. . . ant and termite colonies, fashioning elaborate transparent lattices from their own body secretions according to some precise prescription. "They build perfect lenses and mirrors," Alf said. "We pass them structural specifications through chemical messengers in the food supplies. That's the hardest part. And we're still working on spiders. They're tough to control— can't do it chemically, has to be microcircuits." He shrugged. "Give us another year or two."
"Don't get started on spiders," Bet said. "Or we'll be here forever." She grinned at Mike. "They're his favorites, but it's getting late and we still haven't got to mine." She led the way through another series of doors and into an oddly-lit set of interlocking chambers, then turned to Mike. "Symbiotes. The most fun of all."
And the most complex, with their elaborate amalgam of plant and animal DNA.
. . . mobile carnivorous plants, calyxes framed by circles of primitive eyes, hunting insects across a sandy desert floor . . .
. . . lethargic, slothlike creatures hanging lazy from the trees, wings spread wide for photosynthesis. "Still a failure," Bet said. "We haven't been able to get the energy absorption rates high enough for full mobility."
. . . the polytropes, half-meter spheres containing within themselves complete ecosystems, requiring for their continuing function only a supply of radiation and an energy sink.
And finally, almost as an afterthought, Bet had taken Mike to a small nursery, where a dozen shrubs carried the Candlemass Berries from which Velocil could be extracted.
Long before that, Mike had reached his own conclusion: what he had seen made the search for Velocil of minor importance. The original mission objective was dwarfed by the potential of the rest of Cinder-feller's operation.
And he had by no means seen everything. Throughout the tour, Alf and Bet Bates had kept up a running commentary. Their casual chat about genetic surgery and nuclear splicing was far more impressive than any boasts, and they openly admitted that six labs for human development were off-limits to Mike and all visitors.
"How does Cinder-feller fit into all this?" Mike asked at last, when they were emerging from the fourth and final underground facility. "I mean, if you do all this, what does Cinder-feller do?"
They looked at him in bewilderment. "Why, Cinder-feller's the bigmomma," Bet said. "Runs the whole show—defense, weapons arsenal, deals, fights, finances, supplies. Nothing could move without her."
"But not the technical developments?"
The twins burst out laughing. "Course not," they said in unison.
"Doesn't have time," Alf said. "And anyway, Cinder-feller doesn't know how. The bigmomma is smart, but not in that way—not for technical things. We handle all those and pass on our results."
They had reached the exit. There Mike stripped and was subjected to a search by a haploid abo guard. Bet and Alf seemed to regard that as completely natural, and Mike could not argue with the Strine logic. It would have been easy enough to sneak a piece of tissue from one of the plants or animals and tuck it away into a pocket. As the abo sniffed through his clothes and all around his body, Mike felt glad he had resisted that temptation.
It was late afternoon when the twins finally took him into the open air again. The wind had become stronger, with little willy-willys of dust swirling around the ring of trees. Alf paused and turned to Bet. "What do you think?"
She nodded. "Another one on the way. We'd better move fast."
"Another what?" Mike asked.
She turned to him. "Another damned dust storm. You'll be here for a while. See that red line on the horizon? There'll be a brickfielder in from the north in four or five hours, and it'll stay here for maybe a day or two."
"We've got animals outside in some of the experiments," Alf added. "Some of the species crosses are kind of delicate. We'll have to bring them all inside. Lousy job."
The twins were distracted. Scarcely looking at Mike now, they escorted him down to Cinder-feller's headquarters, passed him over to the same abo—or one who, to Mike's inexperienced eyes, was identical to the first—and headed at once back to the surface.
The abo led him inside and squatted at the door. Cinder-feller had left a message for Mike on her computer display. She was busy in a private meeting. Mike had nothing to do but stare out through the glass wall at the placid bottom of the lake and pursue his own thoughts. He wondered about the Traders' system for official acceptance to their ranks. What fraction did they lose on the final entrance test? How did they lose them?
Rule 14: Don't be a hero; there's no shame in flight.
Fine. But what if he couldn't flee? What if he couldn't even ask for help and call in a Trader Smash unit? The rescue squad was always available, but with communications jammed there was no way to tell them they were needed. And even if he could contact them, the Smash would have trouble cracking the defense system for The Musgrave. He'd have to find his way at least to the badlands, where the Interior security system didn't bother to operate. And in the badlands, of course, were the abos . . .
Mike was pulled from his reverie by the gentle beep of Cinder-feller's computer terminal. He walked across to it as a new message scrolled into view. I'M ALL FINISHED HERE, COME UP TWO LEVELS AS SOON AS YOU ARE READY, AND WE WILL HAVE DINNER. USE THE PERSONAL ELEVATOR IN THE FAR LEFT CORNER OF THE ROOM—NOT THE MAIN ONE.
The final comment was hardly necessary. Mike took one look at the waiting abo and followed Cinder-feller's directions. The personal elevator in the corner was certainly the right size—six feet across, with a weight capacity of two thousand pounds.
She was waiting for him upstairs at a great table of polished iron wood with white hatch covers set into the surface. Mike gave her one all-over incredulous head-to-toe scan, then tried to avoid staring.
Last night's swaddle of clothing had suggested that Cinder-feller was huge; today's costume revealed that she was truly gigantic. The poncho and quilts had been abandoned in favor of a short sleeveless tunic of pale yellow. It showed everything: arms like bolsters, legs thicker than Mike's body, and a bulky, amorphous trunk with rolls of body fat bulging at chest and belly. On top of the meaty shoulders an incongruously delicate neck supported a massive head. Mike could see no sign of scar or maiming. The skin of Cinder-feller's arms, legs, neck, and head was smooth, pale, and perfectly unblemished.
As Mike sat down, Cinder-feller touched the controls in the top of the table. The lights in the room dimmed, and the wall separating them from the lake moved from opaque white to transparent. The table-top hatches began to open.
"I promised you a banquet tonight," Cinder-feller said slowly. The eyes in the bloated head were dark and amused. "If you are willing to trust my choice of dishes I can promise you an outstanding meal."
Mike nodded.
"Excellent!" Cinder-feller's voice was greedy. She pressed another control, and the tiny Chill table robots came scuttling out of the hatches carrying loaded tureens, dishes, and glasses. Mike took one look at the array of food and drink opening before him, and hurriedly swallowed a double dose of detox pills.
Half the courses were totally unfamiliar, but he could identify more than enough. Cinder-feller was loading two plates with emu liver paté and saltbush-seed crackers. In front of her was a dish of grilled possum fillets on a bed of candied prickly-pear fruit. To her left sat a smoking mound of breaded wallaby fritters flanked by spiced joey tongues; to her right was a tureen of cold koala brains in a blackboy resin jelly. The platter directly in front of Mike was whole roasted 'tremes, skinned and with poison spines removed, but with heads, bills, and feet intact. A Chill robot poured hot euclypt sauce over them as he watched.
Cinder-feller gestured at the piled plates. Without waiting for Mike she picked up and drained a liter tankard of dark beer, placed it for refill, put her head down, and began to gorge. Mike politely sampled a mouthful of each dish, but most of his attention was on Cinder-feller.
She ate without pause for nearly half an hour, until her broad face was flushed and
sweaty, then at last put down her fork. The robots did not clear the table. Mike deduced that this was no more than a breather between courses. Since sitting down he had drunk a little more than a liter and a half of strong beer. In the same interval, Cinder-feller had drunk—he had been counting carefully—eleven liters of beer, two liters of fortified wine, and half a liter of distilled spirits. Along the way they had drunk so many toasts to the Traders and The Musgrave that Mike was running out of ideas and stomach capacity. And for Cinder-feller every ounce of drink washed down a great mouthful of food.
"Do you have food like this in your Trader homes?" Cinder-feller asked. Mike shook his head. "I thought not," she went on. "Strine food is the best. As our influence in the world spreads, we will introduce these dishes to more regions."
Mike nodded politely. Why was it that every region, no matter what disgusting thing they liked to eat, thought it the best in the world?
Cinder-feller leaned conspiratorially toward him. "Maybe you will help me to spread our influence, eh? Alf and Bet showed you my labs here. Be honest with me. Did you ever see their like, or hear of it?"
Mike could give a truthful answer to that. "I never did. Your laboratories are astounding, and unique."
"And you Traders will work with us?"
"We would like nothing better. If we can." Mike wondered about his next statement, then decided he had to risk it. "But there are things I was not shown—things that interest the Traders very much. Can you arrange for me to see them?"
His question caught Cinder-feller with a tankard of beer halfway to her mouth. She frowned, paused with the vessel in front of her face, and asked, "What do you mean, not shown?"
"We have heard talk of a new version of the Dulcinel Protocol. One that can be applied to anyone, not just the haploid abos. We would like to know more about it."
"Ah." Cinder-feller gave a grunt of laughter as she drained the tankard. "Yes, indeed. You, and Fathom, too. She would like to have that information more than anything. But it is not for sale—or discussion."
Rule 9: Locate the non-negotiables. Every bargainer had something he was not willing to give up. Locate it, and you were in a good position. You could propose any outrageous deal, no matter how unfavorable it was to your own side. If it involved one of the non-negotiable elements, there was no danger that it would be accepted. Cinder-feller's voice and body language said clearly that the new Dulcinel Protocol could be no part of any deal.
Mike placed his tankard next to Cinder-feller's, so that both would be refilled. "Yesterday you told me what you would like from us. You need our assistance in your efforts to unify the Strine territories. We can help. But if you will not offer the Protocol, what will you offer?"
Cinder-feller leaned forward, wet-lipped. "Anything that we showed you. Any of the plants and animals that you saw today. If the Traders will help me, those discoveries can be yours. And they are just the beginning. There will be more—when all Strineland is under my control."
The offer was tempting, but it did not include the Protocol, and that was the real prize. Mike recalled Jack Lester's advice: "Beat 'em and fool 'em, then you'll do a deal." It was time to improvise.
"I don't think it can be as easy as that," he said. "You believe you know how Traders operate, but it is more complicated than you realize. We could never agree to the long-term deal you are implying, with a partner who has not satisfied the Trader Ritual."
Cinder-feller frowned. "Trader Ritual?" She drank again from her tankard.
Mike did the same, offering up a prayer for his liver and kidneys. Just how much drinking could he do before he was under the table? With Cinder-feller's body mass and food intake, even going one-for-ten with her on drinks would strain the power of the detox pills. But he had to have her at least partly drunk for what he had in mind. He closed his eyes and sipped another half ounce of beer. Thank God that Cinder-feller was switching more and more to the hard stuff.
"The Trader Ritual is something that all our close business partners must go through with us." He set down his drinking vessel. "It is a little old-fashioned, and some people say it is barbaric. But we have been doing it for so long, it is a tradition now."
"What does it call for? Formal signing of papers?"
"That, certainly. And a couple of more primitive forms of pact. We can go through with it tonight, if you wish, though the blood pact is a little messy. But I don't want to consider Ritual unless you can make it worth our while. We must be specific. I will need a detailed list to take back with me."
"Back? Through Fathom's territory?" Cinder-feller shook her head, and the body fat rippled. "No. I will tell you everything that I am offering, and allow you to transmit it to your colleagues. That will fulfill my part of the bargain. But you and the recording disk must stay here, until the Traders carry out their part."
As he had suspected: he would be her prisoner. Mike finally nodded. "Let us begin with the list."
"I will give it while we eat. And then we will satisfy the Ritual and sign an agreement. But we must not spoil our meal."
She pressed another command sequence in the tabletop, and the Chill robots appeared with a dozen more heaped dishes. Mike looked at them in dismay. He loaded his dish with whitefish roes and euclypt plums, gritted his teeth, and again raised his tankard. "Another toast. To your discoveries here, and the profit they will bring to both of us."
The liter mugs clinked together. Mike looked at Cinder-feller's bulging eyes and sweaty brow, and wondered how much drink any human could take and remain upright. It looked as if he might be about to find out the hard way.
Five hours later Mike rose wearily to his feet. This time, for sure, Cinder-feller was soundly asleep. She was slumped on the bench opposite, eyes shut, mouth open, and loudly snoring. The robots had cleared the flagons as they were emptied, and Mike had long since lost count. Thirty? Forty? He could only hope it would be enough. He needed at least a couple of hours.
He walked to the door of the room and opened it a fraction of an inch. The abo guard was still there. His eyes were closed, but Mike took no comfort from that. He dared not try to go to his own room. He went back inside and examined the wall that looked out on the lake. According to Bet, Cinder-feller had access to it from these quarters. But where was the exit? It must be closer to the surface.
Mike tiptoed across to Cinder-feller's personal elevator, entered it, and pressed the top button. The car ascended smoothly and opened to darkness. Mike could hear the soft lapping of water close by. He stood still. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that he was standing on a walled-in jetty by the dark lake.
Mike removed his shoes, stuffed them into jacket pockets, and lowered himself into the water. It was cold enough to make him shiver and worry about cramps in his over-full stomach. He swam off to the right, toward dim lights on the shore of the lake. A few minutes later he had reached dry land near a line of parked cars. The underground garage was deserted. He followed the ramp that led from there to the surface, shaking water from his shoes before he put them on.
Mike knew when he was near ground level by the gusty whistling of the wind. Soon the moving air filled his nose and mouth with fine coppery dust. The storm had arrived, but it was still short of maximum intensity. In a few more steps the moon became visible, tinged to a dark rust-red. He walked to the fleet of vehicles, looking for an electric aircar that was fully charged and designed for maximum altitude. Range was going to be a problem—even the best one would take him only as far as the edge of the badlands.
Within five minutes he had made his selection. He spent another five familiarizing himself with the controls, then started the engine. The noise was more than he had expected, easily audible above the storm. So much for his hopes of a two-hour lead.
He took the plane at once into a tight upward spiral, wondering what the fine dust was doing to his engine. At eighteen thousand feet he was above the storm. He came out of the spiral and headed north-northwest. At sixty thousand feet h
e turned the communication set to Trader frequencies. He should be close to the edge of jamming range, but all he found was a jumble of noise. He headed higher, worried about power drain, until he was at ninety thousand feet and the altitude limit of the car. Now the commset was giving off little bursts of identifiable carrier signal among the static. It was probably the best he could hope for. Mike switched to send mode and transmitted his coded ID sequence.
"Smash request from Mikal Asparian. I am now at ninety thousand, vectored twenty-two degrees west of north. Air speed two hundred." He looked at the power charge level. "Current estimated range fifty miles, plus ten miles glide phase. Repeat: I am requesting Smash support for ground pickup. Chipponese tracking satellite to provide final aircar vector before landing. I will continue that direction on foot, at estimated seven miles per hour. I expect pursuit. Repeat: Smash request . . ."
There was no return signal, no indication that the message was getting through. Mike continued to send for the next forty-six miles, until the car's charge level was dangerously low. Then he had to concentrate his efforts on a smooth descent through the swirling gusts of the brickfielder. The laser altimeter provided accurate height information, but nothing on ground cover. He had to hope he was over level terrain without trees or boulders.
At six hundred feet he could suddenly see the ground. The brickfielder was thinning, running out of energy. That would simplify the landing, but hasten pursuit. As the car glided in to land, Mike took a final bearing on the moon and now-visible stars. Before the vehicle rolled to a halt he had jumped out and was heading north-northwest at a steady trot.
Within twenty minutes he was winded. The badlands were rough, broken country, crisscrossed by steep-sided gullies. Sharp-edged gravel at the bottom of each ravine cut through his sodden shoes, and climbing out was an effort. Mike was in good physical shape, but the banquet felt like a lead cannonball in his belly. Thirty courses, liter after liter of beer, a dramatic Trader Ritual, no sleep . . . just what you need to set you up for the run of your life, Mike thought. He groaned, rubbed at the stitch in his aching right side, and kept running.
Trader's World Page 13
