It was quite unlike a local customs official togive a clue to a favorable trade. "Thank you," Patsaid. "I have the cargo manifest on the bridge. Ican offer you a cup of coffee while you're looking itover."
"Good, if it's a UP brand," Hook said. "I am especially fond of a certain brand from the planetZede II. It is called Zede's Pride."
Pat took a quick, closer look at the customsman. He had not expected contact so quickly, anddefinitely not with a Taratwo official.
"Yes," he said. "I have that brand. It's said thatthe flavor comes from the peculiar quality of thelight of a Zede II sunset, which glows like moltencopper."
Hook completed the preset identification formula. "Especially at the winter solstice," he said. "Welcome to Taratwo, Captain Howe."
"Are you the passenger?" Pat asked, thinkingthat if he was, he might lift off immediately. He could, after all, trade the drugs, if not as favorablyas on an out-planet, on the way home. There wassomething about the aura of semigloom, whichdeepened as the day died, that made him uneasy.
"No, I am not," Hook said. "Control has sent outword that a free trader has arrived. You can complete your business tomorrow. The passenger willboard sometime before sunrise on the day after tomorrow."
Pat felt a little shiver of doubt. If the passengerwas legal, why would he board in the dead ofnight?
"I'd like the passenger to be aboard tomorrowmorning, just in case I finish my trading early."
"Your passenger will board no later than onehour before sunrise on the day after tomorrow,"Hook said, and there was a finality in his voice. He smiled again, showing that Taratwo's dentists werea bit behind the times. "You will be number oneat the customs shed at one hour after sunrise tomorrow. I will be there. Inspection of your tradegoods will be our only point of discussion."
"Got you," Pat said, not liking it, not liking it atall.
Darkness came to Taratwo with a rush. Thesmoky sky lowered. Just after the stygian darkclosed around the ship a tremor rippled the flexible metal grid of the landing pad, causingSkimmer'sgyros to whine in adjustment.
Pat set all detectors. The ship was an armedcamp. Instruments would detect the approach ofwhatever passed for a mouse on Taratwo, or thefocusing of any sort of beam on the ship.
For his dinner, he selected Tigian dragon's-tailsteak and Xanthos salad. He wasn't sleepy.Skimmer operated on Xanthos standard time, which did notmatch Taratwo's time, and he didn't feel like taking a sleeping pill.
As he ate, he checked the ship's film catalog.He'd added several new titles in preparation forthe trip, and he'd seen all of them at least once,with the exception of a film which had been givento him on Zede II by his "businessmen" charterers, with a hearty recommendation to enjoy. Hehadn't run it because, as a rule, he found Zedeianfilms to be heavy, often deep in psychological complications which would not have puzzled a XanthosU. freshman, always gloomy in outlook.
When he punched up the film he was pleasantly surprised. The theme was very Zedeian, but it had interest, if only to show that the Zedeians had aslightly antique view of the role of women insociety.
There was nothing wrong with the technical aspects of Zede filmmaking. Zedeians were, after all,the Confederation's finest technicians. The holographic image was almost realistic enough to stepinto. The acting was surprisingly good. The star ofthe film was a delicately built redhead with aknockout face and an extraordinary body. The story told of a young woman in love with one man. Shewas being forced by custom and her parents tomarry another. It was a period piece, set in thatdistant past before the Zedeian war, and as thestory progressed Pat began to see and hear references to Zede pride and Zede military strength.The male actors strutted, spoke with an arrogancewhich was familiar, because, although they weresupposed to be historical characters, their thoughtpatterns were the same as those of the Zedeians Pat had known.
He hadn't paid much attention to the credits inthe beginning. When the film ended he started it again and looked for the name of the redheadedactress. She was listed as Corinne Tower. Whenshe first appeared she was sweeping down a wide,curving flight of stairs, dressed in formal gown,hair piled atop her head. Pat froze motion, left theminiature woman frozen in space, so lifelike, somuch woman. Finally, with a sigh, he turned offthe projector.
He went to sleep with ease and dreamed of theredheaded woman. It was a very exciting dream.
TWO
A light, sooty rain delayed dawn. Pat lifted theSkimmeron her flux thrusters to land her directlyin front of the customs building. Other landingpads were already occupied by pitted and rustedwork vessels, long in service, and two new atmospace vehicles. The names of the ships were, ofcourse, in English. It was a one-language galaxy,unless one happened to stumble into an obscurefield of esoteric knowledge, the study of extinct languages which had survived in fragments, or ofthat one alien language which man had encounteredin a book which was all that remained of a fascinating civilization out among the colliding galaxies in Cygnus.
While he waited for Captain John Hook and hismen to boardSkimmer to check her cargo, Patsavored the names of the local ships:Canny Belle,Mary's Darlin', Jay-Ann.The two newer ships apparently belonged to the same company, since the names showed little imagination:Capcor I andCapcor II.
From appearances, some form of free enterpriseexisted on Taratwo. Pat guessed correctly that the rusted, battered older ships belonged to independent prospectors or miners.
"You are cleared, Captain," John Hook said, handing over papers to be signed in triplicate. "I have heard that Capcor has eyes for your cargo. They'll go high."
"That's what I like," Pat said. "Thank you again."
He rode the cart which moved his cargo insidethe customs shed. There were thieves in customsin more prosperous and civilized places than OldDublin.
His was the only merchandise inside the hugeshed. The customs men helped him offload thecases from the cart. About two dozen men surrounded the platform on which his goods had beenplaced. He had had the computer print out copiesof his cargo manifest. He handed them out, smiling, saying, "Morning, gentlemen."
A tall, well-dressed man with a well-styled headof heavy black hair pushed forward. "Captain,there's no need for that. I am prepared to makeyou the highest offer. I will take your entire cargo."
Well, why not? He was after the highest price.He owned no obligation to the less well-dressedtraders who surrounded the platform. But whenhe looked into the tall man's eyes he saw coldness.The thin lips were pressed together. The face wasset in an imperious sneer as the tall man glanced atthe others.
Sometimes you just take an instant dislike for aman. It wasn't logical. It wasn't even good business. It made sense to think that the biggest firm,the firm with the new ships outside, would be in aposition to pay the highest price.
Pat didn't always operate on logic.
"You wanta take all the fun out of it?" he asked,grinning disarmingly at the tall, stern-faced manwho represented Capcor, whatever that was.
"Are you here for fun or for a profit?" the manasked.
Pat didn't answer immediately. He noted thatthe clothing worn by the tall man was a sort ofcompany uniform. Below the Capcor name andlogo on the left breast pocket was the name T.O'Shields. "These boonie rats can't match my offer,"O'Shields said coldly. "Excuse me, Mr. O'Shields," said a grizzled, thinboonie rat. "If you don't mind, I flew all night tobe first in
line. I have the first number." The oldman sounded servile, but there was a steady gleamin his eyes as he