Trader's World

by Charles Sheffield

  It came, but it was not to his satisfaction.

  "Only one sort of pie!" he said. He glared at the offending plate, banged on the hatch with his spoon, and looked at Mike accusingly. "Only one pie. Always get two pies when you're not here."

  "Here." Mike pushed a plate forward. He had hardly started his first course. "If you want it, you can have my creamcake."

  Paramine gave one slack-jawed gape, grinned, and pulled the plate to him. He grabbed the spoon. It took him twenty seconds at most to eat the creamy dessert. Then he picked up the dish, licked it clean, and grunted in disappointment. He still looked hungry. Apparently two helpings of one dessert did not equal one helping of two.

  "Only one sort of pie!" he said again.

  A little of Seth Paramine's company went a long way. Mike was relieved when the genius finally stood up and wandered around the room, muttering to himself about pies. Mike carried on eating his own food. He didn't even notice that Seth was near the door until it was already open and Paramine had gone out through it. Before Mike could get there it slammed shut again.

  "Seth!" Mike ran across and banged on it with both hands. "Seth, open the door. Let me out, too."

  Nothing. Not a word, not a sound. Mike groaned and went back to the table—just in time to see his own food disappear. The serving robots had assumed he was finished. It was his turn to bang on the hatch with the spoon, with no more success than Seth Paramine had enjoyed.

  Mike was still doing that when he heard the door behind him opening again. This time he moved a lot faster. As Seth came back in, triumphantly carrying a plateful of fruit pie, Mike made sure that the door stayed open.

  He held it ajar. "Seth, can you open this anytime?"

  Paramine nodded, mouth crammed full.

  "How do you do it?"

  Paramine shrugged. "I open lock."

  "Yes, but I mean how—" Mike stopped. Why bother? Whatever the answer, it wouldn't help. Seth did electronics at an intuitive level. Opening a mere electronic doorlock would be as natural to him as breathing.

  "You're sure you can open it anytime?" Mike asked again. When Paramine nodded, Mike pulled the door closed and allowed the lock to operate.

  He waited a couple of hours, then began to talk to Seth again. This time he had found his own key. They talked about food. Seth was quite willing to do that. He told Mike all his favorite kinds: sugared figs, roast wild goose, crabcakes, candied morels, corn bread, baked apples, seal-belly pie, stuffed flounder, snapper-turtle soup, treacle tart, fried oysters, persimmon flan—and anything with pineapples and chocolate.

  He listed foods in no particular order. When he was done, Mike sat down and developed a menu, scribbling on the serving hatch with one of Seth's crayons. It took a long time. He came up with twelve courses, not counting the side dishes of breads, salads, sauces, and trimmings, and every item selected for Seth's tastes.

  When Mike was finished he went to sit next to Seth. "I want to tell you about a dinner I'm going to give for my friends."

  Mike didn't hurry. Course by course, dish by dish, he described the whole meal. When he was finished there was a look on Seth's face that could only be described as religious ecstasy.

  "When?" he asked.

  "As soon as we get back to Cap City. Not far from here—we could fly there tonight. There's a skimmer that would take us."

  Seth stood up and headed for the door.

  "Wait a minute," Mike said. "We'll have to go outside. Do you have a chillsuit?"

  "Chillsuit?" The eyes were vacant again.

  "One of these." Mike showed him the suit he had arrived in.

  "Don't know." The heavyset shoulders shrugged. "You find one for me?"

  "We'll see. You'll have to open the door for us, though, before we can look."

  "Mm-mm." Seth picked up one of the pieces of metal spiral and wandered over to the door. All he seemed to do was wave it a couple of times next to the lock, and push. The door opened and he went through. The savant side of the idiot—but how did he do it? No wonder he had driven the Chill designers crazy.

  The corridor was deserted. They wandered along until they came to the elevator, and Mike saw nothing like an extra chillsuit. Could they manage without? No way. It might be fifty below zero out there.

  Somewhere in the main building there had to be spare suits. But looking for them could take all night, and once the two were seen it would be all over.

  Mike knew only one place where he was sure he would find a spare chillsuit. There was one in the skimmer.

  "Wait for me right here," he said. "Don't move for anything. I'll be right back."

  Without giving Paramine time to argue he stepped into the elevator and gave the signal to ascend. On the way up he took out his own chillsuit. By the time the door opened onto the surface he was completely suited, and near that door—thank God for the logical Chills—was a rack with half a dozen spare chillsuits. He picked one up and looked outside.

  Another snowstorm was on the way, and the first flakes were already falling. He took a few paces toward the opening in the metal fence, wanting to be sure that he knew how to get back to the skimmer with the worsening visibility. As he did so there was a roar and a flash of light in front of him. The gap in the fence vanished, replaced by a wall of burning gas that sprang up from the metal pipe at ground level.

  So much for the idea that security at Mundsen Labs was somewhere between casual and nonexistent. Anyone who came too close to the gap in the fence triggered the flaming wall. If he tried to go through it, he would be fried to a crisp.

  Unless . . . An item of basic physics popped into his head.

  Mike ran back to the elevator as fast as he could and jabbed at the down button. Somewhere an alarm would be ringing, and every second was important.

  Paramine was waiting, leaning idly against the wall. Mike dragged him into the elevator, hit the button to ascend, and started to work him into the other chillsuit. Halfway through Mike suddenly remembered. The things that terrify Seth Paramine . . . pins, needles and scissors . . . fire and flame . . .

  Seth would never run through that wall of flame.

  The suit was on, and the elevator was almost at the surface.

  "It's going to be dark and quiet when we get outside," Mike said quietly. "Don't worry, though, I know the way to the skimmer, and I'll always be holding your hand. All right?"

  "Mm-mm. Getting hungry."

  "Just wait, I'll give you the best dinner you've ever had." Mike lifted a suited hand and pressed at the suit controls under Paramine's chin just as the elevator door opened.

  "Dark," Mike heard him say. Then he was pulling Seth toward the fence.

  There was a whoosh of igniting gas when they were still five paces away. Mike kept going, leading the way right through the flame.

  Five seconds more and they were clear, heading for the skimmer and freedom.

  * * *

  They almost made it.

  Mike had them off the ground thirty seconds after they reached the skimmer. He didn't turn Seth's suit controls back on until they were already airborne.

  With the lifting surfaces extended he went up to fifteen thousand feet and opened the engines all the way. The speed climbed past Mach Two. Mike thought they were clear, on the way home. He took his chillsuit off and helped Seth to do the same. As he was finishing, the engine power faded away to zero and the craft went into a long, steep glide. No action at the controls made any difference.

  A thousand feet up the engines came to life again, with enough force to allow a controlled landing. The car skidded to a halt on a long bank of ice. After that last effort the engines refused to respond at all.

  One minute later another skimmer landed next to them. Three armed men came out of it and moved across to the ship. Mike had no weapons, not even a stick. There was no sense in trying to fight. He unlocked the door and the men came in, removing their suits as they entered.

  It was the bald-headed man, accompanied by two grim-fac
ed youngsters.

  "Well," the man said. "Well, well, well. I'm glad to see you're being sensible about this. I hope you realize that this makes us rethink our whole security system."

  Mike said nothing. Seth Paramine scowled and said, "We're going to dinner. Are you his friends?"

  "Not exactly." Baldy even managed a half smile and sat down on one of the cabin seats. "But maybe we will be, one day. We respect competence and ingenuity, you know, wherever it comes from. How did you learn that the chillsuits would allow you to pass safely through the fire?"

  Seth growled at that forbidden word, but did not move.

  "Elementary physics." (Why tell them this? he wondered. Then, why not? The same thing would never work again.) "I was told that a chillsuit radiates very little heat, and it's made of nonconducting material. If it won't radiate, it won't absorb either—emissivity and absorption have to be the same or the second law of thermodynamics is violated. And those—" Mike pointed at the projectile weapons "—support that idea. With a suit that reflects energy, lasers won't work—but you can still blow holes in people with old-fashioned guns."

  "True—but it's rare to find somebody with so much faith in physical laws. I'm not sure I'd take that risk myself." This time it was a real smile. "Oh, well. What now?"

  "You tell me. You're in charge."

  "That's right, I suppose I am." The man sat without moving for a few seconds, looking at Mike with a curiously friendly expression. "Naturally, we'll be taking Paramine back with us. And we'll erase that little gadget you carry in your finger, if you don't mind, so there's no record to show of all this. But after that . . . you know, I'll feel much more relaxed when Mikal Asparian is back in Cap City—or better still, Trader Headquarters. You make me uncomfortable. I really don't want you at Mundsen Labs again. So let me make a call or two and work out what's to be done with you."

  The trio headed for the door, keeping Mike well covered with their weapons. Then Baldy turned in the doorway. "Just so you don't set Seth to work picking locks again, let me mention that this is a mechanical closure, not an electronic one. And we'll be keeping an eye on this door all the time. See you shortly."

  Mike went to the window and watched them walk back to their aircar. As the bald-headed man had promised, one of them was always looking back, and once they were inside Mike saw a face peering out through their window.

  He sat down glumly in the pilot's seat. How long did they have? It didn't make any difference. Even if time was too short, he had to make the effort.

  Mike leaned forward to look at the car's control panel. It was held in place by half a dozen missy-bolts, with their hollow pentagon heads. A bad start—without the correct missy-bolt screwdriver he would never be able to turn them. He got down on hands and knees, crawled forward into the knee space below the control panel, turned his head around so far that he thought his neck would break, and peered upward. The light level was so low under the knee cavity that he couldn't see a thing, and there was no flashlight in the cabin. And the panel was only a couple of inches from his face. He couldn't have focused so close, even in perfect light.

  Time to think.

  Mike crawled back out and found Seth staring at him with a bit more interest than usual. "I'm trying to get the panel off. This one. Any ideas?"

  Seth stared at it for ten seconds. "No," he said.

  So much for help from Genius-boy. If it wasn't food or electronics, forget Seth. Mike went back to sit in the useless control chair and stared at the panel for another five minutes. Then he went across to one of the chillsuits, lifted it above his head, and slipped it on. He didn't bother to seal it. As soon as the unit was working he crawled back into the cavity and did the contortionist act again with his head.

  The image enhancement equipment in the suit's optical sensors had compensation for low light levels, as well as improved contrast and focus. Now he could see the panel clearly from two inches away, and he could scan across it by turning his head.

  It was built in two pieces, meeting at a groove that ran from front to back. Mike pushed, and it gave a little. Since there was no sign of bolts or screws, it was probably held in position by the pressure of the front panel. Remove that, and the lower panel would slide out in two parts. Unfortunately, he still couldn't get the front panel off.

  He was stymied again, but not too badly this time. Mike suspected that the panels butted with a simple tongue-and-groove joint, and there was no reason why they should be glued.

  He turned over to lie flat on his back, reached up with suited hands, and pushed the right-hand side of the panel.

  The plate bent a little, then resisted. It was meeting something above it. Well, to hell with it. If Mike broke their machine, what could they do about it? He braced his back and straightened his arms as hard as he could. There was a creak of strained plastic, then the plate sprang upward. It had separated from its partner, and now he could slide them over each other and reach up into the back side of the front panel.

  Now came the really delicate part. To this point Mike had been trying hard enough, but with no real hope of success. Now that he was making progress he was scared of ruining everything. He felt for the racks, reaching up as gently as he could. It was no good, he would never do it by feel. He was forced to stick his head up through the panel, squint at the control assemblies sitting right at the end of the suit's nose, and try at the same time to work with one hand up next to his eyes.

  Predictably, the electronic boards he was after couldn't be taken out from the bottom. He would have to remove the front panel, then slide them out that way. And that brought him back to the old problem of the missy-bolts. But now he had one advantage. He could come at them from the back, where that hollow pentagonal bolthead did not apply. On the other end of the bolts were, thanks to old-fashioned engineering, nothing more than simple hex-head nuts. Mike could get a grip on them; after a monstrous effort that left his fingertips throbbing and didn't do much for the chillsuit's condition, he was able to undo them.

  With the front panel off, he could finally reach the heart of the control panel. It consisted of five boards, each the size and thickness of a playing card.

  Mike looked at his watch. Unbelievable. He had only been at work for twenty-five minutes—not the three or four hours it seemed to be. He carried the boards across to where Seth was sitting idly, staring out at the snow.

  "Here. I've got a little game for you to play. It's a puzzle. Somewhere on these control boards is a piece of logic that allows the inputs from the usual controls to be overridden by other inputs mat arrive as radio signals. The thing I'd like to know is, where is that logic? And can it be changed?"

  Seth sniffed, took the assembly from Mike's hands, and stared at it for a few seconds. He shook his head. "Don't know."

  Mike felt crushed. All that effort, for a two-second rejection. "Can't you tell anything at all about the circuits?"

  "No." Seth sat staring ahead of him for a while. Then, as though struck by a random afterthought, he added, "Too small."

  Too small.

  "Damnation. You mean—" Mike stopped. He should curse himself, not Seth Paramine. Seth was used to working with enlarged schematics. He didn't have eyes like a microscope, any more than Mike did. To analyze these microcircuits he had to be able to see them!

  It took another precious five minutes to get Seth into the suit, with assurances that they were not going outside again. Finally Seth was sitting hunched over in the corner, holding each control board in turn half an inch from the chillsuit's nose. Now and again he gave a grunt of surprise, pleasure, or disappointment.

  After five minutes Seth went back to one of the boards, the third in the assembly, and pointed at an area about an inch from the right-hand edge. "Here."

  Mike stifled the urge to ask how he knew. Even the explanation would be beyond him. "Can you change it? Is there any way of making it so that the controls can't be affected from anywhere except the control panel here?"

  "Sure."
Seth pointed again. "Four ways to do. Easiest, cut these circuits out, cross-connect those four."

  He was pointing at things that were completely invisible to Mike. If it was too small to see, it was probably too small to change.

  "What about the other ways? Is there a way with big enough elements for us to do the change without special equipment?"

  "Sure. Change these." Seth pointed again. Mike had the feeling that he would get that same answer—"sure"—if he asked Seth to change the controls of the aircar so that it could sing and dance.

  "Can you do it?"

  "Sure. Do all four ways, if want to." Seth started to take his chillsuit off.

  "Hey. What are you doing?"

  "Tools." While Mike gaped, Seth removed his suit partway and rummaged in one of the front pockets of his blue overalls. He took out a dozen tools—including, Mike was chagrined to note, two sizes of missy-driver—and selected a tiny scriber from a handful of the smallest ones. "Okay." He disappeared back into the chillsuit and started work.

  Seen from Mike's point of view, Seth didn't do a thing. He just made two insignificant nicks on the surface of one of the boards and a longer scratch parallel to its edge. It took a total of about twenty seconds, then he slipped all the boards back into the chassis and handed Mike the assembly without a word. Mike carried them to the control panel, slid them into locked position, and pushed the panel face back in after them.

  Now for the interesting part. If something hadn't been ruined when Mike buckled the bottom panel upward, or when he fiddled around inside turning the missy-bolts, or when he pulled the control assembly out, or when he put it back; and if Seth hadn't misunderstood the logic of the boards, and hadn't put one of his tiny scratches a little too far to the left or the right—why, then they might have a working aircar. And if the snow wasn't bad enough to cripple them at takeoff, or drive them down right out of the air, and if Mike's bald-headed friend didn't have another trick up his sleeve that Mike couldn't even guess at—why, then they might be able to fly back to Cap City.

  There was no point in thinking about it. Mike sat in the pilot's seat, not bothering to tighten any of the bolts in the loose panel, and switched on. As they skittered along the ice they passed the other car, and Mike saw two faces gaping out of the window. But there was no shooting. Thirty seconds later they were in the air, heading at maximum speed for success, home, and fame.