And he gave them the coordinates. He did not tell them that this was his own world, the one that he had gleaned from the records of many, many exploration missions, sifted in the library in the long, lonely hours of college weekends. His own world, the one around which he had built his fantasy, his dream of escape from all the sarcastic people who belittled and insulted him, from the athletes who punched him around for fun, from the beautiful and condescending girls. He gave it to them without reluctance or hesitation, for he had found his escape—but with friends.
It grew in the viewscreens, a jewel of a world, a semiprecious stone polished to an oblate spheroid, a turquoise banded with white—too small, and too mineral-poor, to have been of interest for colonization, and too far from Terra.
But close enough to Khalia, and to the route from Khalia to Target.
The ship landed, the machines sampled atmosphere and water for chemical oddities and microorganisms, and pronounced the planet safe—as the records had said it was.
“Go and frolic!” Goodheart cried. “But stay close to the ship—we know not what monsters may lurk nearby!”
The hatches opened, and the crew boiled out in a manic tide.
“Some few must stay and guard, must they not?” Goodheart glanced from screen to screen. “You and I, Globin.”
It warmed the human’s heart immensely. “Will you show me how to fight on land?”
“Haw!” Goodheart swiped at the human. “He who had no love for the things of the body! Yes, Globin, I will fight you—without claws.” His eye gleamed as he watched the screens. “See them rejoice! Thank you for my world, Globin. “
“You are welcome, Captain.” Globin would have given his hero anything.
Goodheart’s eye was still on the screen. “What would you name it, Globin?”
“Name?” Globin looked up, surprised. “Why, New Khalia, of course!”
Goodheart shook his head. “The past is closed to us, Globin, and must be forgotten. Give me a new name, for a new world!”
“Why,” said Globin, “Barataria, of course!”
Globin was sweating. He had always been uncomfortable among his own kind, but had never realized it so thoroughly before. He missed his friends, his Khalian pirate comrades—but the captain wanted it done, so Globin would do it.
He stepped into the little town on Target, reminding himself that he could fight now, if he had to—but no one looked twice at him.
He could scarcely believe it. He bucked his spirits up and walked on down the street into the depot, feeling as though all eyes were on him, but seeing not a single glance, no matter where he looked. Perhaps, after all, the little, funny-looking man in the gray ensemble wasn’t worth looking at.
He bought a ticket for the hover to the capital, where he checked into a hotel room, then booked passage for Terra.
“He will betray you, Captain! He is among his own kind once again! He will tell the Fleet where we lair!”
“He dares not.”
“But he may be taken! He may be given drugs!”
“Ah, Throb! Have you no confidence in our own forgers? We duplicated exactly that passport we took from a human—except in changing the name and the holo.”
“Of course,” Throb grumped, “but I have no faith in the ‘merchant’ Globin goes to meet. He may be an agent of the fleet come to bait a trap!”
“If so, we will lose our dear Globin—but the humans will not be much the wiser, for Globin knows nothing of us but the inside of our ship and the coordinates of Barataria. That, I would begrudge—and I daresay I would truly regret Globin’s passing. But at least, it would not be a Khalian whose death I mourned.”
“We will steer our ship into a trap, when we come to take the weapons the merchant has promised you,” Throb grumbled.
“Perhaps—so there will be only two pirates who go to load the consignment.” Goodheart took out the pasteboard with the human’s name on it—“Seth Adamson, Expediter.” The gall of the human, to press a business card on him in the midst of a raid! I can be of service to you, Captain. We can be of service to each other. Again, Goodheart squeezed the corner and saw the surface of the card change, displaying weapon after weapon, up to cannon and tanks, while a mouse’s voice touted their virtues. “Is there no treachery too great for these humans,” Goodheart murmured, “so long as it enriches themselves?”
“Why should that be any less true of Globin, Captain?” Throb demanded.
“Because, good Throb, we are his enrichment.” Goodheart flipped the card into the air and watched it spin slowly down.
As Globin went through the whole process, the meeting in the Terran restaurant, the discussion under the privacy screen, the haggling over price, and the listing of the order, a part of him sat aside and marveled. He would never have had the nerve to do such a thing if Captain Goodheart had not asked it. He would never have had the confidence if Captain Goodheart and his crew had not given it to him.
The freighter dropped into normal space, shed velocity, and drifted, lights blinking in the prearranged signal, waiting. Goodheart’s crew scanned the vicinity, but saw no trace of ships.
“Wait,” said Globin. “Let me try my new detector.”
Goodheart whistled with respect. “How can you detect masses in hyperspace, Globin, when we are in normal space?”
“By the interaction of interference waves between the two continua, Captain. . . . No, so far as I can tell, there are no other ships except the freighter, and us.”
Goodheart pressed a patch. “Then go, Plasma and Saline!”
The small courier shot out from the pirate ship. It docked at the great ship’s port, and the crew settled down for the long wait while the two Khalians inspected the cargo with a life-detector.
Finally, a smaller ship shot away from the freighter. Sometime later, a twinkle in the distance announced its departure from normal space.
“Terran yacht in hyperspace,” Globin announced.
Goodheart hit the com patch. “Saline! Are you in possession of the ship?”
“I am, Captain. The merchant pronounced himself satisfied with the bonus.”
“Then guide the freighter toward the rendezvous asteroid and begin testing weapons.”
“How long until we are sure the whole ship will not blow up on us, Captain?”
“A day and a night should be enough. Enjoy your target practice.” Goodheart signed off and turned to Globin, catching him by the shoulders and shrilling with delight. “Mission accomplished, Globin! Well done!”
Whistles of acclaim pierced the air, and Globin stood with a silly smile on his face, very proud and very, very happy.
“You actually went through the records of every surplus dealer on all the human planets?”
“Computers are wonderful,” Lo assured the admiral. “Of course, the records of the munitions factories’ output are submitted to us regularly—but as far as we can tell, they haven’t been doctored.”
“Very good, Commander Sales.” The admiral studied the hard copy on his desk. “Small losses in shipment, from a dozen factories . . .”
“And a large number of sales of personal arms, to anonymous buyers, from a hundred surplus stores.” Lo nodded. “It all adds up to a very large shipment of human-made weapons.”
“Very good, Commander! And where did those weapons go?”
Sales laid the other hard copy down on the desk.
“The admiral nodded, his face grim. “Arrest Adamson.”