“Go away,” he whispered.
Conn shrugged. To Jenore he said, “I am glad I am not paying for this. They do not seem to offer good value.”
They went to a call station on the corner and summoned an aircar. Within moments one had descended from the overhead flow. But when they were seated inside and Conn had proffered his credit instrument the vehicle refused to move.
“Your means of payment is unacceptable,” it said.
Conn was puzzled. He reoffered the credit slip, but the result was the same. Neither he nor Jenore had any other form of payment and they were forced to leave the aircar which flew away in search of custom.
“I do not understand,” said Conn. “A Thraisian draft ought to be good on Old Earth.”
“It was good enough at the hotel this morning,” Jenore said. “Perhaps the vehicle was malfunctioning.”
But when they summoned another aircar the credit instrument was again refused.
“It is not such a long walk back to the hotel,” Conn said. “We will clear up the confusion once we are there.”
But when they entered the lobby they found their baggage heaped on a cart and a tendentious manager waiting for them just inside the door. He handed them a list of fees and charges and informed them that they could not be paid from the draft Conn had produced the evening before. Unless some other form of payment was forthcoming forthwith, they would have to leave the establishment. The hotel would distrain their baggage.
“There has been a error,” Conn said. He brought out his deposit book from Allguard Security. “My account on Thrais contains a substantial sum. My credit draft is secured by Allguard. Let us go to your office and we will rectify this.”
But when they contacted the agency that handled affairs for Allguard in Olkney they were informed that Conn’s account had been frozen and the draft therefore could not be honored.
“Who has frozen my account?” Conn wanted to know.
“The Thraisian Arbitration,” said the Allguard representative, a bland faced woman whose taste in personal adornment ran to large wooden beads and filigreed eyebrow combs speckled with chips of precious stones. “There is a legal dispute concerning discharge of your indenture contract.”
“Who has brought the suit?”
“Flagit Holdings of Trintrinobolis on Bashaw. They claim never to have received a payout of your obligation.”
“The Arbitration received the payout on their behalf.”
“That may well be, but they are disputing it. Since you are off-world, your account is frozen pending resolution of the suit.”
“How long will that take?”
The eyebrow combs added a glitter to the woman’s facial shrug. “Interworld legal disputes take time. The last that was heard, the Arbitration was waiting for a representative of Flagit to travel from Bashaw to Thrais.”
“The amount needed to pay out my indenture was far less than what remains in the account. Can you not freeze only that portion and free the rest of my funds?”
“Perhaps, if we were on Thrais. From here I can do nothing.”
“What can I do?” Conn said.
“Instruct counsel on Thrais to act for you.”
“I know no intercessors on Thrais, and the funds needed to retain one are frozen. Even if I could, it would be a long time before the matter could be resolved.”
Another glittering shrug. “Then your best course is to find some way to raise funds on Old Earth. They would not be encumbered by the dispute on Thrais.”
They returned to the lobby, followed by the manager still waving his list of charges. The Bureau surveillance team had now disposed themselves around the open space. The vehicle repairer was seated on a circular bench, perusing a periodical, the allegedly old woman was in a far corner taking an apparent interest in a potted plant, the former lamp polisher was reading a brochure at the front desk while the pop-eyed student of notices was reprising his previous role by examining a wall-mounted list of organizations that used the hotel for meetings. The dissolute imbiber was across the street, still intent on his container of drink.
Conn took in the scene then focused more closely on one of the scroots. He crossed to the woman with the false pet and peered closely at her to confirm his surmise. “Directing Agent Odell, he said, “would the Bureau of Scrutiny advance me funds as a visiting auxiliary thrown upon hard times?”
From within the network of wrinkles that clouded her features, Odell’s sharp eyes regarded him with a neutral stare. “The Bureau is not empowered to offer charity,” she said. “Fortunately for you, vagrancy is not an offense in Olkney. Be thankful we’re not in Zeel or you’d already be consigned to a work gang.”
Conn left her and returned to the manager who was making fresh expostulations. Jenore dug a hand into a pocket and came up with the eardrops of Firenzian dark crystal. “Do you know what these are?” she asked the hotelier.
“I do,” said the manager.
“They are worth what we owe you, are they not?”
“They are.”
“Then will you hold them until we return with funds to redeem them.”
The man took the eardrops. He gave no commitment and Conn saw in his expression that the crystals were worth more than the debt and that he meant to keep them for himself.
Conn took from his pocket the figured bead. “Do you know what this is?” he said.
The hotelier did not.
“It is a bearer deed to a habitable planet in the Back of Beyond,” he said. “We have just had it certified by the Registrar of off-world properties.”
“What does this mean to me?” said the manager.
“At the moment,” said Conn, “it is my intention to sell this planet. It ought to bring a good price somewhere along The Spray. When I have done so, I will have more than enough to purchase this hotel and relieve you of your position. I might even have enough wealth to have influence on any other establishment that would consider engaging you.”
“Ah,” said the manager.
“So I advise you to hold on to those crystals,” Conn said, “because I will be back. Your behavior may have a direct bearing on the mood in which I return.”
“Um,” said the manager but Conn could see in the man’s face that concern for his career far outweighed his desire for the eardrops.
The crystals were passed over. Conn and Jenore hoisted their baggage and went out onto Five Points. From the five possible directions she chose one that led into the Shambles and said, “This way.”
They walked three blocks to a shopping precinct where the streets were lined with stores that appealed to those who were gratified by being able to spend large amounts on goods and services that flattered their sense of self worth. Odell and her scroots followed along, in ones and twos, at a discreet distance.
Jenore chose a sunny spot near a restaurant and indicated that they should place their baggage beneath a nearby bench. When Conn had done so, he said, “What do you plan to do?”
“The obvious,” she said.
“Not to me.”
“We cannot stay in Olkney,” she said. “It costs too much to live here and there are few opportunities of employment for either gamers or dancers.”
Conn had already had vague thoughts about seeking employment. Now he said, “I defer to your superior knowledge.”
“So we will go to Shorraff. My family will provide resources to let you settle the Arbitration matter.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because I will ask them to.”
“And why will you do that for me?”
“Because what are we here for if not to help each other?”
It did not seem to Conn to be a good occasion to contradict her supposition, but she must have seen the thought cross his face because she said, “Let us say that you have overpaid me for the assistance I have given you in getting here. Think of it as compensation.”
It was not an unreasonable point of view, Conn thought. “Very well,
” he said. “So what do we do here?”
“We earn funds to help us reach my father’s house.”
“How?”
She knelt and felt through her baggage until she retrieved a flat cap. “Remember the song you sang on the Firenz orbiter?”
“Yes.”
“Sing it again, but louder this time.” She placed the cap brim up on the pavement. “I will dance and passersby will give us money.” She struck a preparatory pose.
“Wait,” he said.
“For what?”
“We must establish the terms of the contract with the customers.”
“No, we must not.”
“But how will they know what to pay? How will we know when we have done enough?”
“They will pay what it pleases them to pay and we will perform until we are satisfied with our earnings.”
He made a gesture of exasperation. “This is not an orderly way to do business.”
She relaxed from her dancer’s stance. “It is not business. It is busking, and it is commonly done this way.”
“But it is...,” he sought for the word, “indecent.”
“Nonsense!”
“It is as if I asked you to dance naked.”
“I have often danced naked. There are some worlds where it is expected.”
“I am not getting through to you,” Conn said.
“I understand you perfectly,” Jenore said. “You want the philosophical template of Thrais to apply wherever you happen to be. I have seen enough of the varieties of human life to know that when one is on Haxxi one eats flonge and smiles.”
“I do not know what that means.”
“Be thankful you have never been on Haxxi. It is not easy to smile around a mouthful of flonge. Nor is it attractive.”
Conn did not want the discussion to digress. He had found the flaw in her argument. “It is not that Thraisian standards should apply to other places. It is that they should apply to me.”
“Why?”
“Because they are right and proper.”
“For you.”
“Certainly for me. Others may lack enlightenment but I must do what I know to be right.”
“Wherever you happen to be?”
“Yes,” he said, then “perhaps, or at least I think so.”
“Even if everybody else on the planet thinks in ways that are diametrically opposed to yours?”
“Yes.”
She put a hand on top of her head as if she feared the lid of her skull needed to be held in place. “Would a Thraisian transactualist object if you simply stood on a street and sang for your own amusement?”
He thought about it and said, “No.”
“Good,” she said, “because I can assure you that your singing is not going to earn us a bent grimlet. If people put money into my hat it is because they will appreciate my dancing.”
Despite her tone Conn realized that Jenore was trying to accommodate him even though she thought his philosophy was unuseful to their situation. He decided that if she could bend toward him, he could lean a little in her direction. “We will try it as you suggest,” he said
She made a face he had no difficulty in reading then again struck a pose. “Sing.”
Conn sang the old lament and she stepped into the dance she had performed above Firenz.
The surveillance team filtered into the area and took up positions. Jenore executed a twirl and a dip and came up with the cap in her hand. She sashayed and glided from one scroot to another, refusing to move on until each had made a contribution.
“That’s a good start,” she said to Conn as she whirled back to where he stood singing. She put the cap down again and danced on. Soon people in search of lunch began to pass on their way to the restaurant. Some stopped to watch, a few hummed in accompaniment or let their heads sway to the rhythm. Grimlets and even a few hepts clinked into the hat.
Conn came to the end of the final verse. The crowd urged them to more. He thought of a song he had heard young men singing in the drinking areas of Horder’s sporting house. It was about a fish and how it swam, ending with a repetitive chorus that was mostly the words fishy-fishy, swishy-swishy, wishy-wishy. It was supposed to be sexually suggestive, but Conn had never had much facility for deciphering metaphor. Nonetheless, it had a catchy rhythm. He launched into its opening line.
Jenore looked at him in surprise then adapted to the new beat. She twirled and leaped and gracefully strode about the pavement, arms swinging, hands stirring the air. More money clinked into the hat.
“Louder,” she said.
They alighted from the ferry at Round Bay across Mornedy Sound from Olkney, their baggage slung over their backs vagabond style. Near the ferry slip was a boat basin full of private craft large and small, from opulent pleasure yachts to one-person skimmers, moored at floating wooden walkways that went far out into the bay.
Jenore led the way toward an area where moderate-sized boats were tied up. She walked up and down the planked jetties, reading names and other identifying symbols painted on bows and transoms. She stopped at a dark-hulled ketch-rigged coaster that had the name Omororo in bright gilt across its stern. A thickly bearded man of middle years was taking his ease in sun-faded clothing in the conning pit, leaning back in a tiltable chair bolted to the deck, his feet on the gunwale and his hands wrapped around a mug of punge.
“Are you Grove Gallister?” Jenore said.
“Who is asking?”
“Jenore Mordene.”
The man set the mug down on the deck and regarded her with an appraising eye. “Of the Grebe Isle Mordenes?”
“No, the Graysands branch.”
The man stood up. “Then I am Grove Gallister. How may I help you?”
“Would you be going near Graysands any time soon?”
“I hadn’t thought of it but anything is possible.”
Jenore said, “It’s just that I was hoping to get home and have no funds to hire a boat.”
“You’ve been away?”
“Off-world.”
“A long time?”
“It’s been some years.”
Gallister rubbed his jaw curls and considered the matter. Conn was watching the exchange between Jenore and the Omororo’s owner with interest. Although nothing was being put as bluntly as it would have been on Thrais, he had the strong impression that he was witnessing a contractual negotiation.
“Your father is...?” Gallister waited for Jenore to supply the name.
“Eblon Mordene.”
Conn saw a reaction flicker across the man’s eyes: recognition followed by calculation. “I visited his workshop once,” Gallister said. “There were some figurines of water spirits.”
“He has made some very fine ones,” Jenore said.
“They ranged from finger-sized to...” He put a hand to his chest, palm down, to indicate height.
“The hand-sized are among his best.”
“But not to compare with some that I saw that were twice their height.”
“You may well be right.”
Gallister rubbed his hands. “Please step aboard. Who is your companion?”
Jenore introduced Conn. When Gallister heard the name of Conn’s planet he indicated that its name was unknown to him. “But then the Ten Thousand Worlds are full of odd little places, pursuing their odd little destinies.”
“I have heard the same said of Old Earth,” Conn said then offered a wintry smile.
Gallister’s eyes widened slightly. “And what do you do in your remote corner of the cosmos?” he said.
Conn could see that the Old Earther was only waiting for his occupation to be named so that he could disparage it. There were many terms to describe what Conn did for a living. He chose carefully. “I am a professional duelist,” he said.
Gallister gave this information a brief consideration then said, “Make yourself comfortable below. I believe we can take advantage of the offshore breeze.” He turned away to busy himself in casting off moorin
g lines and coaxing the boat’s impeller into life.
The Omororo’s forward cabin was cramped but comfortable. Conn and Jenore stowed their baggage in compartments under the berths then sat facing each other across the narrow strait between the bunks.
Jenore said, “If the wind holds fair we could be at my father’s house in the morning.”
“Good,” Conn said.
She picked at a nubbin of thread on the quilt that covered the bed. “It does not bother you that I shamelessly begged a ride?”
“I did not see you beg. I did see you haggle.”
Her head came up sharply, her eyes locking with his. “I did no such thing!”
“You chaffered like any street corner mercantilist of Bay City.”
“I recall no such exchange. There was an amiable conversation regarding my lineage and my father’s artwork.”
“I heard something more pointed,” Conn said. “You wanted to hire this boat and its owner wanted a carved figurine in payment. You offered one the size of a hand and settled for one twice as big. I might have closed my eyes and imagined myself in a Bay City souk.”
“Your imagination is as powerful as your views are rigid,” Jenore said and returned her inspection of the loose thread. “Shorraffis do not dicker. We do not know how.”
The impeller was now throbbing beneath their feet and the boat was shifting. “Let us go on deck,” Jenore said.
Long after the old orange sun had settled tiredly behind the rim of the world the glow of Olkney lit up the southern horizon as the Omororo glided out of Mornedy Sound and into the wide channel that led north to the New Shore. Above and ahead the black sky glittered with stars and orbitals and tiny chips of light that were inbound and outbound spacecraft.
Grove Gallister called them up to the cockpit where he served a dinner of sea fruits and packaged bread, washed down with strong punge. After they had eaten, Conn and Jenore went forward. They sat on the narrow foredeck, shoulder to shoulder, their backs against the sloped wall of the forward cabin. For some time, they listened to the flap of the mainsail and the susurration of foam breaking on the Omororo bow and falling behind.
Jenore sat with her knees bent and her arms enfolding them. “It will be strange to be home,” she said.
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