A war galley with catapults in its bows went past, oars thumping in their oarlocks, and off to port a fat merchantman was trying to beat into the harbor against the wind. The latter was having a hard time because at the end of reach the ship wore round like a square-rigger instead of tacking, meanwhile dipping the high ends of the lateen yards and raising the low ends to reverse the set of the yellow sails.
During this complicated process, the ship lost almost as much distance drifting down-wind as she had previously gained by running close-hauled. Hasselborg thought: Why doesn't one of our people show them how to rig a proper fore-and-aft sail?. . and then remembered the Interplanetary Council rule.
A Krishnan objected loudly when Hasselborg's aya snaffled one of the fruits he was bringing into Majbur. Hasselborg had to buy a whole basketful to pacify the man.
Gorbovast, the resident commissioner, was helpful in such essentials as recommending places for Hasselborg to stay and to amuse himself. While the commissioner did not actually say so, Hasselborg got the impression that some of the amusements of this famous seaport were distinctly on the rugged side, like those of Shanghai and Marseilles on Earth.
Unfortunately, Hasselborg could not very well ask the fellow outright about the expected visit of the King of Zamba. He was no longer supposed to be interested in such matters, and the commissioner would report any unseemly curiosity back to his boss.
Since the Krishnans, unlike most intelligent extraterrestrials, had a highly developed system of public eating and drinking houses, there was nothing for it but to brace himself for the ordeal of a waterfront pub-crawl. He'd done it before—you go into the first grog-shop, order one, strike up a conversation with the first fellow-customer who looks as if he had one brain cell to rub against another, and get him talking. If he proves an empty sack, you go on to the next. Hasselborg had nearly always, at least in the smaller cities, been able to get a line on what he wanted to know by this method, though it sometimes took days and was hard on his delicately conditioned stomach. Furthermore, it always filled him with morbid fears of picking up an infection.
Thus evening found him halfway down Majbur's waterfront, feeling poorly both in the head and in the digestive system, about to pump his twenty-second sucker. Some of the tougher characters had looked at him speculatively, but so far the combination of his powerful build and conspicuous sword had discouraged hostilities.
His present victim, a sailor from the far island of Sotaspe with the quaint name of Morbid, bade fair to prove an empty sack. The man was one who could take but little liquor, and he had already had that and wanted to sing the songs of his childhood. He sang in a dialect that Hasselborg could follow only half the time and remembered these songs in quantity and detail that would have done credit to a psychoanalytical treatment. Hasselborg began to cast about for means of escape.
The other end of the bench held another pair in close converse. One, facing Hasselborg, was a rustic-looking character talking slowly and with great emphasis to a bulky fellow with his back to Hasselborg.
The bulky fellow looked around to see what had become of the servitor, and Hasselborg spilled a drop of his kvad with surprise. It was Chuen Liao-dz.
XI.
"Excuse me, chum," said Hasselborg to his companion. "I see an old friend."
He walked down the length of the bench and placed a hand gently on Chuen's shoulder, saying: "Ni hau bu hau?"
Chuen turned his head with a slight smile and no sign of surprise. "Wo hau," he replied in Chinese, then switched back to Gozashtandou: "Fancy meeting you here! Sanandaj, this is my old friend—ah—my old friend—"
"Kavir bad-Ma'lum," said Hasselborg.
"Of course. Sanandaj has been telling me about almanacs. Most fascinating business." He tipped a wink at Hasselborg. "I wondered how long it would take you to notice me. How about your friend, the sailor?"
"He sings."
"Indeed? Then we must introduce them. Master Sanandaj can tell the mariner about almanacs while latter sings. Most jolly arrangement."
"Okay. Ahoy, there, Morbid!" Hasselborg dragged the more or less unwilling sailor down and set him to singing to Chuen's friend, who kept right on talking almanacs, trying to shout down his new acquaintance. Under cover of the resulting racket, Hasselborg asked Chuen: "What name are you going by?"
"Li-yau, which is the nearest they can come to first part of my name. The surname they cannot manage at all; it comes out Chuvon or something like that. Now, tell me of your adventures."
"Not just yet. Suppose you tell me yours. This is a funny way to investigate economic conditions with a view to arranging high-grade imports and exports, isn't it?"
"A little unusual, perhaps."
"Chum, you're no more an economic official than I am; you're a cop."
Chuen smiled. "Shi bu sh'i?"
"Perfeitamente. Now, I think we can do each other more good by working together than separately."
"So? What do you propose?"
"A general laying of cards on the table. D'you follow me?"
"Very interesting idea."
"Oh, I know, you're wondering how you can be sure I'm honest, and how can I be sure you are, and so on. Do you know my mission?"
"No. You never told me."
"Well then, I'll tell you, and you can decide whether it's worth your while to be equally frank. I don't think you'll have any motive for putting a spoke in my wheel, and I trust I'll feel the same way about you." Hasselborg went on to tell of the pursuit of the truant Julnar Batruni.
Chuen looked really surprised when he had finished, saying: "You mean this man sends you off on this great expensive dangerous trip merely for petty personal motives?"
"If you call wanting to get his daughter back a petty personal motive, yes."
"But—but that is sheer romanticism! And I thought all the time you were involved in some profound matter of interplanetary intrigue; something to do with government policies and interstellar relations! Now turns out nothing but pursuit of runaway young woman!" He shook his head.
"Okay, but how about your opening up with me? I may need help on my project, and I can't hire a local yokel for reasons you can guess. Maybe you're in the same fix. How about it, huh?"
Chuen thought a while, then said: "I—ah—I think maybe you have reason, so here goes: I'm an agent for Chinese government with special commission from World Federation. I started out to try trace a shipment of fifty machine guns consigned from factory in Detroit to my government for their security police. These guns start out all right but don't arrive.
"Now, economically speaking, fifty machine guns is nothing at all to big government, but still nobody likes to have stolen guns floating around in hands of the criminal class. So, they put Chuen on job. Trail leads first to gangsters in Tientsin, who keep only twenty-six of guns and pass the other twenty-four on to an official of Viagens Interplanetarias.
"Things are obviously getting beyond national scope, so my government gets me a special commission from W. F. to run down missing guns. I find they've been brought to Krishna, to be smuggled out of Novorecife for delivery to some local potentate. The local potentate will use them to conquer the planet, or at least as much of it as can manage."
"Who was to do the smuggling out of Novorecife?" asked Hasselborg.
"Don't know. Somebody on the inside, no doubt."