She tucked her knife under the waistband, then set off on the well-marked path toward the main settlement.
Chapter 9
What Killashandra required most was a credit outlet. She would need more clothing – a proper, decorated overdress – if she was to blend in with the islanders. As well, she needed some sort of accommodation and enough credit to get her back to the mainland or wherever the City was located.
None of the commercial buildings facing thc harbor appeared to have credit outlets, though all had intake units. One of them had to, or this planet was more backward than she’d previously thought. Every inhabited planet utilized the standard credit facilities.
She had a bit of a fright, too, while she was making her initial reconnaissance – the sight of herself in a reflective surface. Sun had streaked the top layer of her dark hair almost blonde, had bleached her eyebrows to nonexistence. This, plus the deep brown of her tan, altered her appearance so that she had almost not recognized herself. The whites and the intense green of her eyes with the filtering lenses were emphasized by the tan and dominated her face. The exertions of the last few days had thinned all the flesh which she had acquired with easy living on the voyage. She was as gaunt as if she’d been in the Crystal Ranges for weeks. Furthermore she felt like she had. Why was it, when she was tired, she still felt the crystal surging through her bones?
There was only one other building on the waterfront, set off a little from the others, looking rather more prosperous. A factor’s residence? She made for it, having little choice, ignoring the covert glances of the few pedestrians. Was the community so small that any stranger was remarkable? Or was it indeed her lack of the proper attire that occasioned their scrutiny?
She recognized the building’s function as soon as she climbed the short flight of stairs to the wide verandah which surrounded all four sides. The smell of stale beer and spirits was manifest, as well as a burned-vegetable odor, pungent and not altogether unpleasant. It was always good to know where the brew was served.
The main room of the tavern was empty and dark and, despite the sea breezes wafting through, stank of a long night’s drinking. Chairs were neatly piled on the tables, the floor had been swept and glistened wetly to one side, where mop and pail propped open a door. She gave the room a sweeping glance, which stopped at the reassuring shape of a credit outlet.
Hoping she could make her transaction in private, she glided across the floor on her bare feet. Slipping her I.D. under the visiplate, she tapped out a modest credit demand. The sound of the outlet’s whirring and burping was unnaturally loud in the deserted room. She grabbed the credit notes, compressing them quickly into a wad in one hand while she tapped out the security code that would erase the transaction from all but the central credit facility on the planet.
“Ya wanted something?” An unshaven face peered around the half-open door.
“I got it,” Killashandra said, ducking her head and making a speedy exit before she could be detained.
While this island town had more in the way of merchandise establishments that catered to fishermen and planters, she had marked the soft goods store in her search for the credit outlet. It was unoccupied and automated so that she didn’t need to manufacture explanations to a salesperson. It only struck her then that in none of the shops on the waterfront had she seen human attendants. She shrugged it off as another island oddity. She bought two changes of the brightly decorated, and rather charmingly patterned, outer garments, additional underskirts – for custom apparently demanded a plethora of female skirts – sandals of plaited polly tree fiber, a matching belt and pouch, and a carisak of a similar manufacture. She also got some toilet articles and a tube of moisturizing cream for her dry skin.
The little shop boasted a rather archaic information unit, a service Killashandra needed almost as badly as credit. She dialed first for hostel information and was somewhat daunted by the fact that all the listed facilities were closed until the Season. Well, she’d slept on island beaches for nearly four weeks and come to no harm. She queried about eating places and found that these also were closed until the Season. Irritated because she didn’t wish to spend time gathering food in a large settlement, she tapped out a request for transport facilities.
Quite an astonishing variety of ships were available for charter: for fishing, pleasure cruising, and underwater assisted exploration “with requisite official permits. Travel documents are required for passengers or cargo. Apply Harbor Master.”
“Which I can’t do until I know more about this place,” Killashandra muttered as a stately woman entered the premises. “And how many in sympathy with my kidnappers.”
“Did you find all you needed?” the woman said in a liquidly melodic voice, her large and expressive brown eyes showing concern.
“Yes, yes, I did,” Killashandra said, surprised into a nervous response.
“I’m so glad. We don’t have much here yet. No call, with everyone making their own, and the Season not started.” She tilted her head, her long thick braid falling over her shoulder. Her fingers moved to check the position of the blossom twisted into the end of the plait. Her smile was luminous. “You’ve not been here before?” The question was asked in such a gentle voice that it was almost a statement of fact and not an intrusion on Privacy.
“I just came in from one of the outer islands.”
“That’s lonely.” The woman nodded gently.
“Lost my canoe in that squall, “ Killashandra said and began to embroider slightly. “Came ashore with nothing to my name but my I.D.” She flashed her left wrist at the woman who nodded once again.
“If you’re hungry, I’ve fresh fish and greens, and there’s whiteroot to make a good fry.”
“No, I couldn’t,” Killashandra began, even as her mouth was watering. When the woman tilted her head again, a broad smile spreading across her serene features, Killashandra added, “But I certainly would appreciate it.”
“My name is Keralaw. My man is mate on the Crescent Moon, been gone four weeks and I do miss company.” She rolled her eyes slightly, her grin twisting upward another fraction of an inch so that Killashandra knew very well what Keralaw missed.
“My name is Carrigana.” Killashandra suppressed her amusement; the former owner of that name would be livid at her presumption.
Keralaw led her to the back of the shop, through the storage section to the living quarters in the rear: a small catering area, a small toilet room, and a large living room that was open on three sides, screened against the depredations of insects. The furnishings consisted of low tables, many pillows. and hammocks secured to bolts in the ceiling. Of the modern accoutrements there was only a small screen, blank, with a fine coating of dust and a very primitive terminal. On the one solid wall hung a variety of spears, their barbed heads differing in design and weight, a small stringed instrument, a hand drum that looked well used, four wooden pipes of different lengths and circumferences, and an ancient tambourine, its trailing ribbons sun-faded to shades of gray and beige.
Keralaw led her through this room, out the screened door to the rear and to a stone hearth. Checking the position of the sun over her shoulder, Keralaw altered the arrangement of a mirror and a bright metal sheet to her satisfaction and began to arrange the fish and white root on the sheet.