Guillermo's head moved from Leon to Ricimer, as if the neck were clicking between detents. "And my race has no soul," the Molt said. The words were too flat to be a question.
"If you do have souls," Ricimer replied after a moment's hesitation, "then in selling your fellows as merchandise, we're committing an unspeakable sin, Guillermo."
Man and Molt looked at one another in silence. The alien's face was impassive by virtue of its exoskeletal construction. Piet Ricimer's expression gave up equally little information.
Guillermo cocked his head in a gesture of amusement. "Things are things, Captain," he said. "But I'll admit that the number of things may be less important than how you use the things you have. And your Venus clan uses things very well."
The Tolliver's siren began to wind.
"Damn the timing!" Gregg snarled. "Leon, did the men from the Tolliver leave in the truck?"
The bosun pursed his lips and nodded.
"All right," Gregg decided aloud. "Piet, I'll run across to the flagship and find out what's going on. You can-"
Ricimer smiled. "I think we can learn what's happening more easily than that, Stephen," he said.
As he spoke, he tapped pairs of numbers into a keypad on the console. Each touch switched the holographic display, either to a lustrous void or an image:
An office in the island's administrative complex, where half a dozen Venerians had put down their playing cards when the siren blew;
A panorama from a camera placed a hundred meters above the empty sea;
Another office, this one empty save for a chair over which was draped the uniform jacket of a Federation officer.
"Seventeen," Guillermo suggested, pointing.
Ricimer keyed in one-seven. The screen split, with Alexi Mostert on the left half, saying to the Federation officer on the right side, "Yes, your Administrator Carstensen, if he's in charge! And don't even think of trying to land without my permission!"
"I thought," Gregg said softly, "that we might manage to get away before the Earth Convoy arrived."
"It's no problem, sir," Leon said in mild surprise. "If they try to land, we'll rip 'em up the jacksies while they're braking. It's suicide for ships to attack plasma batteries on the surface."
"That's not the whole question, Leon," Piet Ricimer said. The right half of the screen had gone blank. On the left, Mostert was in profile as he spoke with subordinates. The Federation communications equipment completely muted all sound not directed toward it, so Mostert's lips moved silently.
The right side of the screen solidified into an image again. This time it was a heavy-jowled man in his fifties, wearing Federation court dress. He looked angry enough to chew nails. For the moment, he too was talking to someone outside the range of the pickup.
"Federation ships with Fed crews, they'll be in much worse shape than ours were," Ricimer continued in a bare whisper. "If we don't let them land, at least half of them will be lost. . and that will mean war between Venus and the Federation."
"I'll fight a war if that's what they want, Mr. Ricimer," Leon said. He didn't raise his voice, but there was challenge in the set of his chin.
Gregg smiled tightly and squeezed the bosun's biceps in a friendly grip. "We'll all do what we have to, Leon," he said. "But war's bad for trade."
The Federation leader faced front. "I'm Henry Carstensen, Administrator of the Outer Ways by order of President Pleyal and the Federation Parliament," he said. "You wanted me and I'm here. Speak."
The crispness of both the visual and audio portions of the transmission were striking to men used to Venerian commo. There was no sign that Federation AIs made a better job of the complex equations governing transit, though. .
"First, Your Excellency," Alexi Mostert said unctuously, "I want to apologize for this little awkward-"
"Stop your nonsense," Carstensen snapped. "You're holding a Federation port against Federation vessels. Is it war, then, between Venus and Earth-or are you a pirate, operating against the will of Governor Halys?"
"Neither, Excellency," Mostert said. "If I can explain-"
"I'm not interested in explanations!" Carstensen said. "I have ships in immediate need of landing. If one of them is lost, if one crewman dies, then the only thing that will prevent the forces of Earth from devastating your planet is your head on a platter, Mostert. Do you understand? My ships must be allowed to land now."
The Venerian commander bent his head and pressed his fingertips firmly against his forehead.
"Cousin Alexi's going at it the wrong way," Ricimer said dispassionately. "With a man like Carstensen, you negotiate from strength or you don't negotiate at all."
"I'll see how they're coming on the fourth gun," Leon said abruptly. He bolted from the control room.
Mostert lifted his head. "Then listen," he said. "These are the terms on which I-"
"You have no right to set terms!" Carstensen shouted.
"Don't talk to me about rights, mister!" said Alexi Mostert. "I've got enough firepower to scour every Federation platform off the surface of this world. I can fry your ships even if you stay in orbit. If you try to come down there won't be bits big enough to splash when they finally hit the water. These are my terms! Are you ready to listen?"
"Much better, cousin," Piet Ricimer murmured.
Administrator Carstensen lifted his chin in acceptance.
"Your eight ships will be allowed to land," Mostert said. "Their guns will be shuttered. As soon as they're on the ground, the crews will be transported to outlying platforms. There will be no Federation personnel on Island Able until my argosy has finished refitting and left."
"That's impractical," Carstensen said.
"These are my terms!"
"I understand that," Carstensen said calmly. It was as though the Federation official who started the negotiation had been replaced by a wholly different man. "But some of my vessels are in very bad shape. They need immediate repairs or there'll be major fires and probably a powerplant explosion. I need to keep maintenance personnel and a few officers aboard to avoid disaster."
The Venerian commander's lips sucked in and out as he thought. "All right," he said. "But in that case I'll need liaison officers from you. Six of them. They'll be entertained in comfort for the few remaining days that my ships need to complete their refit."
Carstensen sniffed. "Hostages, you mean. Well, as you've pointed out, Admiral Mostert, you're holding a gun to the heads of nearly a thousand innocent men and women as it is. I accept your conditions."
Mostert licked at the dryness of his lips. "Very well," he said. "Do you swear by God and your hope of salvation to keep these terms, sir?"
"I swear," Carstensen said in the same cool tones which had characterized his latter half of the negotiations.
Carstensen stood up. His console's pickup lengthened its viewing field automatically. The administrator was surprisingly tall, a big man rather than simply a broad one. "And I swear also, Admiral," he said, "that when President Pleyal hears of this, then your Governor Halys will hear; and you will hear of it again yourself."
The convoy's side of the screen went blank.
"I'm not worried," Mostert said to the pearl emptiness. His side of the transmission blanked out as well.
Piet Ricimer turned to Gregg with an unreadable smile. "What do you think, Stephen?" he asked.
"I think if your cousin isn't worried," Gregg replied, "then he's a very stupid man."
23
Biruta