Temporary Duty

by Ric Locke

  “Get a nice place,” he’d been instructed. “You can afford it.” He’d done that. The suite was done in pale greens and golds, with filmy curtains drawn back from wood-sashed windows and little knicknacks here and there. A sideboard of polished blond wood with swirly grain bore a glass carafe of purple liquid and glasses on a doily marked with a glyph that meant “drinkable”. He poured a glass and tasted it. Mint and a hint of violets… he’d been in the Navy before he was old enough to buy alcohol legally, and had developed a sailor’s habits, teetotal at sea and binge on shore. This was too good to binge on. He held it up to the light to examine the color, then took another sip.

  Knock! knock! came from the door, two short raps. “Enter at will,” he said loudly, the Grallt formula for “come in,” without turning, and listened as the door mechanism worked.

  “This is very pleasant,” said Prethuvenigis. “The view reminds me of your home planet.”

  “That’s because the trees are green,” Peters observed. “Have you tried this? I consider it quite palatable.”

  “No, but I will.” He took the glass, waited as Peters poured, and took a sip. “You’re correct, that’s certainly taken from the higher order squares. Aren’t you concerned about biochemical effects?”

  “I have to eat and drink, after all. Perhaps I am a fatalist.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Actually, I hadn’t considered it.” He sipped again, then looked at the glass in his hand. “Perhaps I’m a fatalist after all.”

  Prethuvenigis chuckled, deep glottal stops that had sounded like choking when he first heard it. “We should not indulge much before the meeting,” the Trader observed. “Are you ready?”

  “I suppose so. When is the meeting scheduled?”

  “At half-afternoon, about four utle from now. We are almost ten llor behind our planned schedule, so it took some time to make the arrangements.”

  “Will our late arrival occasion any remark?”

  “No, the best of schedules can only be a hope. Navigation can never be absolutely precise, and events frequently supervene.” The trader smiled wryly. “In the normal case we’re obliged to wait for the ferassi. Perhaps it’s well that they wait for us this time.”

  “Yes… Heelinig said their ship was in orbit.”

  “I received the same information.” The trader looked out over the landscape, swirling liquid in his glass. “It is likely that the Grallt we have been calling ‘ferassi’ are here,” he said thoughtfully. “We now know more of the truth of that, don’t we?”

  “Yes, and they don’t know that we know,” Peters agreed.

  “With care and a modicum of good fortune that condition could obtain for some time.”

  Care. Well, they’d cautioned everyone in the strongest terms to keep their mouths shut, and that might hold for a while. A little luck, and two hundred sailors and as many Grallt, with hacksaws. Well, a hundred and eighty-eight sailors, since five were gone and seven were still in the infirmary, but a man with a broken leg can take notes while another beeps out wiring.

  “I don’t quite understand what you hope to accomplish by my presence,” Peters admitted.

  “At the minimum I hope to unsettle them.” Prethuvenigis smiled again. “It’s a basic principle of trading that the other party should be made as unsure of himself as possible. Confused people make bad deals.”

  “I have been the confused one in several such encounters… do you think they will be fooled?”

  “Not for an antle. Besides, we will make no such representation. We will present you as precisely what you are: human, from the planet Earth, very far from here.”

  Peters nodded. “Have you any idea just how far it is? I’ve been wondering, but haven’t thought to ask one of the zerkre.”

  “No. I’m sure they keep careful records of that sort of thing, but for me and the other traders it is only important how long it will take to get from place to place.”

  “Does anyone study the stars and their arrangements? It occurs to me that I don’t know the Trade word for a person engaged in such a study.”

  “I suppose they must.” Prethuvenigis shrugged. “They get us from place to place with minimal problems, after all.”

  “Yes. I’ll inquire of Dhuvenig. Perhaps he knows how such things are done.”

  “Dhuvenig?”

  “The Engineering Officer of Llapaaloapalla. You met him in the incident with the retarders.”

  “Yes, I know who you mean… We should go down. I’ve reserved a room for our meeting, and we should check to see that all is in order.”

  Peters nodded. “And I should stop by and see that Gell is settling in properly. That will only take a moment.”

  Prethuvenigis frowned and looked sidelong at Peters. “Now it is my turn to fail to be fully cognizant of all that is being planned. Why did you insist that Gell stay with us? It’s an unnecessary expense. He could have gone back to the ship and returned when we were done.”

  “My concepts are perhaps not fully formed,” Peters confessed. “With us, a person who has a ship and operator at his immediate disposal is successful and therefore powerful. I thought to see if a similar prejudice might obtain here. At the most basic level, I am simply pulling strings to see what may be tangled in the ends.” He quirked the corner of his mouth. “It is a human procedure, I believe. Has anyone told you of the act Dreelig and Dee used at our suggestion?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  A description of Donollo and the “President of Mars Act” occupied them as they descended a wide, carpeted stairway to the main level of the hotel. Prethuvenigis chuckled at several points but offered no comment, and they counted doors along a corridor. Someone was waiting, a tall Grallt male in a yellow and white tunic and trousers outfit. “Pleasant greetings,” Prethuvenigis offered. “Are you the representative of the ferassi?”

  The newcomer’s eyes widened slightly, but he made no overt reaction and ignored the salute. “Yes, I am. Are you from Trade Ship Llapaaloapalla?”

  “We are. I am Prethuvenigis, Chief Trader, and this is my associate Peteris.” The trader frowned. “Are we late? We had understood the meeting would take place some several utle later.”

  “No, you are not late. I have come to inform you that the meeting will be delayed, and may not in fact take place. You may return to your ship if you like. We will send a messenger when we are ready.”

  “This is not acceptable,” Peters said briskly, trying to project an air of total self-confidence. “Arrangements by mutual convenience are one thing, but we have affairs of our own, and don’t wish to sit idly by awaiting your attention. Are your seniors available?” He frowned; before the other could respond he went on. “And how may we address you? ‘Hey you’ may be appropriate, but it is hardly polite.”

  The stranger stiffened. “I am called Gool.”

  “Appropriate,” said Peters as drily as he could manage, and deliberately did not explain his remark, which was likely to be quite opaque. “May we speak to your superiors? We wish to register a protest at this one-sided alteration of the scheduled order of affairs.”

  “My superiors are aboard ship,” Gool admitted. “I was sent Down to inform you.”

  “We have transportation available at no notice,” Peters remarked. “We can return with you to your ship if you like, and meet with your superiors there.”

  “No!” Gool said, then took thought. “That is not acceptable,” he said stiffly. “Affairs will go as I have outlined.”

  “And that is not acceptable to us.” Peters folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, a picture of ease; Prethuvenigis stood by, face immobile, body language not easy. “When may we have some notion of the schedule?” Peters asked in a deliberately casual tone. “We can disport ourselves here for some time, but after all our lives are not unlimited in duration.”

  “I don’t know,” Gool confessed. “I only know what I have told you already.”

  “Find out,�
� Peters instructed, in the voice he would have used to tell a seaman apprentice to swab out a head. “Prethuvenigis is in room five-dash-two, and I am in three-one-two on the same level. How long will it take you?”

  “Again, I don’t know,” said Gool. His body language had gone from stiffly erect to slightly hunched.

  “Do you have a way to ask immediately?”

  “No. I must wait until the dli returns.”

  “Shit,” Peters contradicted. He reached into his pocket, took out an earbug, and screwed it into his ear, adjusting the pickup. “Gell, we’ve got a situation here,” he drawled. “You up for a trip about now?” Pause. “Yeah, the folks we’re here to meet are draggin’ their feet… first level, down by the meetin’ rooms. You’ll see us from the lobby… right.” He extracted the little radio, put it away, and grinned at Prethuvenigis. “See how handy that is?”

  “Is that a communicator of some sort?” Gool asked suspiciously.

  Peters ignored that. “Our ship operator will arrive in a few moments. He will take you back to your ship so that you may ask what the schedule is to be. Will you want him to wait, or can you find your own way back here?”

  “No! This is not acceptable!”

  “Nor is it ideal for us,” Peters pointed out. “We had intended to use the dli for a few llor of relaxation, visiting the points of interest. Now we must give it up to ferry underlings about, but it’s better than standing around waiting to be taken notice of.”

  “I am not authorized to do this,” Gool wailed.

  “Imagine our concern,” Peters said, so flatly the other winced. “Ah. Here is our ship operator.”

  “Hey, Peters,” said Gell as he came up, with the arm-lifted salute. “This why you teach me English?”

  “Naw, but it can be handy, can’t it?” He grinned. “Mind takin’ a little trip?”

  “Reckon not.” Gell looked the stranger over. “He don’t look like much.”

  “He ain’t much. Just a flunky.” Peters switched to the Trade: “Gell, I introduce Gool, a low-precedence representative of the ferassi. He needs transportation back to his ship, so that we may determine what the delay is and what the new schedule will be. Gool, Gell will deliver you to your ship. If you think the business can be concluded quickly he can wait.”

  “No,” Gool said, looking and sounding trapped. “No, it wouldn’t be that quick in the best of cases. I or another will return later.”

  “Soon, or so I hope. Be off with you.” Peters waved idly. “Gell, you might take along a pencil and paper, make a few notes, y’know? And certain events of the recent past ain’t for discussion, if you take my meanin’.”

  “Yeah, no prob,” said Gell with a wink. “Let us go,” he said to Gool. “I was about to take a meal, and I want to get this over with.”

  “Yes,” Gool said dully.

  “This way,” Gell told him in a brisk tone, and took him by the upper arm to escort him off. Gool went without enthusiasm but without a struggle, and the pilot threw a flash of grin over his shoulder as they left the hall.

  “You took a rather stronger line than I might have in this situation,” Prethuvenigis remarked without particular emphasis. “Overawing underlings is not a particularly difficult exercise.”

  “Hmph.” Peters straightened from his deliberately idle pose and released his tension in a spate of English: “No, browbeatin’ peons ain’t real useful, but when the whole thing’s stuck, you push on the bits you can get at and hope for somethin’ to wiggle. I reckon Gool done wiggled a little.”

  “Kh kh kh!” Prethuvenigis laughed full-throated, like a fifty-caliber letting off a burst. “Yes, our friend Gool has certainly wiggled. Whatever happens, this is almost certain to be entertaining.”

  “Entertainment may be all we get,” Peters observed sourly. “From the way he acts I reckon Mr. Gool ain’t got much horsepower.”

  “I fear you’re right.” Prethuvenigis smiled and went back to the Trade: “Gell mentioned food. Since we won’t be having a meeting, a meal would be a good way to pass the time.”

  “Yes… Let’s check the restaurant here,” Peters agreed with a nod. “From what I saw as we approached, the surrounding area seems not to offer much in the way of amenities.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The view down the valley made Peters homesick, not a feeling he much relished. He’d enjoyed being a sailor; the ocean was so agreeably flat. A wide verandah with a roof supported by turned columns of unfinished wood looked off into the hazy far distance between heavily wooded peaks. Gell found him there, sitting in a rocking chair, reading.

  “What are you reading?” the Grallt pilot asked as he settled into an adjacent seat.

  Peters held the book up. “I brought it with me from the ship, in case there were idle moments. It purports to be a book of philosophy.”

  “It sounds dry.”

  “That’s not the adjective I’d choose. The author maintains that objective reality cannot be established, that each of us experiences a different Universe.”

  Gell grinned. “I remember as children, we tried to establish whether each of us saw colors the same… we reached no definite resolution, as I recall.”

  “Yes, I had the same experience. It’s not something I’d thought of in this connection; thank you for the insight.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure.”

  Peters nodded, placed a strip of cloth at the page he was perusing, and closed the book with a snap. “So. You delivered Gool to his ship, I take it?”

  “Yes… the experience contained some moments I’d prefer not to repeat. The ferassi are not a welcoming folk.”

  “No red carpet was spread, or so I would assume.”

  “Carpet?”

  Peters waved that off. “Your pardon, an allusion to one of our aphorisms. What happened?”

  Gell looked around. There were several others sitting on the porch, mostly Grallt and n’saith and a single bulky zeref. “I’m not comfortable discussing it with others nearby,” he confessed.

  “Speak English,” Peters suggested. “It ain’t likely anybody here can make it out.”

  “I ain’t got enough words,” Gell said, and wrinkled his forehead.

  Peters surveyed his surroundings. “Perhaps we should take a walk.” He gestured at the woods near the inn, where a marked path wound between the trees.

  “In there? It seems isolated and dangerous. I’m not an especially brave person.”

  “Hah!” Peters chuckled. “I spent my childhood in a similar environment, and have walked part of that trail. From my point of view it is so well-tended as to be very nearly urban.”

  “From my point of view it seems to offer all the amenities of primitive wilderness, including teeth and claws concealed in the trees,” Gell retorted in good humor. “But if you’ll assure me that you’ll ward off the predators, I’ll give it a try.”

  “It is an axiom that… hm, how shall I translate it? My father’s father says the most dangerous thing in any forest is a hungry man.”

  “True on a ship as well. Hm. Very well, let’s go.”

  They walked across the lawn and set off down the trail, which wound along a contour of the slope. It was paved with pea-gravel between carefully-set stones and crunched underfoot. After a few minutes Gell offered, “Perhaps we are isolated enough here. The forest makes me nervous.”

  Peters shook his head. “Well it should. As a child I could approach within a few eights of tell, perhaps less, under such conditions, without your being the wiser. What we want is an open area. I believe such is just ahead.”

  They came out in a clearing perhaps two acres in extent. An outcropping near the center provided seats. “This is probably sufficient,” Peters said, looking around. “No one can approach closely, but keep your voice down.”

  “For some reason I don’t feel like shouting,” Gell said wryly.

  “That’s not an uncommon feeling.” Peters grinned. “To tell the truth, I feel much the same. My
childhood was long ago… what did you find out?”

  Gell settled back against a sun-warmed stone. “The ferassi are not a welcoming people,” he repeated. When Peters nodded understanding he went on: “The ferassi vessel is a quarter the size of Llapaaloapalla in each dimension, perhaps as much as a third, and has no internal bays for landing. It is necessary to set down on the dorsal surface, and trust the zifthkakik to provide air to breathe if you have no airsuit. We approached the ship from aft, and immediately they began showing the wave-off pattern, denying me permission to land. I persisted in my approach, and they produced the green lights you may recall from not long ago—”

  “Yes.” Peters produced a wry smile. “In my culture, a green light means ‘proceed’. Not so here.”

  “No. Gool became excited, and instructed me to perform a set of maneuvers which would serve as a recognition sequence.” Gell wrapped his arms around his knees, looking thoughtful. “I thought of your communications device at that point. It would have been very useful.”

  “If the ferassi ship had had a mate,” Peters pointed out. “They are only useful in pairs.”

  “A significant limitation… after almost an utle of gyrations they displayed a landing pattern on the lights. I brought the dli to a stop on the surface of the ship and waited. No one emerged. After a few moments I asked Gool, ‘Do you expect a welcoming party?’

  “’No,’ he told me, ‘Just let me out.’ So I opened the hatch and he left. His parting shot was, ‘Get out of here as quickly as possible. They don’t like people who linger.’ I took him at his word and departed with all dispatch.”

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “I have an impression of a pop-up opening nearby, but as I said I saw no one else.”

  “Yes… can you describe the ship itself?”

  “Again, not in great detail. In shape and construction it recalls another of our recent experience: the band of windows across the bow and the completely plain stern, for instance. Its surface is almost completely smooth, without sponsons or turrets visible. The paint was fresh and seemed unmarred.” Gell spread his hands. “I can’t tell you much more. After having them shoot at me I wasn’t in the mood for close examinations.”