Crisis On Doona (30 page)

“Surely responsibility for reporting the actions on Rrala falls to Second Speaker for External Affairs,” Hrruna said, indicating Hrrto, seated to his right. The First Speaker’s mane had gone entirely white, but his eyes were as keen as ever. “I have already had his report, and it gives me the same information you offer.”

“This information affects Internal Affairs,” Third Speaker said doggedly. “Now that the date draws near for Treaty Renewal, when the Hayumans hope to have it extended, there is a chance to painlessly end these harmful influences before they do more ill unto the youth of Hrruba. I have been besieged by special interest groups here on Hrruba. This young Hrruban, Hrriss, has been implicated in crimes committed solely to profit a Hayuman. We cannot support corruption of this kind. It is an ill example for our young people. We must withdraw our support for the continuation of the Treaty.”

There was more shouting, and the First Speaker applied his gavel to its stand. “I have heard also from Hrruvula, counsel for the accused. He is adamant that his clients are innocent of the charges brought against them and must be allowed to clear their names. I find that I agree with him. Hrriss and Zodd have always acted in honor before.”

“A ruse! Never did trust bareskins.” Seventh Speaker for Management was the newest member of the Council, and of the narrowest stripe. As a result, he tried harder than any of the others to follow a clear mandate from his constituency rather than make risky decisions on his own. He was diligent and the trade figures continued to rise. So much so, in fact, that the higher the balance from the benefits of trading under the Treaty conditions, the more certain he was that the Hayumans were stealing profit from Hrruban interests. “They will destroy us.”

“I disagree,” said the Fifth Speaker for Health and Medicine. “I have close associations with many Hayuman practitioners in my specialty. They have provided us with knowledge and techniques we could not have developed on our own. They have done nothing but improve our standards. You cannot deny that mental outlook and physical health have been on the upswing since the Rrala Experiment began. Rrala has moved steadily out of what could have been a terminal situation in the younger generations, in the main due to interaction with another speaking, thinking race. Why,” he said, trying to lighten the mood, “if only for the fresh food alone, the Rralan Experiment should not be ended—certainly not because of a situation involving one single Hayuman.”

“He is representative of his race,” Third Speaker raged, unamused. He pounded on the table and pointed a claw at First Speaker. “The one you considered to be most honorable, above all other Hayumans. Here, honor is at stake. What is cohabitation without trust? We were warned from the beginning of this unnatural colony, by this Zodd’s own father, that one day Hayumans might try to take what is ours. What is more precious than honor?”

“Honor certainly is at stake,” Second Speaker Hrrto agreed. “The honor of a Hrruban as well as a Hayuman. And Hrruban honor requires us to wait for the results of their trial before we condemn an entire society. That would be honorable behavior on our part.”

There was more shouting, which First Speaker silenced by banging the gavel.

“Very well, we will put it to the vote,” Hrruna said. “Those in favor of allowing Hrriss, son of Hrrestan, and Zodd Rrev to be proved innocent, vote aye.”

Third Speaker held up a hand to stay the voting. “As a rider to this resolution, let us set a time period in which their honor must be proved. A significant date approaches: Treaty Renewal Day. If these two have not expunged the stain on their honor by that day, we must vote against renewal, for the sake of our youth. Those on Rrala will not be penalized, for other planets have been opened,” he added, “and they can make homes there, safe from Hayuman influence.”

No one spoke to debate that rider, though several faces reflected dismay.

“Very well, the rider is allowed,” Hrruna said reluctantly, then called for the vote. It was overwhelmingly in favor of the motion. Satisfied, Hrruna nodded. His eyes were bleak as he addressed Third. “You may so notify the Treaty Controller of our decision.”

Third Speaker bowed. Probably to hide his true feelings, Hrruna thought sadly.

* * *

The Launch Center bar was the perfect place to hold meetings, Ali Kiachif thought as he entered the place. It had small nooks and obscure corners where private conversations could be held—and the proprietor debugged his rooms at random intervals. Kiachif had most opportunely made a gap in his schedule for a long stopover at Doona; originally to discuss new rulings and profit principles with the captains who answered to him. He had acquired a second purpose which he diligently pursued, leading almost every conversation to topics that might help Ken Reeve and his boy.

“Well, look at you,” a man said, blinking, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom in the bar. “If I’d known you were already here, Kiachif, I’d have gone to the Centauris instead.”

“What for?” asked Kiachif airily, shaking hands with Captain Feyder. “We’ve been there already, with all the best the colony worlds have to offer. Tell ’em, never compel ’em, and you sell ’em, that’s my motto.” The friendly rivalry between the independent merchant Rog Feyder and Ali Kiachif had gone on for years. Feyder sat down, and Kiachif signalled to the barman to bring bottles for them both.

“I’ve got a shipment of unrefined sugar for Doona. Special order. Just unloading.” Feyder let Kiachif fill his glass, waited till Ali had filled his own, and then raised it courteously to his old rival. “Your health.”

“Yours! Hear unrefined sugar used to make damned fine spirituous potables.”

“Did it? Well, we make sure the customers get what they order, don’t we? Though sometimes you wonder why they pay the freight charges.”

“Oh?” Kiachif had long since learned the art of subtle prompting.

“Sugar’s the most ordinary thing I have on board. The damnedest things are getting shipped these days.”

“That they are,” Kiachif agreed. “Last season, I carried a copper sculpture fifteen meters long to one of the outer agriworlds from Doona. A commissioned work by the governor to commemorate ten years of the colony, engraved with the name of every colonist and his accomplishments. It was a pain up the afterburners to handle, but orders are orders! I hate to see what he’ll ask for when twenty-five rolls around, like Doona’s is.”

“Aye, I wanted to come back for the big celebration, but I should be worlds away by then,” Feyder said. “I’m just here on turnabout, starting me route over from the topside. No, when I say strange, I mean the epitome of strange, not ordinary strange. Listen to this one. Got a meteorite puncture on my way in from the outer worlds. After we sealed it up, I found a container cracked open in that bay, with the meteorite smack in the middle like a ball through a glass window. Splintered the whole damned thing into pieces. D’you know what had been inside?”

“Not an idea.”

“A beacon. An orbital drone beacon,” said Feyder, slapping his leg. “No assignment code. No idea where it came from. We checked its memory, and it was hollering Mayday like a pack of banshees. Did you ever hear such a thing in your life?”

“By all that’s white, bright, and right,” Ali said, holding on to his excitement, “that surely is a strange thing to report. Never heard its like in all my years in space. And it didn’t have no ID
number, you say?”

Feyder was not at all taken in by Kiachif’s idle curiosity and gave him a long sly look. “Now I can’t rightly remember.”

“We could both take a look,” Kiachif said.

“So you can see what else I’m hauling and crossship me? Try another one, Kiachif.”

“Surely there must be a little favor I could do for you, Rog ol’ boy!”

Feyder regarded him speculatively. “Well, now, there’s the matter of the Eighth Sector.”

“Oh?” and the single sound dove and swooped up again while Kiachif’s eyes went round as ball bearings.

“Hell, Ali, you gotta leave some routes open for the independents.”

“That’s true enough,” Kiachif said, scratching the stubble on his chin. “I don’t want to appear greedy, or restrict free trade ... You don’t happen to have it still on board, do you?” He winked at Feyder.

“Happen I do. But you don’t get a look at it. That amadan portmaster’s gone all rules and regs on honest traders and he sealed my hatch when I told him that I was only here to refuel and get a drink or two. I can’t unseal till I reach Earth, my next port o’ call.”

“Earth, huh? Is that where your funny gizmo’s going?”

Feyder drained his glass, which Kiachif promptly refilled. “Yup, going to Earth. Spacedep’s the address on the manifest.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“That’s the queerest sort of cargo to carry, I do agree. A beacon with no point of origin, screaming a Mayday, if you get what I mean.”

“Do you mean to let us have some routes in Eighth, then?”

Kiachif affected hurt innocence. “Of course, I do. Soon’s you can give me the beacon’s ID. Give you my word,” and he held up his right, bargain-making hand in promise.

Just then some of Feyder’s gangers entered the bar and Kiachif had a chance to slip away to find Feyder’s supercargo, who was an old friend, and called in a favor he had with that man. “When you get to Earth, just make certain you order that box opened in front of the inspectors because it was ‘damaged in transit.’ ”

“Why?” the super wanted to know.

“I’m not going to tell you why, what, or wherefore,” Kiachif insisted, fending off the man’s questions. “That would be suborning the witness, if you know what I mean. I just need an official inquiry into the contents of that container! And let me know who picks it up. That’s important, too.”

He left the Launch Center, looking for Ken.

Only Pat was at the farm, just getting up from the computer and looking so sick to heart. Kiachif thought he’d better let her talk her worry out of her system. And a drink’d help that process.

“They should be back fairly soon, Ali,” she said, still distracted and worried.

“Now, Patricia, why don’t you get me a little drink and tell me all about it?”

“Ali, you haven’t changed in twenty-four years,” she said, but she looked at him, not around him, and he chuckled.

“Why should I?”

“I know what you mean,” she capped his jovial question with his own words. “Perhaps a drink’s not a bad idea what with everything that’s happened today.”

“You look wore out, Patricia. You sit. I’ll get the bottle. Know where you keep it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she murmured, low enough so he wouldn’t hear her out in the kitchen. But his low chuckle suggested that he had. He was back in no time with the bottle of mlada and two glasses. “Oh, that’s too much for me, Ali.”

“Not a bit of it. You’re paler’n a milk stone and this’ll put heart in you. Your health!”

They touched glasses and she watched in fascination as half the large tumbler disappeared down his throat while a sip was all she could swallow. Still, as it slid down, she felt its warmth easing the tension in her body.

“Now, what’s been happening here today?”

So she told him, including a summary of Kelly’s activities on Earth, DeVeer’s assistance, and Klonski’s admissions.

“Knew that feller was involved in all this. Shoulda known he’d be put to better use than changing freeze marks. Hmmm. And Todd saw the shuttle blasting off and it didn’t register at the Launch Center?” Kiachif frowned deeply. “That do sort of point to the fact that Doona’s security satellites might have felt the touch of Klonski’s little talented digits.”

Pat frowned in the act of sipping the mlada. “Linc Newry—whom we’ve no reason to distrust—thought maybe the shuttle up-and-overed. He promised to keep a close watch on all the orbital monitors.”

“Huh! If one’s been tampered with, they all have. That your men coming back now?” he asked. Ears sharp enough to hear air escaping from a pinhole caught the thud of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels. Two wagons, he thought.

Pat hurried to throw open the door.

“Ali!” Ken swung his leg over the pommel and, throwing his reins to Robin with an admonition to rub Sockertwo down well, charged up the steps to greet the spacefarer. “Glad to see you. Got some questions ...”

“Got some answers, but not necessary to your questions. Hi there, ropy,” Ali added, shaking Todd’s hand as he joined his father on the porch. “Need a drink? Made your wife join me in a glass and you both look like you need a swig er two to set you right before we start jawing.”

Ken and Todd instantly saw the merits of that suggestion. They’d had a bad time in that hidden corral. Vic Solinari and Ben Adjei had sledded over to verify their findings. Vic had taken blood and tissue samples from the little leopard Appie—he was positive it had been foaled by his spotted mare—and Ben had done the same with the other two. One bore so many of his sire’s physical traits that it was easy to identify it as having come from the Hrrel Ranch. The other, a chestnut filly, had no distinguishing marks to give clues to her origin. Ben Adjei would freeze all three carcasses in case they were needed as evidence. They had made the most careful sweep, section by section, to find any more clues. The only one they did find was a half-empty sack of ssersa seed, which proved that the rustlers must have been responsible for the proliferation of that weed on previously cleared pasturelands.

Halfway through their recital, Pat slipped from the kitchen, having been distressed enough by the details to feel that preparing food was a better occupation for her.

With a tray full of steaming bowls of stew and bread rolls as well as a fresh bottle of mlada, she returned in time to hear why Ali Kiachif had sought them out.

“I’ve found me a new occupation,” Ali began, sipping at a freshly filled glass. “You might say I’ve taken to reading the future, if you know what I mean,” and he winked at Robin and Inessa, who had joined those in the living room once their evening stable chores had been completed. Lon had come in, too. “If I was to say, for example, that someone in the docks on Earth is going to open a container in four days, and make an official note that he found inside it a homeless beacon drone calling Mayday, would you believe me?”