Bloodhype (9 page)

It was moderately aesthetic fat, however, Perhaps the effect wasn’t entirely unintentional. Rather than sagging, it ballooned tautly against his cheekbones and forearms. There is a great deal of difference appearance-wise between a fat man who looks like Santa Claus and one who seems composed of wet rags. This one was a Santa.

The blue eyes, set like lapis-lazuli on either side of the marquise-cut probosis, did not twinkle, however. They stared unwaveringly back into one’s own.

The portatables surrounded the man like metallic pygmies attending an idol of gluttony. They were piled with tridee cubes of planetary scenery, hand-carvings of Replerian ivory and fine woods, and an occasional bit of good jewelry. The stock was a little better than the average of the type but displayed nothing extraordinary.

“Well now,” Kitten began, “we’re not averse to suggestions from even the most unlikely quarters, my pudgy purveyor.”

“A lady who follows her soul, I see. Better than calling me plain ‘fat,’ which is what I be.”

Kitten gestured with the tobacco stick at a rack of cubes depicting fishermen in time-honored poses with victims of the sport a Terran counterpart would scoff at as trick photography.

“Your miserable attempts at flattery do me no honor. Unless you’ve more for sale than pretty pictures favoring the local cretinisms, I fear you waste our time.”

The man sneezed. “The administration really ought to do something about covering over these seaside amusement ways. At least the walkaways could be subheated.” He wiped his nose with a big multicolored hanky and heaved himself forward in the chair, wheezing.

“If you’ve the inclination,” he continued much more softly, “and the money—yes the money—for something most definitely different, I think we might do business.”

Kitten moved closer and leaned over part of the tables. She pretended to examine a carved walrus-like creature with thin silver whiskers and rose-crystal tusks.

“The desire is always there, merchant. And I have enough credits for anything in the way of entertainment this damp sod-ball could possibly offer. Endeavor to provide specifics, please.”

“Bloodhype,” the man whispered evenly. “A narcotic, if you haven’t heard of it. The finest, rarest, and most pleasureful drug this end of the opposite Arm. If you’ve the mind and guts to try it, that is.”

Kitten drew back, sighing. “Oh my. And I really hoped you might have something worthwhile, too.” She took in the whole City in a contemptuous jerk of her head. “Your market for such a product is
everywhere
evident. No doubt the sophisticated populace makes heavy demands on your thin stock. The woods must be aswarm with beboggled loggers and trappers!”

She handed the man the figurine and her credit slip. He went through the motions of recording the purchase. He pursed his lips in surprise as her credit rating flashed on his doublecheck screen.

“You do have the money, lovely lady-lady. Yes you do. As for your sarcasm, I am not offended. People migrate, m’lady, and so do many products. A number of such pause here on their way to other, more lucrative markets. But some is always available at points of transfer. That smokestick of yours, for example, is Terran tobacco, is it not?” Kitten nodded. “There, you see? For someone with the proper attitude and resources, anything is available anyplace.” He was very jolly about it all.

“Then you’re serious? It’s really available in this backwater?” She put just enough disbelief and suppressed excitement into her voice.

He continued to wrap the little carving in decorative foil. “As serious and real as your beauty, lass.”

“And you’ve samples with you?”

He chuckled lightly. “My ancient human history is not the best, but from the tapes I can recall, I believe the court fools were traditionally on the slim side. No, lady. The equal of Hivehom the local constabulary may not be, but their machinery is as good as that on many of the more metropolitan worlds. I trust that you would not be averse to a short sea journey?”

“Well . . . how long?”

“Less than a day.”

“And we could leave . . . when?” she asked breathlessly.

“Immediately, if you wish.”

She turned to Porsupah. “Niki?”

“These whims of yours, Pilar. Oh well, if you think you know what you’re getting us into. Jaster is supposed to be 100 percent addictive, I recall.”

“Oh, poo! Scare rumors the Church manufactures to frighten children!” The fat man was watching her closely. “Besides, if it’s the real stuff, think what a coup I will have on the Marchioness . . . the bitchy little snippet!”

“This absurd vendetta you carry with your cousin . . . all right. But only if it all takes less than a day. I still have that flyer reserved to take us north day after tomorrow following—”

“Bother your fishing!” She turned back to the merchant.

“We accept.”

“Excellent! Then if you will permit me a few moments to pack up my simple shop, we can be off.”

“I hope your mysterious rendezvous isn’t terribly inaccessible. This outfit wasn’t made for roughing it.” She indicated the skintight black-spotted orange fur jumpsuit she was wearing, with open circlets on each leg revealing patches of skin up to her arms.

The man was folding the portatables—or rather, directing them to fold themselves. The stock automatically twisted and turned until it was contained in several odd-sized crates and rectangles. These quickly maneuvered themselves into a single featureless black block, like an automated jigsaw puzzle. He locked it, put a single CLOSED sign on the front, and started off in the direction of the sea breeze, Porsupah and Kitten following.

“Kind of chilly,” said Pors.

“As can be seen—and smelled—this amusement area is quite close to the docks,” their guide informed. Already they had left behind the hard lights and perpetual people-hum of the walkaways. Moving under their own power, they strolled along dimly lit seaside byways, kept clear of fog by City weather machinery.

Commercial craft mingled here with private vessels, each sidled close by its protective pier or slideway. They ranged from popcorn clusters of tiny one-seat water-skippers to huge bulk-fishers and transports hundreds of meters long. The farraginous flotilla threw alien city-shadows against the night sky. Phosphorescent foam the color of old newsprint lapped onto plastic hoveraft beaches.

When Repler’s two moons were in the sky, as they were now, they threw a fair amount of light. Massed together, they would have made a body a little larger than Terra’s Luna. September was nearly overhead, while August had just cleared the horizon. It would get lighter before it got darker, and the shadow of the old tom mewing on a broken piling would split.

The man led them down a long, telescoping dock. Hard by the dark water at its end rested a narrow, racy-looking hoveraft. Light showed in the open doorway and above the forecabin windows, illuminating the pebbled artificial beach. Despite its fine lines, the vessel was clearly more metal than plastine. That argued for a craft intended to transport cargo more than people. Quickly, too.

“We’re expected?” said Porsupah on catching sight of the lights. Kitten knew that he’d probably spotted them as soon as they’d turned down the quay. No point in letting their friendly pusher onto any Tolian abilities he might not be aware of.

“Hardly. No, I suspect the two pilots are up. The ship is normally engaged in transporting supplies to our host’s place of business. Sedda and Franz are perfectly trustworthy. You needn’t worry on that account.”

“Let’s hurry it up then,” said Kitten. “We
do
have other engagements, you know.”

The fat man slowed his pace slightly. “Someone is expecting you then?”

“No no! I just get impatient at times, merchant. I am . . . high-strung, you might say. Besides,” she added hastily, “hoveraft night-rides aren’t exactly the most luxurious form of transportation, you know.”

“The best at my disposal, I fear. Again may I say we will not be overlong. Our destination is but . . . but why should that concern you, eh?” He herded them on board.

Two men looked up from a game of femin-de-fer as the three entered the cabin. Both were simply attired in plaid work-pants and light water-repellent jackets. They looked very competent.

The one called Franz gave Kitten at least as thorough a look-over as he gave his cargo. He spoke to the fat man, who was peeling off his own jacket. The thick arms thus revealed showed a surprising amount of muscle.

“Well! York, your taste in merchandise is improving!”

“Watch your tongue, Franz. The lady and her friend are to be our guests. Class A-1, you understand?”

The burly pilot looked startled, then pleased. “Your pardon, m’lady. No offense meant.”

“None taken,” said Kitten, smiling archly and lighting up another smokestick.

The other pilot, Sedda, was already warming up the raft’s engines. A shudder went through the vessel as the big rotors began to turn over.

“Have a seat back among the cargo, then,” said Franz. He turned to the fat man. “I take it his Lordship’s approval will be forthcoming for this unscheduled journey, York?”

“No doubt on it,” the big man replied, making himself comfortable for the trip.

“That’s enough for me, then.” The pilot turned back to his position forward.

“If you’d give me a hand here first, Franz?” said York.

“My pleasure, enormous one.”

York had rummaged through a side compartment and come up with two blindfolds. “I say now,” began Porsupah uncertainly. “Are those things entirely necessary?”

“I fear that they are,” York apologized. “You understand, where merchandise of so, ah, controversial a nature is involved, extreme precautions are the norm.” He reached out and gently removed the stub of the smokestick from Kitten’s lips, deposited it carefully to one side.

Kitten squirmed slightly as dark cloth took away her sight. “Surely you can’t believe that, even if I were so inclined, which I am not, I could possibly retrace the route to your patron’s hideaway from what I might see while racing through the night over the waters of an utterly strange planet?”

“No, I do not. But I do not share similar feelings with respect to your furry friend here. Where unknown qualities are concerned, it is best to be careful. And while potential customers you may be, you two do constitute rather an unknown.”

“Really?” said Kitten. “I’d think we were pretty transparent. Certainly our purpose is clear. Why the ‘potential’ customer? Are you entertaining second thoughts about my credit rating?” She began to get a sinking feeling in her stomach that somewhere someone had made a ghastly blunder. This occurred whenever things refused to run in synch with her ideas of the cosmos.

“Not your credit rating, no,” York replied conversationally. He finished knotting the blindfold. Hard. “But thoughts, yes. I’m especially curious about one thing. A triviality, really, but it bothers me. While you were conversing with me at my pitiable stand, several blatantly plainclothes lawfolk passed by and did not see fit to interrupt us.”

“And why should they have?” she replied, tensing.

“Because,” interrupted the voice of Franz, “as friend York’s pickup relayed to us, your smokesticks are Terran tobacco. Ever since an early colonist discovered that the fumes were fatal to the young shoots of an especially rare and valuable wood, Terran tobacco has been a forbidden import on Repler.”

Kitten made a half-hearted shrug. “Am I expected to know that?” She gathered her feet under her and began edging a hand up towards the blindfold.

“Possibly not,” said York. “But those two officers should have, even if you slipped it by the oh-so-careful customs inspectors at the Port—”

She ripped off the blindfold and in one motion slammed a heel into Franz’ knee, feeling the patella snap. The big pilot doubled over in pained surprise. She saw Sedda set the raft on auto and turn back towards her just as something very heavy descended on her head from behind. Darkness and silence descended with it.

When she regained consciousness she found that her position in the world had been altered. She was now horizontal. She tried to move her arms, then her legs. Results were not encouraging. Her limbs had been effectively immobilized. The bench she was securely tied to was hard, flat, and (she wiggled awkwardly) damn cold. The coldness was magnified by the fact that she had no clothes on. The bonds at her wrists, waist, and ankles disturbed her far more than her nakedness. Her clothing she missed mostly for the several miniature weapons sewn into the waistband.

Turning as far as possible to the left and leaning with all her weight, she tugged hard at the smooth bond on her right wrist. This accomplished nothing beyond bringing on a sudden onslaught of dizziness. Her body was weak from inactivity. The more-than-leather strap wasn’t leather. And there was a lump at the back of her head that wasn’t caused by her hairdo.

A familiar voice called softly from somewhere to her right.

“Sssst! Pilar!”

That was her cover name. Despite another restraining strap across her neck, she was able to turn enough to see Porsupah encased in a rough mold of polypane foam. He was packaged as neatly as the polished figurine York had sold her. Her head had cleared and she strained to see as much as possible. Because of the neck strap she could raise her head only a little, but could turn it all the way to left or right. Despite its strength, the strap still felt like fine leather and didn’t chafe. Even so, she had doubts that they were so constructed because their owner wished to seem solicitous of her health.

When she looked up she saw an old man. He was seated in a raised chair at the foot of the bench. His clothes were garish, loud, and clashed badly. Gray-white hair was parted down the middle and combed off to both sides, tied at the back in a pigtail. She found the air of polite concern he affected while staring down at her positively revolting. She would have preferred some honest drooling.

He was an ugly old man. Not that his features were particularly repulsive; they weren’t. But the aura of evil he carried about him was as perceptible as rotting wet vegetation. Some folk felt nice, some felt ugly. This one felt ugly.