She emerged finally into a large, less cluttered area; saw Chaim at last, gesturing over an equipment list, a pile of potential purchases growing at his feet. He glanced up, as though her tension radiated like cold, and broke off his conversation with the shopman. But his face stayed flatly expression less, unlike her own; the gift of his career as a professional liar. “This is my partner. She'll fill you in on anything else we need.”
She moved across the open space, joined the two men beside the counter where a small screen recorded the growing cost of their journey. The shopman regarded her with mixed emotions; she ignored him for the pile of supplies. She stared at the screen again, tallying the list in her mind, feeling a resentment rooted in something deeper than her ignorance of a prospector's needs: “Do we really need all that, Dartagnan?”
“We need more. But we can't afford it.” He glanced uncomfortably at the shopman.
“What about that spectroscope? The ship already has one.” She touched the one word on the screen that she really recognized, her fingers rigid.
“Not good enough. Sekka-Olefin already knew what he was looking for, and where to find it. We don't. We need all the help we can get.”
She shrugged, her mouth pulling down. “All right.”
“What about navigation equipment?”
“I checked the ship's system over again. It's in fine shape. There's nothing we can afford to add to it that would make a real difference.”
He looked relieved, the first genuine expression she had seen on his face. “Then I guess we can afford to eat, after all.”
“You want me to go ahead and fill the rest of your order, then?” The shopman addressed Chaim.
“Yeah.” Chaim passed him the list, glancing her way. “Go ahead.”
She looked away from him, becoming aware of the man in worn coveralls who waited, listening, at the edge of her sight. He moved forward at her glance, intruding on their circle of consciousness. Another prospector, she guessed, and not a very successful one; a heavyset man who looked old, older than he was, because a lifetime spent exposed to shipboard radiation aged the body badly. His dark brown, graying hair was clipped close along the sides of his bald head, and his broad, gnarly face was seamed with lines that could have been good-humored. As if to prove it, he smiled when she looked at him. She did not smile back. Undaunted, he cracked open their privacy and included himself in it.
Chaim turned at his approach, ungraceful with surprise.
The prospector squinted. “Aren't you … yeah, you must be! Gamal Dartagnan's kid? I'll be damned! Imagine runnin' into you, after all this time.”
Chaim stared, mildly disbelieving. “You knew my old ma—uh, my father?” he said, groping for a civil response.
“Yeah, I sure did. We were great friends, him and me. Almost partners.”
Mythili felt her face pinch at the falseness of the tone. Chaim's own face had become a vacant wall again; a defense, against what she wasn't sure. “What's your name?”
“Fitch. He must've mentioned me—”
“No.” Chaim's boot nudged the pile of supplies; containers stirred sluggishly and resettled. “How'd you know me? … We didn't look much alike.”
Fitch laughed, unaffected by the lack of positive response. “The hair. Anybody'd know that hair. And he talked about you all the time.”
Chaim's expression became slightly more expressionless.
“And you're kind of a celebrity, you know—all the media about old Sekka-Olefin's murder, and how you brought the killer in, with the help of the little lady, here.”
Mythili considered silently the fact that she stood half a head taller than Fitch, and wondered why she couldn't find the irony even slightly amusing; wondered whether she had lost her sense of humor permanently.
“And now word has it that you've got yourself Sekka-Olefin's ship. Word must be right, or you wouldn't be here outfitting. Following in the old man's footsteps, huh? Got a damn fine ship for it, from what I hear.… You know much about prospecting?”
“Only what I learned by doing it, with my old man.” A controlled sarcasm oiled the words.
“Oh, yeah?” Fitch laughed again; a trace of self-consciousness weakened it this time. “Well, he was a damn shrewd man. But still, you couldn't have spent much time out there. It takes a lifetime of experience—”
“A lifetime wasn't enough to keep my old man from killing himself.” Chaim's frown broke through. Mythili saw Fitch's face begin to lose hope, struggle to hold on to it. “What do you want, Fitch? You want something.”
“I just wanted to meet Gamal Dartagnan's son. Gamal was a man with a big heart and some big ideas, and I figured you might share them … I wanted to know if maybe you could use some help.” He threw the words out with too much energy. “I mean, I've got a ship of my own and all—I've spent my whole life searching salvage. But my ship can't do anything like what that one of yours could do; she just doesn't have the reach. Just like your old man—if he'd had a better ship, he could've made a million, I'm sure of it. I've got the experience, I know where to look … I've got a lot to offer a partner.” He craned forward.
“He has a partner,” Mythili said abruptly. “We can't afford another one.”
“She's right. There's already one too many.” Chaim grimaced. “The ship belongs to the two of us, Fitch. We'll make it on our own, or not at all. We don't need any more ‘help’. We're up to our necks in it.” His hand chopped the air like a headsman's blade, cutting off the conversation.
Fitch withdrew, deflated, shriveling. “Well … I'm sorry you feel that way, but I guess I can understand it,” he said thickly. “It's a loner's trade, prospecting. You got to think of yourself first, and make your own chances. But just to show you I understand, I want you to have this signal separater.” He held it out, packaged in plastic foam. “It'll stretch the range of your equipment. Maybe it'll bring you luck. I was going to put it in my ship, but there's nothing much it'll change for me. Maybe when I see you again, you'll remember I gave you this, and reconsider taking on a partner.”
Mythili opened her mouth to refuse it, hearing the same hollow hypocrisy in his humility that she'd heard in his bluster. But Chaim reached out before she could speak and took the package from Fitch's hands with a small, stomach-tight bow of acknowledgment. “Thanks. We appreciate it.” The hostility had disappeared from his eyes, and he actually seemed sincere. Mythili closed her mouth without saying anything, surprised into silence.
“And maybe … maybe you'd take this on, too …” Fitch reached behind him, and produced something else, a mesh container.
Ah, she thought, her tension suddenly loosening. Here it comes—I knew there was more. The catch.
But the thing he pressed into her unwilling hands was totally unexpected—a small cage, containing a live animal. She stared at it incredulously. She had never been this close to an animal before; never held one in her hands, even caged. “What is it—?” she murmured, resisting her urge to push it back at him.
“Some kind of lizard.” Fitch shrugged. “I won it in a card game. It only eats insects; I can't afford to feed it any more.…” He looked down at the cage, and what looked like genuine regret filled his eyes. “I got real attached to him. You would, too. He changes colors, see—? Reacts to light or heat.” He pointed at the creature in the cage. “I call him Lucky.”
Mythili peered in at the lizard, feeling her refusal die stillborn as it gazed back at her, its skeptical eye encased in a turret of beaded flesh. Its pebbly, hairless green skin was changing hue as she watched, taking on a speckled pattern of light and shadow like a photograph. She stared at it, unable to tear her gaze away.