Trader's World

by Charles Sheffield

  Mike felt sure that the feather-hatted man had just been taken. He had agreed too soon to a deal that his companion had thought through before their meeting. And the other had clinched it at once, allowing no time for reconsideration. Was that the way most affairs were conducted around the world when Traders were not involved? With one party completely at the mercy of the other? If so, no wonder a Trader's contribution was valued so highly. Mike stared out of the little window at the rain and felt oddly smug.

  The girl in the apron and mauve dress returned with a tray loaded with a steaming silver jug of chocolate, a bottle of kirsch liqueur, a bowl of sugar cubes, and two dainty porcelain cups. She placed the tray on the table and sat down opposite him. "Hello. I am Jeanette Morveau. No more visitors tonight, I think, if this keeps up." She poured hot chocolate and shook her head. "It is the annual Wasserfall. At this time of year, we will see such rain last until dawn."

  Helga had neglected to mention that little detail. The rain was pelting down harder than ever. Mike thought of the thousand-foot climb up the slippery path, and sipped the sweet and delicious chocolate.

  "You own this inn?" he said at last.

  "In a way." Her eyes, bright and blue, were staring at him with undisguised interest. "My father owns it, but he and my brother are away on business. My brother and I will one day be equal partners. My father is Jakob Morveau, my brother is Dieter Morveau. And you are Mikal Asparian. I have been waiting for you."

  She laughed at his expression. "This is a small village, we know who our visitors are. I have been curious to meet you for three days, ever since Helga told me that you had arrived at the lodge. I knew you would soon want company, and Traders are always interesting. And now you can be my guest for dinner."

  "Thank you, but I ought to be heading back. Climbing the hill after dark doesn't sound like fun." Mike hoped she would try to talk him out of it.

  Without a word, Jeanette pointed out of the window. In the past few minutes, the sun had disappeared. It was almost dark, and the rain was whipping down harder and harder. "Do you want to commit suicide? That is what it would be, to climb the hill in this weather and in darkness. Far better to sit here, warm, dry, and cosy, and have a pleasant evening." She looked at him innocently. "Unless you do not like my company?"

  It was clear from her expression that she considered that an unlikely possibility. Mike realized again how attractive she was. The road uphill became less and less appealing. "Don't you have the whole inn to look after?" he asked weakly.

  For reply, Jeanette Morveau waved her arm to point at the rest of the room. Unnoticed by Mike, the other patrons had been quietly departing into the dusk. Now the three visitors from the Great Republic, the last to go, were muffling themselves in rain gear and grumbling about the torrent outside.

  "Now we are the whole inn," she said, as the other three ducked out into the storm. "We will see no more guests tonight. It could not be better, because I want to hear all about your mission to the Strine interior." She laughed at his expression. "Of course. That was Helga again."

  Mike felt guilty. Had he really been so full of himself, babbling about his mission to anyone who would listen? Almost certainly, he had.

  "It was nothing special." He wasn't quite ready for that worshipping gaze. "It was just an ordinary mission, you know."

  "From what I heard, it was more than that. So exciting! Exploring the hidden biolabs and escaping with their secrets. And chased by haploid abos!" She gave a little shiver of her upper body and popped a cube of sugar into her mouth. She crunched it, then took the bottle of kirsch, swigged, and wiped her full lips with the back of her hand. Her blue eyes locked on Mike's as she handed him the bottle. "I want to hear absolutely everything. And in return I'll give you the best dinner you ever had.

  "And after that—" Her glance flicked to the window, where rivulets of teeming rain ran down the panes, then turned demurely down to the table. "—after that, Mikal, I hope that the weather does not improve too soon."

  * * *

  At six o'clock Mike was already awake, watching dawn creep in through the windows of the inn's topmost bedroom. He was lying on his back on a broad, comfortable bed, covered by a thick and luxurious duvet that stretched from his chin to his toes. Jeanette, sound asleep, was snuggled at his side under the same eiderdown.

  He could already see from the cloud patterns that the day would break damp and gloomy. The bedroom air was chilly, and Jeanette's body was warm and soft beside him. By all reasonable standards he ought to be pleasantly and thoroughly exhausted, ready to drowse away the whole morning and then the whole week. But by 6:15 he knew that he would not be able to sleep again unless he could find some answers. He eased his way to the side of the bed, pulled on shirt and trousers in the half-light, and stole out of the room. At the door he paused, thinking he heard a sound behind him. Jeanette still seemed to be peacefully asleep. He went on down the curving stairs, his bare feet making no sound on the thick rug.

  The first test was the presence of a communications module. If the inn did not contain one, that would be an important data point.

  But it did. The set was on the ground floor of the inn, an old-fashioned audio unit in a little room off the kitchen. Mike felt an immediate disappointment. He had rather hoped that it would not exist. He went to it and spent a few moments studying its antiquated call sequences. It looked fifty years old. But when he turned it on and placed the headphones over his ears, it accepted his personal charge code readily enough and established his connection in just a few seconds. "Lucia?" he said eagerly.

  "She is currently unavailable." The voice on the circuit was calm. "I intercepted your signal. Unless you are seeking a personal conversation with Lucia Asparian, I saw a possibility that perhaps I might be able to help."

  "Daddy-O?" The circuit offered poor fidelity, but that inflection and style of speech were hard to mistake.

  "On line."

  "I have a question, this is Mikal Asparian."

  "I know. Continue."

  "Who pays for the upkeep of the Asparian lodge in the Economic Community?"

  "If you are referring to the lodge above the village where you are now located, the lodge costs themselves are paid entirely by the Asparian family."

  Mike was all ready to sigh with relief when he noticed the oddly restricted nature of Daddy-O's answer.

  "I'm down in the village itself. Do the Asparians pay for services here, too?"

  "No." And then, before Mike could offer a response to that answer, Daddy-O continued. "Those costs are paid for by the Traders' general fund."

  "All kinds of services?"

  "That is not a defined question. Be more specific."

  That was just what Mike was reluctant to do. He was afraid that he knew the answer. "I want to know if the Traders pay for Community consort services here."

  "That is correct. For companionship and for cohabitation, and at several levels."

  "Is a woman, Jeanette Morveau, involved in providing such services to Traders?"

  "Yes, she is. To Traders, and also to others visiting the Community."

  "Hell and damnation." Mike gripped the headphones, ready to rip them off and throw them across the room.

  "You act surprised. You should not be. As a trained Trader, you know exactly how the Economic Community operates. Nostalgia is their stock-in-trade, illusion their prime commodity. It is an expensive service to provide the world that they offer, the world as it was long before the Lostlands War. That service must be paid for by someone. By everyone—including a Trader—who seeks to find peace in the past. You know all this, do you not?"

  Mike did not answer. Every Trader trainee knew it, from the time of the first introductory courses. That only made things worse. He ought to have known exactly what was going on. But the talk had been so easy, the rapport so immediate, and Jeanette had been so warm, so admiring, so enthusiastic in lovemaking . . .

  And so expert. That had been the point he could not ignore. E
ven while she enticed him and excited him, some corner of his brain had told him that a simple innkeeper's daughter should never be so diabolically skillful.

  "How soon can I get out of here and into the advanced training course?" he asked abruptly.

  "It can be arranged at short notice." Daddy-O's reply came almost too quickly. "Indicate when you wish to begin, and I will at once initiate necessary action. When will you be returning?"

  When? At once, was Mike's immediate thought. He didn't know if he could stand to see Jeanette again. It would be too painful.

  And yet, was it fair to blame her? And blame her for what? For giving him great pleasure and a wonderful night? She knew he was a fully qualified Trader; she must assume that he had known exactly what he was doing. Any misunderstanding was his own refusal to face facts, and that was certainly not her fault.

  As Mike sat staring at the terminal another of his senses slowly demanded attention. There was a fabulous smell coming from behind him, a mixed aroma of fresh-baked scones, coffee, and frying bacon. He spun around in the chair.

  Jeanette was in the kitchen behind him. She was standing barefooted and tousle-haired at the stove, dressed in a modest pink robe of quilted silk. She must have followed him downstairs immediately, because she had finished cooking and was quietly loading a huge wooden tray with a great pot of coffee, a giant mixed grill, and a full plate of hot bread. She saw him looking at her and pointed upstairs.

  "The atmosphere created by the Economic Community is highly artificial," Daddy-O was saying in didactic tones, as Mike turned his attention back to the headphones. "And the inhabitants must know it. They were untouched by the Heavenly Cloud, but they did not escape the general economic collapse. The Community is a created society, a copy of the past. But its people can turn back the clock and suspend the disbelief of others, I conjecture, only because they have come to believe the illusion themselves. They have become what they pretend to be." There was a satisfied humming from the headset, then a moment's pause. "Now, Mike, I am finally in communication with the schedulers for the advanced training course. When do you wish to begin? Tomorrow, or the day after . . ."

  Mike nodded at Jeanette. She pursed her mouth in a kiss, lifted the loaded tray, and turned to leave.

  "Eight weeks from now," Mike said. "Longer than that, if you can arrange it. I'll be in touch."

  Daddy-O presumably replied, but Mike never heard it. He had removed the headset, turned off the terminal, and was heading for the stairs.

  For once he agreed with Loverboy Lester: some things one didn't even try to explain to a computer.

  CHAPTER 9

  SHE GREETS US AS WE ENTER THE WORLD; SHE IS WITH US WHEN WE LEAVE IT. SHE IS NEVER MORE THAN A SECOND AWAY FROM US, AS CLOSE AS OUR OWN HEARTBEAT; BUT WHEN SHE DOES NOT STAND DIRECTLY BEFORE US, WE CANNOT RECALL HER FACE.

  "WHEN SHE CALLS, LOUD AND CLEAR, WE DROP WHATEVER WE ARE DOING AND ATTEND TO HER NEEDS ALONE. AT THE TOUCH OF HER HAND WE FORGET WORK, FRIENDS, AND LOVERS. SHE IS THE MISTRESS OF THE UNIVERSE. SHE IS PAIN."—DOMINIC MANTILLA.

  Not the message to greet a man climbing drowsily out of bed on a rainy November morning. Mike rubbed his eyes and scrolled the message display. At the bottom of it was a brief addition: MY OFFICE, AT HALF PAST SEVEN—LYLE CONNERY.

  That disposed of any ideas of a pleasant and restful breakfast—and meant he was already late.

  Mike dressed and left at a run. If he were a Trader for a hundred years, he'd probably never lose that uneasy feeling about his first instructor. He halted, checked the shine on his boots, and straightened his jacket before he knocked on Connery's office door.

  "Seat." Connery waved a bare, muscular arm across his desk as Mike entered. "I gather the lab's finally finished with you?"

  "I hope so. They've been prodding and bleeding and nagging me again. I can't see how they'll get any more information about the Dulcinel Protocol out of me—but they want me there again in a month."

  "Ah, you and Jack are their prize subjects. With luck you'll get some benefits from the Protocol yourself, even though you haven't had a full treatment. But the vacation's over now. Jack is on-line. It's time for work."

  Mike's anxiety level increased. He nodded at the blank screen of the data terminal. "Hi, Lover-boy. How's everything?"

  "Couldn't be better." The mechanical synthesizer managed a jaunty tone. "How you doing, boyo? Getting the end away regular, were yer?"

  "All right, Jack, save that for later." Lyle Connery turned to Mike. "Sorry, both of you, but we're in a hurry. Question: how much do you know about Beanstalks?"

  "You mean Orbital Towers? A little bit. I know they're freestanding cables extending from the surface of the earth out past geosynchronous orbit; and I know the Chipponese would like to build one, to send stuff to space and back. What am I supposed to know about them?"

  "Did you know that the Chipponese are looking to make a deal with the Unified Empire?" Connery was rocking comfortably backward and forward in his chair. "They have to have a place on the equator for the lower end of the beanstalk, preferably one on high ground. We've been negotiating on their behalf with Rasool Ilunga, but he's too wily for the Chipponese to feel comfortable. They'd like options. So they're interested in the high Andes, in the middle of the Unified Empire. Did you know that?"

  Mike hesitated. He had picked up scraps of information in the hospital and rehabilitation center that he was not supposed to know. "As a matter of fact, I did."

  "Told you," Jack cut in. "System leaks secrets like a bloody sieve. Hell, people even come by and tell me things, and what am I supposed to do about it? Hey, Mike, let's get to it. How'd you like to serve as Trader negotiator between the Chips and Greasers for the Beanstalk deal?"

  There was a long silence from Mike, while Lyle Connery stared at him expectantly. "Well? I must say I expected a bit more reaction."

  "I'm sorry." Mike shook his head. "I guess I'm surprised. I heard through the grapevine that Wernher Eckart was already assigned as negotiator on that project."

  "Did you now?" Lyle Connery sighed. "Lover-boy, you were right on target. How do you keep a secret in this place? The grapevine's quite right—damn it. But Wernher Eckart hasn't been heard from in three weeks, and neither has your friend Cesar Famares, who we sent to find out what happened to Eckart."

  The conversation suddenly held a new interest for Mike. "Cesar's totally reliable. They must have been captured or hurt."

  "Not captured, according to reports. And definitely not hurt or dead. Maybe crazy, though. Eckart sent back a deal that he negotiated, but it was terrible. The Chipponese wouldn't accept it in a million years; the terms were completely favorable to the Unified Empire. We tried to recall the pair of them, and they ignored the messages. From other evidence, it's clear that both of them are still alive—and they've broken Trader Oath with the Chipponese."

  "Are you sure?" The question was reflexive. Lyle Connery would not have said it without compelling evidence. But that last statement was a shocker. A Trader never divulged information given under Trader Oath.

  "Quite positive."

  "But Cesar wouldn't do that. Not, to borrow your expression, in a million years."

  "That was my own evaluation—of both of them." Connery was staring assessingly at Mike. "I'm sure you see where I am leading. Official mission: negotiate a treaty between the Chipponese and the Unified Empire for tethering a Beanstalk on Unified Empire soil. And your secondary mission . . ."

  Mike was way ahead of him. "Find out what happened to Eckart and Cesar. Did Daddy-O calculate a success probability?"

  "Certainly." Lyle Connery was looking straight at Mike, but there was a slightly uncomfortable expression in his eye. "Projected probability of success if you tackle this alone is four percent—one chance in twenty-five. But if you have the right partner, the probability goes up to thirty-six percent—better than one in three. So naturally, you'll be double teamed."

  "With Lover-boy?"

  "Gimme a break,
Mike." Jack Lester's voice was a shout through the terminal. "I'm going to be in this tank for another six months. What you going to do, carry me along in a paper bag?"

  "Not Jack. As he says, the rebuilding of his body still has a way to go." Connery cleared his throat and wriggled in his chair. "So it's not Jack. You'll be partnered with Melly Turak. That's Daddy-O's preferred choice."

  "But that's great! I think Melly's terrific, and she knows Cesar better than I do. I'd love to see her again." Mike paused. Something didn't add up right. "I thought Melly was on some confidential mission in the Pacific."

  "She was." Connery shook his head. "God help us, Mike, you're not supposed to know that. How'd you find out? No, don't bother to answer, just forget I asked."

  "She's back now. And she says she can't wait to see you. You know, Mike, I think she has the hots for you."

  "Jack, will you shut up for a minute." Connery turned back to Mike. "There's one other thing that's important about this, and there's no easy way to say it. She'll be your partner—but not an equal partner."

  "Well, I think I can handle that."

  "I hope so. You see, you'll be junior to her. She'll be in charge."

  It was a body blow. Mike would never have admitted it, but he believed that he was a far better Trader than Melly would ever be. He sat and stared at Connery for a few seconds. There had to be a reason. "I assume she's already had a mission in the Unified Empire?"

  "No. As a matter of fact she's never been on a mission south of the equator."

  Mike started to stand up. He was restrained by Connery's outstretched hand on his shoulder. "Steady now, Mike. I know it's a shocker, and I know how you must be feeling. But Daddy-O doesn't get his calculations wrong."

  Mike had never heard such a conciliatory tone in Connery's voice. It made things worse.