasslike substance was such that his weight barely dented the surface. He scrunched over almost the entire area of the warehouse on a quick tour of inspection.
He ordered alkali to be applied. About a thirty-centimeter layer of the foam was stripped from the surface by chemical leaching. Newly exposed fragments of the building were cooled with water and a second round of inspection followed.
Then the emergency commander approached the edge of the building and called over the wall. ‘Get Tito Ren up here—and that Pointed Tail fellow.’
Somewhat reluctantly Ren and Catuul Gras allowed themselves to be conducted to the hoist and raised to the top of the wall. There was something unnerving about stepping onto a layer of foam that had been a sprayable liquid such a short time before. The surface felt alarmingly fragile. Overcoming their fears, however, the two walked across the crunching surface toward Pictor Don. At a certain point he cautioned them to stop.
‘Mind where you put your feet in that area just in front of you. There’s a giant bubble in the foam reaching, as far as I can judge, right down to base level. That was the blowhole through which the last flame persisted. Unless I miss my guess, the root cause of the fire lies directly at the bottom end of that bubble. Does its position give you any clues?’
Catuul glanced around at the fragments of outer wall visible above the foam, trying to verify his bearings. ‘We’re located over what was the inner storeroom.’
‘What was kept in there?’
‘The high-grade crude oil,’ said Ren.
‘In metal tanks?’
‘No. Wooden barrels. It’s the only way the native producers will package it. Wharfage facilities don’t run to the accommodation of tankers.’
‘Wasn’t there anything else?’ Pictor Don was completely unconvinced.
‘Nothing,’ said Ren. ‘I counted the barrels myself. We were going to repackage the whole consignment in spaceweight containers ready for shipment. And every single barrel was broached to obtain analysis samples, so I can guarantee that the store contained nothing but high-grade oil.’
‘Very well.’ Pictor Don’s voice still carried no evidence of conviction. He indicated that they should all return to the ground. The chemical stripping of the foam began again, with interruptions at intervals for repeated inspections. Finally Don called for Ren and Catuul Gras.
The thickness of the foam had been reduced to a meter. The space around the blowhole had been completely cleared for a radius of several meters. Ren and his colleague were now able to inspect the area Pictor Don regarded as the base of the fire.
‘A drain—’ Ren regarded the charred and blackened area of ‘I’ the floor with astonishment.
‘Yes.’ Don was critical. ‘A drain you used to take the overspill of oil during the sampling of the barrels for analysis, perhaps?’
‘There was some oil spillage,’ agreed Ren. ‘But I don’t see—’
‘Where does the drain lead?’
‘To the river, I should hope.’
Seconds later he was running across the broad forecourt toward the river, a sudden suspicion in his mind. The banks were complex with piers and moorings and wharves, but hard against the bank protruded one particular pipe whose end even now drained black dregs from the disastrous fire. The marks of a coupling that had been placed over the pipe’s end were plainly visible—the coupling itself was gone, along with the craft that undoubtedly had borne it.
Angrily Ren scanned the river. The slow drift of barges and ships—left toward the spaceport and right toward the shipping lanes and the sea—was a complex movement that defied analysis. The number of barges and ships provided too much information for Ren to be able to determine which craft might be equipped with couplings to hold against his particular drain—and discharge tonnage quantities of oxidant under pressure into the interior of the warehouse. Here was plain evidence of sabotage, but no proof of the sort that could be used to point a finger at Dion-daizan.
, ‘It was a honey of a scheme,’ Ren said later in grudging admiration. ‘We’ll never convince Di Irons of the truth—’
Pictor Don had himself lowered on a cradle down to the entrance of the pipe. Here he explored with an instrument.
‘The water from the hosedown has washed out all real evidence,’ he said. ‘But I’d guess somebody’s been feeding pure oxygen up this pipe—and I’d say the probability was high that it was obtained by boiling off liquid oxygen.’
‘And the ignition?’ asked Ren.
‘They wouldn’t need to bother. The oil would ignite spontaneously as the oxygen concentration went up. You’ve been rather cleverly sabotaged, Tito.’
‘And no prizes for guessing by whom,’ said Ren morosely.
‘I thought you said there was no tonnage oxygen available on Roget?’
‘There are no plants that we’re aware of, Pictor. Native industry isn’t that far advanced. But I’m wondering if there aren’t oxygen facilities in Castle Magda. A good Terran technician supplied with the sort of money the spaceport dues provide shouldn’t have too much trouble building a liquid oxygen plant—or any other technical facility, when you come to think of it.’
‘But I don’t see,’ said Catuul Gras, ‘how it could be known that putting something up that particular pipe would result in a fire in our warehouse. There are hundreds of similar pipes to choose from. In any case, the drain at the other end of the pipe might not have been in the right position.’
‘I think I know how that was decided,’ said Ren. ‘Somebody worked out the details of that episode from inside the warehouse.’ He indicated the gang of slaves now filing back into the warehouse compound ready to start the work of demolition and clearance.
‘If the Imaiz could bring Zinder to Terran graduate standard, how many other slaves has he similarly educated and then resold? It’s slightly unnerving to think that we could have one or two graduate chemists working as bondslaves in our establishments. Think what an effective fifth column that would make. Is it possible, Catuul, that we’ve acquired some slaves the Imaiz might have trained?’
‘It’s possible. The Imaiz buys and sells many slaves, using many different auctioneers. Nobody save the prefect would have a continuous record of any single slave’s history. Dion-daizan could hold one for years and then return him to the market—and nobody would be the wiser.’
‘But the auctioneers keep records of their individual transactions?’
‘They keep all normal records by way of trade. What did you have in mind?’
‘I doubt Di Irons will allow us access to the prefecture records. But I need an individual history for every slave we possess. Go back to the auctioneers and use whatever pressures you must to obtain copies of their records relating to the slaves in whom we’re interested. I’ll have a computer programed at the spaceport. With it we should be able to reconstruct individual histories—I want to know of any slave whose bond has been with the Imaiz for one year or more.’
‘With what object?’
‘So that we may closely question those whom the Imaiz may have trained or influenced. They may tell us much about Dion, his objectives and his facilities. When we’ve finished we have the legal right to do with them whatever the evidence suggests. We should at least find the me
n behind the warehouse sabotage. Possibly we’ll find many more who’ve not yet had the time to make a move against us.’
Catuul’s eyes shone with comprehension. ‘It’s a good plan, friend Tito. I don’t anticipate much difficulty about copying the auctioneers’ records. It’s frequently done by those comparing slave stock for breeding purposes.’
‘Then the matter is settled,’ said Ren. ‘When the director gets back he’s going to expect us to have some pretty damaging ammunition aimed at the Imaiz. He’s not going to be too happy about the loss of the warehouse. Some of the essential oils in it were priceless by any standards. From this point on we’re very much at war with the Imaiz.’
FIVE
Vestevaal, on his return, was much perturbed that the Imaiz had struck the first damaging blow in a fight essentially started by Ren. To cover himself Ren outlined his policy for evaluating the slaves and isolating those who had been under the Imaiz’s influence. Vestevaal was impressed by the detail, but pointed out that the action was purely defensive. Wars were not won by orderly retreats.
The merchant worlds of Combien and Rance had firmly stressed to Vestevaal the importance of Anharitte as a free port and had backed their stand by donating the battle cruiser now at the spaceport. The Free Trade Security Council had been just as vociferous and had not only pledged unlimited financial backing, but had insisted on sending a professional troubleshooter, Dr. Alek Hardun, as a technical backup for Ren’s team. Implicit in this latter action was the threat that if Ren did not make a success of defeating the Imaiz, the merchant worlds and Free Trade Council were quite prepared to move in a stronger cadre to settle the question.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Ren, ‘if we’re to retain the cooperation of the societies, we must first observe the principle of harassment and feud. To attempt outright war on the Imaiz at this stage could set even the societies against us, because we’re outworlders and they’re indigenous. I know all the arguments, but if we turn public opinion against us the planetary government will have to act—and we’ll have lost the free port anyway.’
‘Well, it’s still your show, Tito. But let’s see some positive action against the Imaiz. I want to see him hit where it hurts and not only for my personal satisfaction. I have to make reports back to the Free Trade Council. I never was much good at making negative reports.’
‘Then how about this for an opener? We intend to contest Zinder’s bondship with Dion-daizan.’
Vestevaal swung around abruptly.
‘Damn!’ he said. ‘That would certainly make Dion sit up. How would you set about it?’
Ren smiled wolfishly. ‘All bondships have to be registered at the prefecture—and that’s the only official record. If anything happened to the entry regarding the bondship of Zinder to Dion-daizan, the Imaiz would have no legal way of proving his ownership.’
‘And it can be arranged that something will happen to the entry?’
‘The register clerk is a minor member of the Society of Pointed Tails.’
‘Surely it isn’t as simple as that.’
‘No. In normal circumstances the loss of the entry would not affect the position, because the rights of ownership of the bond would not be contested. But in this case the ownership to will be called into question by the Pointed Tails acting on your behalf. As prefect, Lord Di Irons won’t be very happy about the situation, but in order to uphold the law he’ll have to impound Zinder until the matter is settled. That leaves Dion-daizan with two courses of action. He can take the case to the supreme court in Gaillen—where he would win, of course, except that the litigation could take a year—’
‘Or?’
‘He could take the quicker course of accepting the fact that he has no provable right to Zinder’s bond. In that case Zinder would be put into the slave market, from which Dion-daizan could hope to buy her back.’
‘As a very rich man he should have no trouble on that score,’ said Vestevaal dubiously.
‘No. But it’s an open market. Anyone can bid who’s entitled to hold a slave-bond. That rules you out as a direct participant, but it doesn’t stop the Pointed Tails from acting on your behalf. If we bid against Dion, using our backing from the Galactic Bank as guarantee, we could force up the price to where even Dion’s resources would be strained. We could make him cripple himself financially in order to save her.’
The director smote his knee in lusty approval.
‘You know, Tito, you’ve something of a genius for this sort of thing. Keep up this level of skulduggery and we’ll see you on the Free Trade Council yet.’
Heartened, Ren strolled down to the lodge of the Pointed Tails, The place always impressed and fascinated him. Here the ancient Ahhn customs and architecture had been carefully preserved from outworld influences. The walls and ceilings of the lodge were ornamented with red and gold reliefs showing stylized pictures of legendary battles, with captions worded in the original but now lapsed High-Ahhn cuneiform script. The whole establishment was richly carpeted, hung with remarkably descriptive tapestries and scented with delicate fragrances. It was the closest the Ahhn had ever come to creating a temple. In its halls the history of a proud and intelligent race was set out to show its richness and cohesion and a depth of culture that could have been the envy of many older civilizations.
Catuul Gras seemed to be expecting him and Ren was not surprised. He knew the intimate web of observation and communication with which the societies laced the city.
‘Does the director approve of the plan to contest Zinder’s bond?’ Catuul asked.
‘He does. We’re to proceed as planned. I think we’d best make our move this afternoon, in case some suspicion of what we intend leaks back to the Imaiz.’
‘I agree, friend Tito. Speed and secrecy are essential. We will watch for Zinder to come to the fruit market today. As soon as I’m sure she’s there I’ll have my colleague, Mallow Rude, lay formal complaint at the prefecture and demand her impoundment.’
‘And the entry in the register?’
‘That’s already taken care of. The matter only waits for us to draw it to the prefect’s attention. But news travels with the flies in Anharitte. I suggest neither you nor your director show yourselves outside your chambers until the watchmen have arrested her. I hope the prefect will have enough sense to bring sufficient men to prevent any trouble. As the director’s agent, it will be necessary for you to be present at the formal discussion of the case afterward. It might be safer if the director didn’t expose himself at all for a day or two.’
‘I doubt he’ll agree,’ said Ren. ‘But I’ll try to get the point over to him. How’s the work going on collecting information for preparing histories on the slaves?’
‘Slowly. As fast as we get the lists complete, we’re sending them by runner to Dr. Hardun at the spaceport.’
‘Good. Have we any results as yet?’
‘Most interestingly, yes. We can’t produce the histories until all the copying is complete, but already a pattern is starting to emerge. The Imaiz buys and sells many slaves in an apparently random fashion. But Dr. Hardun’s pointed out that there’s a system behind it.’
‘Oh? What sort of system?’ Ren was immediately attentive.
‘Dion-daizan has an arrangement with the slave auctioneers whereby he’s notified when a new batch of slaves is available. He sends his steward to make a preliminary viewing, then bids heavily for those he chooses.’
‘Which is surely a reasonable practice?’
‘Yes, except that he purchases many times his normal labor requirement. All but a few of these he shortly returns to the market for resale.’
‘And presumably makes a profit on the deal.’
Catuul shook his head. ‘No. The significant thing is that he usually takes a loss because he outbid the market in the first place.’
‘I don’t see—’ Ren’s voice carried a note of puzzlement. ‘Then, assuming he’s no philanthropist, the value of the transactions must lie uniquely in the fe
w he doesn’t return for sale.’
Catuul nodded. ‘The only information we could gain about them was obtained by questioning the ones he rejected. It appears that all the slaves he purchases are given a very thorough medical checkup and put through a series of tests.’
‘What sort of tests?’
‘I think you outworlders describe them as intelligence and aptitude tests. The few who pass remain with the Imaiz. The failures are returned to the market.’
‘So that Dion-daizan is cultivating a select group of intelligent, capable and healthy slaves?’
‘Presumably. But it’s interesting to guess at the standards he’s working toward. Dr. Hardun examined the best of the latest batch the Imaiz had offered for resale. Some of Dion’s rejects were not only above average intelligence and fitness for the slave caste—they were also above average for citizens of any class.’
Ren’s scowl caused his eyebrows to meet. ‘So Dion’s not only building a select group of slaves, he’s culling an elite. Zinder’s no happy accident. Nor is she likely to be unique. Damn—how long has this been going on, Catuul?’
‘Certainly for ten years, probably longer. I suppose at least seventy per cent of marketable slaves in Anharitte have been through his hands at some time or another. And he also buys some in the provinces.’
‘And pure-bred Ahhn stock is renowned for its high intelligence. Dion’s probably acquired a concentration of brains in Magda that is unique on Roget—perhaps unique on any of the known worlds. Can you arrange that only low-grade slaves are offered to Dion in future?’
‘I’ll do what I can. With most auctioneers a little pressure will do the trick. The ones we can’t influence are those the Pointed Tails themselves are duty-bound to protect. We can’t hurt one of our own clients for the benefit of another.’
‘Then tell them frankly what we think the Imaiz is about. Ask for their cooperation. It’s in their interests to work with us because if the Imaiz wins, the slave trade dies.’
