“Come on,” Jeremy said. “We can at least know .”
They’d had the entire ship in an uproar, looking for what wasn’t aboard; and what Jeremy had known wasn’t aboard. Now Jeremy argued for finding out where the hisa stick really was.
And maybe that in itself was a good thing for the whole ship. Maybe Finity officers could do something personally to get it back, as the kids could have a part in finding it, and maybe then the whole ship could settle things within itself.
Maybe he could settle things in himself, then. Maybe he could find a means not to destroy one more situation for himself, and to get the stick back, so he’d not have to spend a life wondering what Cyteen shop had bought a hisa memory… and to whom it might have sold it, a curiosity, to hang on some wall
“All right,” he said, suddenly resolved. “We take a look. Only a look. It’s not for us to do anything about it. We can at least look and see whether that guy back there is putting us on. Which he probably is. Do you hear me?”
“Yessir,” Jeremy said, the most fervent yessir he’d heard out of Jeremy in weeks.
“Yessir,” Vince said, and Linda bobbed her head.
“Behave,” he said severely, and took the troops toward the five hundreds.
Chapter 25
Arnason Imports, Ltd. was the name of the shop, not one of those on the front row, which Fletcher had rather expected, but one of those tucked into a nook toward the rear of a maintenance recess between another import company and a jeweler’s. It wasn’t a bad address. But it wasn’t a shop of the quality that the address might have indicated, either, and Fletcher had second thoughts about the junior-juniors, the hour—which meant an area less trafficked than it would have been in mainday. The jeweler’s was closed. The other business was open, but it had a sign saying No Retail.
“Not real prosperous,” he said, with flashes on the dock-sides of his ill-spent youth. “Just go slow.” Jeremy was tending to get ahead of him. “Listen, you. I want it understood. No smart moves here. Believe me.”
“Yessir,” Jeremy said, bounced on the balls of his feet in that nervous way he had, and charged ahead.
There was no surety the stick was even in the shop. “Calm down ,” Fletcher snapped, and the kids assumed a far quieter disposition. Jeremy was still first through the door, setting off a buzzer, no melodious bell.
A man stood up from behind a desk all but overwhelmed by stacks of oddments, boxes, masks, statuary, shelves with crystal specimens, more of the plastic bouquets, fiber mats and dried plants, dried fish, one truly large one mounted on a board. There was a whole mounted animal with horns, at which Vince exclaimed, “Wild,” and Linda looked appalled.
Jeremy was on to the display cabinets like a junior whirlwind, looking under counters, into cabinets.
“Wild,” Vince said again.
It was impressive. But the man at the counter was on his way to panic.
Fletcher whipped out the card and laid it on the table. “You came recommended,” he said. “Man said you had a good stock.”
“Best this side of Cyteen,” the man said. “Mr…”
“James,” he improvised, the fastest name to any Neihart tongue. But then he remembered the Family name problem, and settled fast on what he knew was a Unionside ship. “Off Boreale .”
“Union.”
“Out of Cyteen. Just doing a little business, here and there, got a few contacts. Man asked me to, you know, pick him up a couple of good items at our turnaround point. He’s government.” He’d heard about Cyteen officials on the take. It was rumored, at least, on Pell docks. “I’m looking.”
“Got any downer stuff?” Jeremy blurted out.
“The kid’s crazy about downers,” Fletcher said, at that nervous dart of the eyes, and the man darted a glance back. “What I’m interested in is just the unusual. The shop that referred us here, you know, said you might have some back-room stock.”
“There’s the warehouse.” Cagey answers. Saying nothing.
“Not interested in what you can see elsewhere. The man gives me money on account, I’m not bringing him junk, you know what I mean?”
“What price range are you interested in?”
“Say my captain knows. Say that kind of finance. Not interested in running contraband, understand. Just the unique piece. No boxes of stuff. Seen enough woven mats to last me. Stuff’s junk. Get those damn bugs in it and it falls apart.”
It was a piece of truth, something somebody who was dealing in downer goods would know. If a mat was smuggled and not passed through sterilization, microfauna came in the reeds. Destruction of whole illicit collections had resulted.
“No fools here. We irradiate everything.”
“Show me,” he said, and shot the kids a be-still look.
The man went to the back door, and left it open while he rummaged just the other side of the door.
He’s got something , Jeremy lip-sent, exaggerated enough to read across a station dock, and he lip-sent back, Shut up .
The man came back with several bundles. Unrolled mats, weavings, old ones. Fletcher’s heart beat fast. He knew which band had produced them.
He managed to brush idle fingertips across the simple pattern and look bored.
Another mat unrolled.
And Satin’s stick landed atop it, unfolded out of tissue.
“God.” From the back of Fletcher’s elbow, Jeremy eeled past Vince and picked it up, held it up to the light.
“Careful!” the man said.
“Jeremy,” Fletcher said severely, and willed the boy quiet, his own heart beating hard. He took the artifact from Jeremy’s hand. “Looks genuine.”
“Riverside culture, maybe Wartime. A lot of stuff got up here then.”
When Mazian’s forces occupied the planet and took what they damn well pleased.
“I’d believe it,” he said easily. He’d dealt in pilfered goods. Never this class of article. Price might be the giveaway of an amateur. “What’s your valuation?”
“Oh, you’ve done this before.”
“I said.”
“You come in here with kids…”
“Good cover.” He shrugged. “Say I could probably meet this. Customs is my problem.”
“I’ll arrange which agent. If you meet the price.”
This man was going to arrange which customs agent dealt with Boreale . This was no small-time operator. And he’d believed the Boreale business.
“So…” he said carefully. “What are we talking about in exchange?”
“Sixty thousand.”
“Fifty.”
“Sixty firm. This isn’t Green.”
“Fifty-five.”
“Fifty-nine and that’s the bottom.”
“Fifty-nine’s fine, but I’ve got arrangements to make.” He was faking it He had no idea how transactions like this regularly passed, and he dreaded any move, any helpful word from the junior-juniors crowded up against the counter on either side of him.
“Arrangements are easy.” The man reached for a paper invoice book. “You arrange your captain does a bulk buy, Earth origin export I’ll give you a certificate. It’ll be included.” The man scribbled on the paper, tore it off, handed it to him. “That’s the total price. It’s in there. You see that clears the bank. It’ll be in the crate.”
He wasn’t such a fool as to trust the system. He gave the man a doubting look. “Got to talk to my captain, understand.”
“The deal’s not done till that payment’s in the account. Anybody comes in here, he could buy it if he meets the price.”
Oldest sales push in the book. In Babylon, they must have used it. He gave the man the eye.