"I do not understand." The prime facilitator’s reedy voice dropped, now sounding like a violin slightly out of tune. "Here we have the correct forms, as agreed between our three estimable races in the venerable Concord of Harmony."
Rip saw Dane wince slightly and shake his head, and thumb the jeweled ring on his middle finger. Rip saw a blue light flash briefly. Then Dane looked up and said, "I just thought there’d be information about the former owners on these papers."
"Ah! You are careful, Gentle Trader, and this indicates an excellent being of business acumen. We congratulate you upon your perspicacity, for this is an attribute well loved among my people." She produced a flurry of sounds. "The papers are correct; if you had completed a sale, then indeed, gracing the forms would be all the information you refer to. But such is not traditional in relinquishment of title."
"Is there a way we can find out where the former owners are?" Dane asked.
Koytatik droned on a weird note. "Alas!" she keened. "To my sorrow I apprehend that our distinguished guests do not, in fact, trust the operatives of our registry precincts—"
"That’s not it at all," Dane said. He took a quick swipe at his brow, and shot a pained look at Rip. "I, uh, we just had a question or two we were hoping you’d help us with. What we’d like to do is find out where those old owners are, or who their heirs are, and, well—"
Rip heard Dane falter. Captain Jellico had said they could try to find out who the old owners were—but they both knew he would not authorize risking an upset with local authorities just to satisfy their curiosity. Rip said quickly, "It’s the custom where we come from to send our condolences to the relinquishing party. Just so there’s no hard feelings."
Again the prime facilitator produced an array of sounds. None of them were unpleasant, but Rip felt a slight twinge behind his eyes, as if the air pressure in the room had dropped briefly. "I perceive!" she exclaimed. "Abject apologies do I owe to you, good Traders, for the length with which my poor faculties were unable to comprehend the laudable sentiments under which you labor. Alas, it is my profound regret to inform you that such is not customary through my registry. I must abase myself before you; it will take time for me to supplicate my superiors, to discover the proper forms with which to afford you this special request."
Dane glanced up. Rip knew he was hearing the same thing: special request probably means special fees.
Dane got to his feet. "Perhaps we can return to this question some other time, then. You are busy, and we have to give this data back to our captain."
The prime facilitator also rose, and again began the long litany of compliments, but this time the sounds seemed subtly different. Rip watched the blue light flicker on Dane’s ring, and wondered what the ultrasonics meant.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the ubiquitous Kanddoyd guides, both men paused on the causeway. Rip said, "Deadend?"
Dane nodded. "Apparently so. I guess we could try to pursue it—if we had time, and money." He glanced down at the paper again. "The registry fees are stiff enough, but the captain said that they’d figured those into our budget. I hadn’t counted on extra fees for this data. Thought it’d be
included."
"I’ve got an idea," Rip said. "Why don’t we try Trade’s com center? If we get humans there, it might be easier to explain and initiate a search, at least."
"Good thinking." The tall cargo apprentice led the way back inside.
Rip realized that Dane had spent much of his free time exploring around; he knew exactly where to go.
Once again they encountered Kanddoyd functionaries, but this time, when they made it plain they wanted to go to the Terran Sphere’s office in the communications center, they were passed on with what must have seemed to the Kanddoyds incredible speed.
It was a relief to both apprentices when they walked into the office and saw the usual fabulous holos of different planets with their relative times and dates ticking off the passing seconds, and the illuminated directions flashing in countless alphabets. Trade Service communications offices were much the same everywhere, then, right down to the preponderance of humanoid workers behind the counters.
There were even, Rip noted with an inward smile, lines; they joined the one below a holographic designation that indicated communications going to Solar system planets and moons.
The woman immediately before them wore the insignia of Inter-Stellar. She glanced back with disinterest, then turned around again.
Rip nodded politely when his eyes met hers, but he felt no compunction to chat. They’d had too many unpleasant encounters with I-S in the past, and instinct warned him against having to answer even the easiest questions now.
But the woman showed no disposition to talk to them while the man at the front of the line finished his business. At last it was her turn; she handed over a chip, apparently pre-registered, received one in return, and she was gone a moment later.
The young man behind the counter scanned their Free Trader brown tunics with the apprentice insignia, then said in a bored voice, "Chip or
flimsy?"
"Neither—" Dane started.
The worker cut in. "We don’t write mail for you. Keyboards over there." He nodded to some little booths on the adjacent wall. "Translation charges flat fee."
Rip said, "We want to run an ID check first—Free Traders, just like us. We’re off the Solar Queen, Terra registry six-five-seven-two-four-nine-one-zero-JK."
The bored clerk keyed in the number as quickly as Rip spoke it, and waited with unconcealed impatience for a few seconds. He plainly expected the ID to come up green so he could get on with the request; after a long pause, he gave an impatient sigh and tapped at his console.
"Must be a data jam," he muttered. "Just to make sure, let’s have that number again."
This time Dane spoke it, slowly and clearly. The man typed it in equally slowly; then his boredom changed to perplexity as he stared at his blank screen. "My com must be down. Wait here." He shut down his console and disappeared through a narrow door directly behind him.
They stood at the counter as, on either side of them, several people came and went. Fewer people were left in the room now; none had come in for a time.
Presently Dane, who had been scanning the papers, said, "Interesting."
"What?" Rip asked, watching one of the techs close down her computer and blank the sign above her cubicle.
"Date the claim was registered is only in some local time or other. I thought everything was supposed to be in Terran Standard."
"Maybe not out this far," Rip said. "Look, that counter over there is empty—"
Just then the door behind the counter where they stood opened again, but instead of the bored young man, a tall Shver with arcane caste markings on his forehead and arms trod with heavy step to the counter, and looked down at the two Queen's men. "Inquire you?" he said, his voice so deep Rip almost felt it through the floor.
"Thanks, we’re just waiting for the other worker to return," Rip said.
"Is end of shift for his," the Shver said. "Am the Jheel of Clan Golm. Serve I now."
"We are trying to locate the IDs of some Free Traders, registered through Terran Trade Service, like ourselves," Dane said.
The Shver looked impassively at them, his thick fingers resting as if by chance on his shauv, the serrated honor knife all adult Shver wore. Rip wondered if the beings had any natural expressions besides a kind of detached glower. "Is your ID?"
"Dane Thorson, apprentice cargo master, Solar Queen, and Rip Shannon, apprentice astrogator, also of the Solar Queen," Dane said, and then for the third time quoted the registration number.