Trader's World (15 page)

The driver had noticed his movement. She gave him a quick sideways look. "I hope that your sleep has rested you," she said, in a precise, slow voice.

Mike stopped in midstretch and turned to her in astonishment. "You're not Sweet Pea?"

"Yes, I am." The voice was carefully produced, with rather exaggerated lip movements.

"But Banjo told me—" Mike stopped in confusion.

"That I could not hear or speak?" Sweet Pea's face lit with an uncontrollable joy. "Once I could not. Now, I can do both."

Mike waited for more explanation, but none was forthcoming. Instead, Sweet Pea pointed ahead of them, to a glow of ruddy lights against the flat Strine skyline. "Two more minutes, and we will have arrived at the Headquarters of The Musgrave." She turned her elegant head, to give him a longer and frankly curious stare. "I do not think that I have ever seen a Trader before. Certainly not since I have been here. Is it true what I have been told, that a Trader has no home, anywhere?"

"In a way it's true." Mike wondered how many false rumors they had been told about Traders—and how many false facts he "knew" about the Strines. "Once we finish our training, we have no fixed home. We negotiate all over the world, and up in space, also. Our headquarters, where we coordinate our work, is the nearest thing we have to a single living place. But we do not think of ourselves as having no home. We feel that we are at home everywhere, in any place where there is trading and negotiation to be carried on."

As he spoke the lights ahead of them began to disappear from view. The car had left the level road and was descending below ground level, following a long tunnel that curved down for many feet. When the descent finally concluded Mike saw something that he had never expected to find in the Strine Interior: the reflection of far-off lamps in still water. They had reached the shore of a subterranean lake, several miles across, that filled the central region of a huge cave. The surface glowed faintly, as though from submarine lighting. He looked for signs of buildings along the lakeshore, but could see little in the gloom around the perimeter. Much of the lake ended in vertical walls of earth, reaching to the ceiling of the chamber.

"So much water!" he said to Sweet Pea. "I did not know a lake like this existed in the Interior. None of the maps shows it."

"We made it. It is the only one." She had allowed the automatic control system to take over, and it was guiding the car gradually toward the lakeside. "Because of this, we have the richest territory in the mainland. That would be true even without our biolab products. And our labs are the best." There was great pride in those carefully enunciated words. Mike was itching to see proof of the statement.

They stepped out of the car, which had parked in an underground garage where a fleet of ground and air vehicles stood arranged in neat lines. Each one bore the same spiral insignia.

Sweet Pea walked Mike to an elevator. When the lift arrived she motioned for him to enter and pressed the button for it to descend. She remained outside.

"Just a minute." Mike held the door open with one hand. "I don't know my way around this place. What happens when I get to the bottom?"

Sweet Pea smiled. "You will meet with Cinder-feller. This elevator leads only to the bigboss private quarters, or back up to the surface."

The elevator door closed before Mike could say anything more, and the car began a leisurely descent. The doors finally opened onto a room maybe thirty yards long, oppressively hot and humid, with a high vaulted ceiling. The far wall was one great sheet of curved glass. Beyond it lay the waters and bed of the underground lake, artificially lit so that an observer could follow events many yards away in the clear water. Even as he walked forward to marvel, Mike realized that he was witnessing an act of technical bravado. In one of the Earth's driest regions, Cinder-feller Lavengro was allowing her visitors to look out on her creation: a priceless treasure—millions of cubic feet of fresh water.

The interior of the room was dimly lit, and it was not until he was halfway to the glass wall that Mike realized there was another person present. Off to his left was a long dark table, and beyond that a low sofa. And on that sofa, swaddled in tasseled blankets and thick quilts, sat a dark figure. "Did you know," a sweet tenor voice said, "that in this region a man's life is usually worth no more than twenty gallons of fresh water? How many men do you think you are looking at now?"

He turned toward the sound and peered curiously at the seated figure. The voice was oddly androgynous, and he was not sure if a man or a woman had addressed him. Whichever, the swathes of blankets and gaudy patchwork quilts were draped around a grotesque being. He was looking at a person of enormous size, maybe as much as five hundred pounds in weight. It was impossible to tell where flesh began and ended in the rippling folds of garments. Long tresses of brown hair showed beneath a gray cowl, worn forward to shadow the brow and eyes. The mouth was thick-lipped and pouting, with a purple hue beneath its vivid red. The pale, bulging cheeks gleamed with sweat.

Mike stepped up to the table. "You are Jinjer Lavengro?"

The tenor voice chuckled. "Why, yes, I suppose that I am. Though no one has called me Jinjer for many years. Do as the others do, and call me Cinder-feller. And I will dispense with ceremony and call you Mike. All right? Then we can forget the protocol nonsense and get right down to business."

One thing that a Trader education included was the business rituals of different regions. Before serious discussions began, the Chipponese served hoi tea, the Republic tobacco, the Community alcohol, and the Unified Empire dope; even the Chills of the Cap Federation offered their warmed liquid seal fat. The Strines alone did nothing. They observed no polite overtures. Fathom had been just as abrupt as Cinder-feller—worse, if that first naked sword counted as a greeting.

Mike shrugged. "Let's talk business. I came a long way—and not to see the sights of the Strine Interior. Where shall we begin?"

Cinder-feller drew in a long, snorting breath. "It is late, and you must be tired. But we can clear some groundwork tonight. I think there are illusions to be dispelled—perhaps on both sides." There was a movement of the massive form, and the creak of the sofa beneath it. Cinder-feller nodded at a container of dark fluid sitting surrounded by glasses and dishes of sticky-looking confections on the table in front of them. "Eat and drink, if you wish. For my part, I will refrain from food tonight and promise you a banquet tomorrow. I will begin with my own questions. Your turn will come."

How old was she? Was it truly
she
? It was easy to be confused about the sex of Tommy Lavengro's younger child. The voice gave no clue. Mike tried to see some outward sign of the deformities inflicted by Cinder-feller's accident, but the only flesh visible was nose and cheeks, and they appeared unblemished. The drapes and shawls could hide almost any injury, even the loss of an arm or leg. "Continue."

"We begin with a surprise," the cloaked figure said. "A surprise for me. We have already performed an analysis of the chemical signatures on the piece of identifying leather that you carried. It matches the chemsig for you provided by the Trader bank. You are indeed Mikal Asparian, of the Society of Traders. I was convinced before you arrived that you would prove to be an impostor."

"But you must have known that I was on my way—that information was broadcast to all of the Strine receiving stations."

"Indeed it was." Cinder-feller gave another fatty chuckle. "But I did not expect that you would ever come to me by way of
Fathom's
territory. After all, she has been desperately trying to work her spies in here for the past four years. Dispose of you and put her own agent in your place—what could be more natural? There would have to be an official story for the Traders, of course, telling how you had died in an unfortunate accident in the Strine Interior. But that would be easy. I could see the logic for it—I even anticipated it, and arranged the chemsig test when I received word of your approach. If it was another clumsy attempt at espionage, I was prepared to eliminate you at once, as I have done twelve other attempts. But, no. You are truly a Trader."

As Mike's eyes adjusted to the gloom he could see the beads of sweat that stood on Cinder-feller's cowled brow and along the thin nose. He could feel a matching rivulet making its way down the back of his neck. "Perhaps I am being obtuse," he said slowly. "I can see no logic for what you are saying. I entered the Strine mainland with help from Fathom, certainly, but I see no way in which my visit here can benefit her."

Cinder-feller poured two glasses of the dark fluid and pushed one of them toward him. "That is only because you are a stranger to our internal politics. Fathom cannot penetrate this territory. Accept that statement as truth, and believe me when I tell you that she desperately wishes to do so. We have many bioscience developments that she wants. Despite her overweening pride in the Double-X plantations, we have new organisms here that make those seem insignificant. I have bio geniuses here beyond any others in the whole world. Fathom knows it. She covets their knowledge and the power that brings us—and she knows I will never sell that knowledge to her. So, how will she get the information that she wants?" The great shoulders heaved into a shrug. "She has tried one approach: sending in spies. Not one made it past the border. Now she seemed ready for another: sending an impostor, pretending to be a Trader. I assumed that—and I was wrong. So now I have another thought." The massive body leaned forward. "Fathom wants the use of a pair of eyes and ears to tell her all they can about my labs. Though no impostor, you could be those eyes and ears."

Mike shook his head. "Torture never pulls information out of a Trader. Our indoctrination assures that—and Fathom knows it."

"As do I. Torture could not be the answer." Cinder-feller sighed. "Nor would I ever accuse you of selling information to her. I have tremendous admiration for the Traders. Tomorrow you and I will, if things go well, set up a basis for our long-term relationship. But torture and corruption are not the only ways. You are, I assume, planning to return through Fathom's territory?"

"That was our arrangement. She is certainly expecting me."

"Then let me ask you one more question. The Strines have their own sources of secret information. On this mission you are carrying with you a special device. Where is your recording disk?"

Mike was shocked. Somewhere in the Trader organization was a big information leak. To hide his surprise he leaned forward and sipped at his filled glass. Alcohol, plus a hint of heroin—and what else?

Whatever it was, he had learned his lesson in the Darklands: prevention was preferable to cure. At the first opportunity he would take a detox pill. But what should he do right now? Admit to the presence of the disk, or deny its existence?

It was an easy question. There had been plenty of confidence in Cinder-feller's voice. Mike reached up, plucked the disk from his shirt, and handed it to Cinder-feller. As she stared at it curiously he seized the chance to take out and swallow a detox pill.

"It may be rude of me to say so, but might I suggest that the Traders seek a little assistance in miniaturization from Cap City?" The pale hand came forward and passed the recording disk back to Mike. He saw the dimples of knuckles in a fatty paw, and pudgy, soft digits. But despite its grossness it was perfectly formed, with no sign of injury or disfigurement. "This is much larger than I expected, and I cannot imagine that it is convenient to operate."

Mike shrugged and considered the possibility of swallowing the disk. "I have to say I agree with you. It was not my idea to bring it—and I certainly didn't realize that you would already know about it."

"Not only I. What would you say, Trader Asparian, if I told you that all Fathom's actions have been devoted to a single objective? She wants you to visit me and my territory and see as much of what we do as possible. And then leave the Strine Interior via
her
territory. She does not care if you are alive or dead when you reach her—because what she wants, of course, is
that
." Cinder-feller pointed at the disk, then raised her glass to her lips. The purplish mouth smiled a little at his appalled expression. "With the complete record of your visit here. If you were to swallow it, that would not matter. She will slit your belly open and cut it out of you with her own hands."

Did the woman know
everything
?

"Nice idea," Mike said slowly. If Cinder-feller were deliberately employing the Traders' own guidelines for negotiation, she was doing it very well. She was taking everything that Mike thought he knew about the situation, and turning it upside down. "But the recording disk would be quite useless to Fathom, or to anyone else. It can be destroyed—with difficulty. But its contents cannot be read out or deciphered without the use of the Trader central computer."

"I am glad you feel so confident." Cinder-feller's voice was full of a disquieting cynicism. "Believe that if you wish. Speaking for myself, I have purchased many 'secrets' and the keys to many unbreakable codes in the past few years. And there are data exploration specialists in Cap City who just love that kind of challenge. I would not care to stake my own life on the security of a recording disk's stored information. Ask yourself this: Did Fathom see the disk? Yes. And did she ask you its purpose? And if not, why not?" She smiled at his expression, and Mike saw strong teeth and a fleshy pink tongue. "I thought as much. Doesn't that
prove
that she already knew quite well what the disk was doing?" She yawned. "Well, perhaps that gives you enough to think about for tonight. Tomorrow I want you to see my labs and learn what we have that should interest a Trader. As you will see, Velocil and the Candlemass Berries were little more than bait to bring you here.

"And I will provide you with at least the bare bones of my own objectives in negotiation, so that you will be able to do your own thinking tonight. My aims are simple, but they are large. The mainland and the other Strine holdings are fragmented. Each has its own security force, and its own weapons arsenal." Cinder-feller paused. "I wish to unite this region and control all the Strinelands. For that enterprise, I need allies, and I need equipment. But most of all, I need skills in
negotiation
. And that is you. As I told you, I admire the Traders more than any other group, on Earth or off it. Nothing would please me more than a joint effort with them."