"Any contact with any of these people could lead to a cargo, and we need one badly. Remember that we're interested in large, bulky cargoes, or a lot of smaller ones; but the ones we're interested in are the ones headed inward! We can't survive on the Rim. We'd be out of business in a standard month, and stranded on some rim world. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not interested in becoming a rim world settler. Are there any objections to my plan to use the Share Accounts?"
Jirik looked at the circle of grim faces in the silence that followed. Even Valt was looking thoughtful, and Tor's face betrayed his fear that the spacing career that he wanted so badly seemed to be slipping away.
The next morning, Tor accompanied Jirik to the rented office for a full day of appointments, the first of which was with a shipping agent. Jirik's hopes were not high. He suspected that the agent was merely comparison-shopping for rates, and that the cargo's destination was another Rim world. He couldn't afford to take a chance, however. A full schedule of repair contractors, ship's chandlers and more shipping agents would follow this.
He trudged heavily across the field apron, Tor lumbering at his side, apparently unaffected by the crushing gravity, and chattering incessantly.
Tor had just left on an errand when there was a quiet knock on the office door. Since he knew that he had no appointments scheduled, Jirik growled in annoyance and shouted, "Come in, Damn it!" ready to pounce on whatever unfortunate being walked through the door
His irritation turned to incredulity and amusement when his visitor entered. The man was virtually a caricature, a cartoon. He looked exactly like everyone's conception of a bookkeeper: small, slight, and rabbity. He was barely over 160 centimeters in height and couldn't possibly have weighed much more than 50 kilos in a one-G field, even soaking wet. He had a narrow face and frame and hunched shoulders. His old-fashioned eyeglasses had to be an affectation in this day and age, but they helped mark him as the eternal loser, destined forever to wear "kick me" signs, and to be the target of bullies. He had a quick, nervous manner and self-conscious smile that only served to reinforce the whipped dog image. Jirik controlled himself with an effort, and his irritation reappeared. "Well?" he grunted, "What is it?"
The visitor eyed Jirik appraisingly. The Captain was about 170 centimeters in height, burly and muscular, with mediterranean features and complexion. He had massive shoulders and thick arms that were probably very helpful in Outback's heavy 1.4G gravity. His rumpled appearance and curly, rebellious hair emphasized his harassed air.
The smile never left the visitor's face. "Captain Jeffson of the independent freighter Bonny Lass?" he inquired in a high, nasal voice.
Jirik was irked by his visitor's querulous tone. He growled a graceless acknowledgment. "Yeah, so who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?"
The visitor glanced nervously around the office. "My name is Ralf Tomys, Captain." His darting eyes fixed on his ring watch as he continued conversationally, "Tell me, have there been any repairmen working in this office today?"
Jirik was startled and annoyed. "No. And what the hell business is it of yours?" He began to rise, bristling. "If you don't get to the point, I'm going to toss you out of here on your head. Now What the hell do you want?"
The rabbity smile never wavered. "Quietly, Captain. I'm coming to the point. I merely had to be sure that no surveillance equipment is being used here. After all, this is a rented office, and what I have to discuss is highly confidential.
Jirik's flare of anger faded into bafflement. "What the hell . . . Who the hell would want to spy on me? And what the hell could we have to discuss that's so confidential? And who the hell are you, anyway?"
The little man slipped a card from his belt pouch and presented it without a word. It was an ordinary flitter license; but when Ralf Tomys touched a corner of it, the flitter license faded, to be replaced by credentials identifying him as a Class I agent of Alliance Intelligence. Jirik gulped. Class I! There were only a dozen or so Class I agents in the Alliance. From his Alliance Navy days, Jirik knew that a Class I agent ranked with a Vice Admiral, and had the power to commandeer any Alliance warship without warning or permission. There were also few civilian captains that would dare to refuse to "cooperate" with a Class I. They could make life very difficult for anyone who got on their wrong side. They were responsible only to the Director of Alliance Security, a member of the Alliance Cabinet. And this little rabbit of a man was one of them! Jirik sat with his mouth open, astounded. Tomys' nervous smile had steadied into a confident grin. The eyes behind the anachronistic glasses glinted with humor. "I know, Captain. The holovids show us all as tall, tanned supermen. It's very handy in my line of work, but it does sometimes make things awkward. Anyway, Captain, I didn't come here to impress you. I need your help and the Alliance needs your help."
Jirik was regaining his composure. "Hold it!" he bellowed. "I did ten years in the Marines, so don't run that patriotism crap on me. I'm an independent trader with my own ship and crew, and the last thing I need is to get involved in some weird spook caper. So, do me a favor, and don't unpack your cloak and dagger. I've got enough troubles!"
The confident grin was still in place. "Relax, Captain. I'm not trying to get you or your crew involved in some desperate mission. I certainly don't want you to be some kind of superspy – you're not temperamentally suited for it. The fact is, I need your eyes – yours and those of your crew. Now, if you are quite finished erupting like a volcano, we can get down to business. May I sit down?" Without waiting for Jirik's answering nod, Ralf Tomys hooked a chair with his foot, pulled it to him, and primly sat down.
For once, Jirik was speechless. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Things were happening too fast. His graceless nod helped conceal his racing thoughts. Of one thing he was sure. He must be very careful in his dealings with this Tomys. He decided that his best course was to say as little as possible, and to try to control his already seething temper. That last wouldn't be easy in the face of Tomys' smirking air of superiority. With an almost visible effort, he regained control of himself.
"All right," He demanded coldly, "Are you ready to tell me what this is all about, or are you having too much fun?"
Tomys chuckled. "I'm sorry, Captain, I guess I was enjoying myself a little. I apologize." The little man's sincerity seemed real, and Jirik could relax his control slightly as his boiling anger began to subside. "I really do need your help, though." Tomys continued, more briskly. "How familiar are you and your crew with this part of the Alliance?"
"That's easy," Jirik growled, "We're not. I'm sure you knew before you came in here that we normally work the inner rim, Between the Alliance and the Empire. This is our first trip to the outer rim." He grimaced. "And our last, if I have anything to say about it – and I do."
Tomys nodded. "I heard about your ship's damage. Just how bad is it?"
Despite himself, Jirik's anger and frustration flared at this reminder of his misfortune. "Pretty damned bad, damn it!" he roared. "Holed by a bloody hunk of rock. Bloody Inertial Drive generators scrapped. Delays and repairs eating up our profit margin, not to mention the bloody damned fortune in towing fees. And these bloody damned yard birds takin' forever to fix the old bitch!" An impressive stream of cursing continued until Tomys stopped it with an impatient wave of his hand.