"You'll be fine with her, Mike," Jack added. "And think of them hot Greaserland nights!"
"Jack, for God's sake will you shut up." Connery stepped closer to Mike and looked him in the eye. "I just want to say a couple more things, if Lover-boy will let me get a word in. After that, if you want to refuse the mission I'll pass the word to Daddy-O."
Refuse the mission. Could a Trader refuse a mission because his ego was hurt? But how could he work as a junior partner to Melly? He knew her limitations too well. He had struggled right through Trader training with her.
"She'll arrive here tonight from the Cook Islands," Connery went on. "She has accepted the mission. With or without you, she's willing to tackle it. So she'll be going, and she'll be teamed with somebody. Now, Daddy-O looked at every other team combination for Melly. The Asparian-Turak combination is the only one with a probability of success greater than one in twenty—the chance of any other pair even making it back here is no more than one in ten. You two are better than one in three for total success. You may not think you need her, Mike—but she sure as hell needs you. And Cesar may need both of you worse than we know."
Mike glared at him. "That's blackmail!"
"Of course it is!" Lester said. "That's why it works."
"Jack!" Connery shook his head. "It's not blackmail. Let's call it Trader negotiation techniques."
"I don't think I can do it. I like Melly a lot, but I don't think I can."
"I understand how you feel." Connery's voice was soothing. "But at least think it over. All right? Just think it over."
"Well . . ."
"Good. At least you ought to see her and talk to her. You know, you remember her as a trainee, but she's a full Trader now. You'll find she's changed—a lot."
After that, it did not surprise Mike at all to find that dinner with Melly had already been arranged.
* * *
Before that dinner, Mike made his own checks. Since they finished training he had not been in touch with Melly. Her missions had taken her to the Pacific Rim, negotiating with the western Yankees. Then she had disappeared from contact, only to pop up again in the Trader base on the Cook Islands, half a world away.
First, Mike called out Daddy-O's performance statistics on her. He whistled in amazement at what appeared on the screen. She had never impressed him as anyone really special in training—smart, and pretty, but not unusually gifted. Now she showed up as the brightest new Trader in a generation. Although she had never been to the Unified Empire, already she spoke the language there better than Mike did. She was a natural partner for the mission. Mike ruefully admitted it to himself: if he hadn't known her in training, he'd have been delighted to be teamed with her.
Rule 18: Collect as much data as you can get. Mike called Tip Muller, who had come from the Cook Islands to the Azores a few months ago and had just finished his second Mission.
"Sure I know her." Muller nodded from the screen. "Everybody there knew her. Why'd you ask?"
"She's been doing spectacularly well, hasn't she?"
Tip Muller looked puzzled. "Oh, nothing special. I mean, she's no smarter than me or you. What's the problem, Mike?"
"I'm not sure yet. Hey, Tip, if Melinda isn't unusually good as a Trader, why does everybody there know her?"
"Well . . ." There was suddenly a cautious look on Muller's fresh-complexioned face. "Hey, Mike, do you and her have something special going?"
"No. We were in training together, but I haven't seen her since."
"All right, then, I don't mind telling you. She's famous because when she got to the Cook Islands she kind of went off the rails. To be more precise, she discovered sex."
"Melly Turak?"
"The same. I guess she wasn't that way in training? You know how it is, some people get to it late. She went wild between missions. Before I left she'd been to bed with just about everyone. Half the camp had been through her. She wasn't exactly what you'd call shy about it, either—she'd make the first move on anyone she wanted while they were still saying hello."
"I just can't believe it. Not the Melly Turak I knew."
"Well, maybe she changed. Hell, haven't you changed since you were in training? I know I sure as hell have." Tip Muller looked annoyed. "Look, Mike, I'm sorry if I sank your dream-boat. But what I'm telling you is the truth."
Mike shook his head and stared blankly at the screen. He sighed. "All right. I believe you—but I can't pretend I'm not shocked. Melly was so—well, nonsexual. One of the boys."
Tip looked at him, eyebrows raised. "You believe that? I can't stop you. But you may be saying more about yourself than about Melly."
"Could be." Mike didn't want to follow that thought any further. "Thanks a lot, anyway, Tip. I owe you one."
"Why are you asking me all this, Mike?"
"Melly Turak and I look as though we're going to be double teamed."
Tip Muller whistled. "Well, now. Make sure she keeps her mind on the mission."
"I'm having dinner with her tonight. I wanted to know what I was getting into."
Muller laughed. "Her, unless she's changed. Hold onto your pants, Mike, or she'll have 'em off before you get to the soup course. And say hello from me."
He was still grinning when Mike cut the connection. Mike was not grinning at all.
Not the Melly he knew from training camp, but a sort of female version of Lover-boy Lester. How had it happened?
His head was spinning as he walked down to the dining room where he was to meet her. In some ways he wished he had never spoken to Tip. It made things even more complicated. Melly had changed, and Mike's ideas about her had to change, too. She was Daddy-O's top choice for the mission, by a wide margin. And according to her record, she would be great in a negotiation.
Wasn't that the important point, not what she had been like last year in training camp? Even though he and Melly would have a hidden agenda, the negotiation for the Chip Beanstalk would be real enough. And it was going to be a tough one. They would be representing the Chipponese, but the Unified Empire held most of the cards. The Chipponese needed a partner at the ground end who wanted what they had to trade—energy—and who was sufficiently technological to be able to handle the Beanstalk tether. Rasool Ilunga and the Ten Tribes had the aspiration, but not the technology. The Unified Empire was sitting in a strong bargaining position. What did they want out of this deal?
Mike couldn't answer that question. But Melly might have some ideas.
She was already waiting for him at their table. Mike, still struggling with his prejudices, hung back at the edge of the dining room and watched for a few moments before he moved forward.
Melly was leaning back in her chair, making a steady, systematic evaluation of every other diner. Mike could see her gaze sweeping each one from head to foot, pausing for a moment, and then moving on.
He did his own inspection. It was unmistakably Melly, yet even from a distance she had changed. Her fair hair was cut low over her forehead now, instead of being swept back. That, and the loss of twenty pounds, transformed her appearance. She looked five years older, with a poise and steadiness that added another five. The puppy fat that she had carried as a trainee was gone, replaced by a supple, athletic build.
He approached from the side. When he was still ten feet away she somehow sensed his presence. She turned her head and looked up at him.
"Mike Asparian!" She stood up and held out her hand. "You've grown a mile. What happened to the little Mike I met in training camp?"
In the old days it would have been a warm and impulsive hug. Mike sighed and took her hand in both of his. "Three inches. I stopped growing late."
"I'm sorry, Mike," she said, and it was clear that she was not talking about his change in height. Her voice was lower than he remembered.
No need to ask what she was referring to. Mike felt warmth in the back of his neck. "I know you didn't decide the team, Melly. And it's my problem, not yours. Hell, I ought to be a junior partner. Half the time I
don't know what I'm doing."
"You don't really believe that. It's not your reputation, and it's not what I remember." Even her eyes seemed different. They were still wide and silver-gray, but they no longer had their old innocence. Her steady gaze ran up and down Mike's body, measuring and evaluating him in some way. He sat down hurriedly.
"But if you don't know what you're doing," she went on, "we ought to make a good team. I don't know what I'm doing either." She gave him a smile, warm and friendly, just like the old Melly. Mike felt relieved.
As food appeared on the table top, Mike watched her begin to eat. Her table manners were unchanged, too—precise, economical, and calm. But she didn't eat with the same gusto. No one would know from her facial expression whether she was eating gourmet fare or sawdust. The portions she took were small, and the only drink she had ordered for herself was water.
Fair enough. Apparently her appetites ran in other directions. Mike could not resist that thought. The big mystery was still the difference between Tip Muller's assessment and Daddy-O's records. Was she supercompetent, or wasn't she? Was it sour grapes on Tip's part?
She had been quietly watching him while they ate. "And you've changed, too," she said suddenly. "For the better, I think. You have a lot more self-confidence than you used to have."
"You mean I fake it better."
That earned a wider smile. "Could be. We're not children any more, are we? I'm really looking forward to this mission with you, Mike."
Yes—enjoying being my boss. Mike forced himself away from that thought. "It may be a tough one. What do you make of Dominic Mantilla?"
Mike expected a diffident answer, or maybe the neutral remark that the man seemed like a tough negotiator.
Instead Melly shook her head and said, "I suppose that we have no choice, and we will have to deal with him as the Unified Empire representative. But he's a—" She paused, picking her word carefully. Then she spoke very firmly. "A monster. A total monster."
"Do you know him, then?"
"No, but after my briefing I went after additional information."
So had Mike—but he had found nothing. What search technique did she have that he was missing?
"I'm sure Daddy-O laid the same quote by Mantilla on your message screen as he did on mine," she went on. "But did you know that most people call Dominic Mantilla by another name in the Unified Empire?"
"He's the Highlands coordinator, if that's what you mean."
"I'm thinking of something a bit more descriptive. Throughout the Empire, Dominic Mantilla is known as 'The Prince of Pain.' Did you know that?"
Mike didn't know; and he wasn't sure he wanted to. The Unified Empire was designed to provide every pleasure known to humankind, and the most famous joy land in the world had to be Ree-o-dee. But if one wanted drugs, one went to Sun-shone, in the south, where a thousand experiments a day were conducted into consciousness-changing. And if one craved blood sports and gambling, the place was Dreamtown—the same place that Dominic Mantilla had chosen to negotiate the Chipponese Beanstalk treaty. And in Dreamtown, or near to it, Wernher Eckart and Cesar Famares had broken off communication with the rest of the Traders.
"Why is he called the Prince of Pain?" Mike suspected he was not going to like the answer.
Melly shook her head and placed a neatly cut cube of cooked vegetable in her full-lipped mouth. She chewed slowly and carefully, then swallowed. "Daddy-O doesn't have many facts to offer. We know there's a strange gambling game played in Dreamtown and nowhere else in the Unified Empire. Its name is Counterpoint. Then there's a sport, Glissando, that's supposed to be super-dangerous and also found nowhere else. And that's all. Now you know as much about this as I do." She gave Mike another smile. "But by tomorrow evening, I hope we'll be seeing all that for ourselves."
Mike stared at her in surprise. Either she was the world's best person at concealing her real feelings, and therefore would make a marvelous negotiator and be a tremendous asset on the mission; or else Melly had acquired nerves of steel and was really looking forward to sticking her head in the lion's mouth of Dominic Mantilla's city—in which case she would, in Mike's opinion, be just about the worst thing that could happen to him. In his mind, successful Traders never looked for risks or enjoyed danger.
One thing seemed clear already. Melly had done her homework. She was much better prepared for this mission than he was.
They had both finished eating, and now she was staring at him steadily, her hands folded in her lap. Mike couldn't get Tip Midler's words out of his head. If she had been to bed with half the Cook Island training class, was she waiting for him to . . . or was she going to . . . and did he like that idea, or did he hate it? He suddenly thought of their first evening in the Darklands, when Melly had hung around the door of his room. Had she, even back then, been hinting that he should invite her in? It had never even occurred to him. But now . . .
"Well, Rule Twenty-seven," he said abruptly. "We've had the food and drink, as ordered, and now we ought to get some sleep."
She frowned at him. "Rule Twenty-seven: 'If you have time to spare, use it on additional preparation; it will always pay off.' "
He laughed. "No, not Twenty-seven in the official book. I mean in the other one."
Instead of replying, Melly sat frozen in front of him with an intense expression of concentration on her face. While Mike stared, she suddenly stood up and backed away from the table. "I'll see you tomorrow on the airplane," she said quickly. "I still have to make my preparations for the flight down there. Good night."
Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was agitated. She nodded to Mike and hurried out of the dining room.
He sat with an untasted glass of wine in front of him. What had he done? He certainly hadn't been trying to offend. But to say she needed time for preparation, when it was obvious that she was already well prepared . . . What had he said?
He thought back over his last few remarks. How could a Trader get upset by somebody quoting from the rule books? Could she have somehow misinterpreted what he meant?
The official book of Traders' Rules was beautifully bound and printed, and not very thick because although there were ninety-two rules in it most of them were one-liners. Traders got a nice, clean copy of the thing, fresh off the press, on the first day.
No one was officially given a copy of the other book of rules. It was not bound, it had usually been printed and copied on some flaky machine that made all the commas look like periods and filled in the middle of all the letters, and it was often tattered and greasy to the point of disgust. It contained crude language, crude thought, and occasional anonymous doggerel that just about managed to rhyme and scan.
And which one did a Trader rely on more?
That depended on age and cynicism. The books were very different. But after the first month, every Trainee knew both books by heart.
Rule 34 in the official rule book read: "Nature is not malevolent; if it appears so, you are doing something wrong."
That statement was true enough. But the other book had something to say on the same subject: "Life don't belong in the Universe, and everything is trying to kill you. Think the sons of bitches are out to get you? Damn right they are. Get eyes in the back of your head and use 'em to watch your rear end."
Rule 79 of the official book: "Promotion does not make you more intelligent; it only makes you need to be more intelligent. Be careful."
The unofficial manual said: "Been promoted? What do the bastards expect from you now?"
Rule 27 of the unofficial Rule Book, the one that Mike had been referring to, said: "Food, rest, sleep—take them whenever you can." An innocent enough remark. But what on earth had Melly read into it? Mike couldn't think of any way of misinterpreting it. Had she developed a mindless and irrational dislike for the unofficial Rule Book?
He sighed and picked up his glass. Maybe it was going to be a disastrous mission. He was feeling very worried—far more worried, apparently, than Melly. And m
ore than that, he was curiously irritated.
Melly had changed, that was clear. Now she supposedly made a pass at every halfway interesting man that she met. But she had shown no trace of interest in Mike.
And what did that say about him?
CHAPTER 10
To save travel time, the Trader craft that took them to their negotiation did not stop anywhere in the Unified Empire. It flew along the western coast of South America, with the snowcapped ranges of the Andes on the left, as far as Chimbote. Then the plane turned sharply inland. At the mountain city of Dreamtown, fifty miles from the sea, it hovered a couple of feet above the ground, just long enough for Mike and Melly to step down with their light hand luggage, then it turned west and accelerated away. It was out of sight in less than a minute.
Mike stood on the landing square and looked around him. The air was wonderfully clear, but the scene was too stark to be beautiful. Dreamtown stood on a level plateau in the middle of the Cordillera Blanca, sitting on a mile-wide ledge with mountains on all sides. The high peaks of the Andes were off to the east, rising another ten thousand feet. To the west, the land dropped away fast, swooping down to the distant gray-blue glimmer of the Pacific Ocean. Mike thought he could see in the distance a thin scar of dazzling white cutting its way down the steep mountain side.
While he was still staring around him, a high-pitched whistle came from behind.
Mike and Melly turned quickly. Waddling toward them across the landing square came two pudgy, squat figures. The smaller one stepped right up to the two Traders.
"Hello." There was another whistling grunt, and the blunt head smiled to reveal two big, orange-yellow incisors. "I am Dolly Caps, and this is Benjy Caps. We are at more than thirteen thousand feet altitude, but I hope that you do not feel too uncomfortable."
Cappies. Enhanced capybaras.
Mike looked at the thinly haired paw held out toward him. There were four fingers on it, with thick, hooflike nails, and the webbing of skin between the digits had been surgically cut to allow more independence of movement. The capybaras were about five feet tall now, standing upright, but looking at the callused paw, Mike could see that they were probably more at ease on all fours. Both the big rodents wore orange suits with brown pouch-pockets over their fat, tailless bodies.
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