“Just how often do you come here?” he asked, largely to drown out silence.
“About onze a Terra-year,” answered Zalat. “However, dere is ot’er merchantz on dis route. I have de fur trade, but Altai alzo produzes gemz, mineralz, hides, variouz organic productz, even dried meatz, w’ich are in zome demand at home. Zo dere is usually a Betelgeusean zhip or two at Ulan Baligh.”
“Will you be here long?”
“I hope not. It iz a tediouz plaze for a non-human. One pleasure houze for uz haz been eztab-lizhed, but-” Zalat made another face. “Wid de dizturbanzez going on, fur trapping and caravanz have been much hampered. Lazt time I had to wait a ztandard mont’ for a full cargo. Diz time may be worze.”
Oh-oh, thought Flandry. But he merely asked aloud: “Since the metals and machinery you bring in exchange are so valuable, I wonder why some Altaians don’t acquire spaceships of their own and start trading.”
“Dey have not dat kind of zivilization,” Zalat replied. “Remember, our people have been coming here for lezz dan a zentury. Before den Altai was izolated, onze de original zhipz had been worn out. Dere was never zo great an interest among dem in re-eztablizhing galactic contact az would overcome de handicap of poverty in metalz w’ich would have made zpazezship building eggzpenzive for dem. By now, might-be, zome of de younger Altaian malez have zome wizh for zuch an enterprize. But lately de Kha Khan has forbidden any of his zubjectz from leaving de planet, eggzept zome truzted and verry cloze-mout’ perzonal reprezentatives in de Betelgeu-zean Zyztem. Dis prohibition is might-be one reazon for de inzurrectionz.”
“Yeh.” Flandry gave the ice fields a hard look. “If it were my planet, I think I’d look around for an enemy to sell it to.”
And still I’m going there, he thought. Talk about your unsung heroes! Though I suppose, the more the Empire cracks and crumbles, the more frantically a few of us have to scurry around patching it. Or else the Long Night could come in our own sacrosanct lifetimes.
And in this particular instance, his mind ran on, I have reason to believe that an enemy is trying to buy the planet.
II
Where the Zeya and the Talyma, broad shallow rivers winding southward over the steppes from polar snows, met at Ozero Rurik, the city named Ulan Baligh was long ago founded. It had never been large, and now the only permanent human settlement on Altai had perhaps 20,000 residents. But there was always a ring of encampments around it, tribesmen come to trade or confer or hold rites in the Prophet’s Tower. Their tents and trunks walled the landward side of Ulan Baligh, spilled around the primitive spaceport, and raised campfire smoke for many kilometers along the indigo lakeshore.
As the spaceship descended, Captain Flandry was more interested in something less picturesque. Through a magnifying viewport in the after turret, to which he had bribed his way, he saw that monorail tracks encircled the city like spider strands; that unmistakable launchers for heavy missiles squatted on them; that some highly efficient modern military aircraft lazed on grav repulsors in the sky; that barracks and emplacements for an armored brigade were under construction to the west, numerous tanks and beetlecars already prowling on guard; that a squat building in the center of town must house a negagrav generator powerful enough to shield the entire urban area.
That all of this was new.
That none of it came from any factories controlled by Terra.
“But quite probably from our little green chums,” he murmured to himself. “A Merseian base here, in the buffer region, outflanking us at Catawrayannis… Well, it wouldn’t be decisive in itself, but it would strengthen their hand quite a bit. And eventually, when their hand looks strong enough, they’re going to fight.”
He suppressed a tinge of bitterness at his own people, too rich to spend treasure in an open attack on the menace-most of them, even, denying that any menace existed, for what would dare break the Pax Terrestria? After all, he thought wryly, he enjoyed his furloughs Home precisely because Terra was decadent.
But for now, there was work at hand. Intelligence had collected hints in the Betelgeuse region: traders spoke of curious goings-on at some place named Altai; the archives mentioned a colony far off the regular space lanes, not so much lost as overlooked; inquiry produced little more than this, for Betelgeusean civilians like Zalat had no interest in Altaian affairs beyond the current price of angora pelts.
A proper investigation would have required some hundreds of men and several months. Being spread horribly thin over far too many stars, Intelligence was able to ship just one man to Betelgeuse. At the Terran Embassy, Flandry received a slim dossier, a stingy expense account, and orders to find what the devil was behind all this. After which, overworked men and machines forgot about him. They would remember when he reported back, or if he died in some spectacular fashion; otherwise, Altai might well lie obscure for another decade.
Which could be a trifle too long, Flandry thought.
He strolled with elaborate casualness from the turret to his cabin. It must not be suspected on Altai what he had already seen: or, if that information leaked out, it must absolutely not be suspected that he suspected these new installations involved more than suppressing a local rebellion. The Khan had been careless about hiding the evidence, presumably not expecting a Terran investigator. He would certainly not be so careless as to let the investigator take significant information home again.
At his cabin, Flandry dressed with his usual care. According to report, the Altaians were people after his own heart: they liked color on their clothes, in great gobs. He chose a shimmerite blouse, green embroidered vest, purple trousers with gold stripe tucked into tooled-leather half boots, crimson sash and cloak, black beret slanted rakishly over his sleek seal-brown hair. He himself was a tall well-muscled man; his long face bore high cheekbones and straight nose, gray eyes, neat mustache. But then, he patronized Terra’s best cosmetic biosculptor.
The spaceship landed at one end of the concrete field. Another Betelgeusean vessel towered opposite, confirming Zalat’s claims about the trade. Not precisely brisk-maybe a score of ships per standard year-but continuous, and doubtless by now important to the planet’s economy.
As he stepped out the debarkation lock, Flandry felt the exhilaration of a gravity only three-fourths that of Home. But it was quickly lost when the air stung him. Ulan Baligh lay at eleven degrees north latitude. With an axial tilt about like Terra’s, a wan dwarf sun, no oceans to moderate the climate, Altai knew seasons almost to the equator. The northern hemisphere was approaching winter. A wind streaking off the pole sheathed Flandry in chill, hooted around his ears, and snatched the beret from his head.
He grabbed it back, swore, and confronted the portmaster with less dignity than he had planned. “Greeting,” he said as instructed; “may peace dwell in your yurt. This person is named Dominic Flandry, and ranges Terra, the Empire.”
The Altaian blinked narrow black eyes, but otherwise kept his face a mask. It was a wide, rather flat countenance, but not purely mongoloid: hook nose, thick close-cropped beard, light skin bespoke caucasoid admixture as much as the hybrid language. He was short, heavy-set, a wide-brimmed fur hat was tied in place, his leather jacket was lacquered in an intricate design, his pants were of thick felt and his boots fleece-lined. An old-style machine pistol was bolstered at his left side, a broad-bladed knife oh the right.