‘Then what use are they?’
‘Oh, they can perform many functions of the simpler sort,’ explained the merchant in good humour. ‘They are used mainly in children’s toys. Does that clear it up for you?’
Boaz decided. He was keen to get to Harkio.
‘It’s agreed.’
‘Good. Now let me see… hmm, hmm.’ The merchant was computing the figures with his adp implant. ‘The Boems amass one point seven eight milliards. What’s the mass of your ship?’
Boaz told him. The merchant worked out how many fuel sticks the trip would need, added a little leeway, reckoned the cost plus Boaz’s depreciation.
‘Two hundred and twenty-eight point one eight nine psalters,’ he mutterd. Captain Boaz nodded, having simultaneously done the same calculation on his own adplant. The merchant wrote out a contract on a vissheet, finishing with a flourish. Each touched it to his forehead, recording his body odour as a signature of compliance with the terms. The merchant counted out some domino-like coins from a bag on his lap, giving them to Boaz wrapped in a cloth.
‘Here you are, then. My goods will be delivered tomorrow morning.’
He left, looking satisfied. For a while Captain Boaz sat alone at the table, the folded cloth of money in his hand, watching the fizzy sunshine filter through the open doorway.
A nymphgirl who had been drinking on a side bench stood up suddenly, discarded her shift and began to dance naked. Her body was hairless, narrow-waisted and without breasts. She was just like a girl child enlarged to the size of a full-grown woman. It was the current fashion in Hondora, again a fashion imported from nearby worlds.
The girl stopped dancing when a robot stepped quietly from the red tunnel to place a hand on her shoulder. ‘You must not do that here, madam. This is a place of business. For that, you must go to other establishments.’
Wordlessly she picked up her shift. Glancing scornfully around her, she stalked out.
Captain Boaz rose to address the robot. ‘Where can I get ship fuel?’
‘The nearest stockist is close by, sir,’ the robot said, turning its smooth face toward him. ‘Proceed down the avenue and take the second turning on the right. Proceed further a hundred yards. The stockist’s name is Samsam.’
Boaz quit the room and again walked the arcade, going deeper into Hondora. Further down, the avenue became more lively, assailing him with motley smells and noises. Metal clashing, food frying, the aromas of a hundred mingled drugs and perfumes. He heard laughter, screams of mirth, the tinkling sounds of soft music. Men and nymphgirls spilled out of doorless openings and chased one another, kicking up the orange dust of the unpaved concourse.
Under shimmering awnings merchandise was displayed on glittering trays: foods, sweetmeats, drugs, trinkets, garments, a thousand intricate artifacts. Captain Boaz’s step faltered. He had come to a stall offering Boems for sale. The pale micelike slabs were piled carelessly in the trays, their crystalline ridges jammed into one another.
Were they decerebrated or not? Captain Boaz looked away and strode on.
The side street was quieter. Samsam’s was an unprepossessing shop without windows or display stall. Inside it was dim and cool.
The shopkeeper shuffled out from the back, blinking. ‘Yes?’
‘Good day.’ Captain Boaz presented his credentials and placed the money on the counter. ‘I need fuel sticks. I’m told you charge standard price, otherwise I’ll go elsewhere.’
‘Oh, yes indeed.’
The old man leaned across the counter, and his voice fell. ‘I can get you some for less, if you like.’
‘Thank you, no. I want no stolen merchandise, and no inferior fuel. Give me good rods.’
The shopkeeper turned to the shelves behind the counter that were stacked with sticks. ‘What size?’
‘X20. Give me five full-length, and one you’ll have to cut.’
‘What d’you want it cut to, then?’ The man selected sticks and laid them on the counter.
‘Give me thirty-seven over a hundred,’ Boaz said, stating a fraction.
‘Oh, I don’t cut to anything less than an inch,’ the shopkeeper grumbled. ‘I can’t get rid of scraps like that.’
‘Very well, give me four over ten,’ Boaz said impatiently. The man picked up a stick and took it to a cutting machine at the end of the counter. He put it in the grip, calibrated it, and set the blade to whining at high speed through the yellow rod.
While this happened Boaz picked up another of the rods and ran his eye along it as if testing the straightness of an arrow. It was about two feet long and two inches in diameter. It sparkled like sugar frosting and was rough to the touch.
The special kind of energy that resided in the rods was put there by a very expensive process. Each one would carry two milliards of shipweight a distance of ten light-years. Boaz unfolded the cloth that contained his money and counted out rectangular coins while the shopkeeper placed the sticks in a carrying bag. He received the change, thanked the vendor and stepped back out into the lemon sunshine.
Halfway down the side street, his ship told him he was being stalked. He tucked the fuel sticks under his arm. It was those they were after. About a minute later, his ship reported the attack was imminent.
Then a spring lasso snaked out from the nearby wall, jerking him off balance. Like a paper box, a section of wall folded in and revealed a narrow alley, and in it two men, one wielding the lasso and hauling Boaz inward, the other shifting from foot to foot with hands reaching out, like a wrestler looking for a hold.
For a moment Boaz could not deploy his strength. Still clutching the fuel sticks, he was dragged into the alley. Only then was he able to grab the lasso with his free hand, seizing it by the haft and pulling the man down on top of him.
For a stocky, modsuited man, his subsequent speed was a surprise to his attackers. He rolled, and was on his feet, in almost the same movement delivering a kick to the lasso man’s coccyx, snapping his spine.
The man gave a bubbling moan, face down and moving his arms like a crippled insect. He would not live long. Boaz turned to face the second robber over the semi-paralysed form of his comrade. The man had a gun. Boaz saw a snarl of fear, felt heat as the beam struck his chest.
But this sensation was measured in microseconds. Two miles away on the landing ground Boaz’s ship was responding to the events impinging on his body. Billions upon billions of digital pulses passed down the tight directional beam it maintained, and set about arranging his body’s defences. The lethal shot from the thief’s gun was diverted, dissipated in a thin blaze of light.
Taking one step forward with the fuel sticks still under his arm, Captain Boaz tore the gun from the mugger’s grasp, smashing its handle against the wall so that the charge pack broke open and tossing it aside. The thief backed away with a glance to his rear. The alley was a dead end, probably constructed specifically for the purpose of robbers.
‘We weren’t going to hurt you, shipkeeper,’ he pleaded quickly. ‘We only wanted your fuel sticks.’
‘Liar. That was a kill shot.’
‘Look what you did to my friend—’
He could not evade Boaz, who grabbed him by the front of his toga and forced him to his knees, still using only one hand. Then he took him by the throat.
Just as Boaz began to throttle him, a transformation came over the thief’s face. His terror dissolved into a dreamy leer, and he looked up at Boaz.
‘You goin’ to kill me?’ he asked breathlessly.
Boaz glanced at the still moaning form behind him. Abruptly he saw his posture in a new light, and he did not like it. He withdrew his hand. The robber sagged, looked relieved, disappointed, edgy.
No expression at all showed on Boaz’s face. He backed out of the alley, turned, and set off for the main avenue.