Crisis On Doona (19 page)

ADMIRAL AL LANDREAU
hated Doona. Initially, when the bright blue pebble with its light cloud coverage had swum into his viewscreen , he thought it looked peaceful and pleasant. When he had been assigned to explore it for a preliminary search, it had seemed the perfect Earthlike world, class M in the old parlance, atmosphere, near-normal gravity and all, the very epitome of what Spacedep was searching for. It was full of possibilities, and the key to fame and better departmental financing for him.

Ever since the first colonists landed there, though, it had been one long headache for Spacedep and Landreau. He lay the source of all his troubles squarely upon the backs of the Reeves. A family of malcontents, by all accounts from Aisle and Corridor monitors, always disturbing civilized people with their noise and antisocial behavior. They had made a public fool of him. They, or specifically, Ken Reeve, had blamed him for not noticing their mythical cat people or the nightmarish giant snakes in time to prevent the colonization. As if there was any way he could have known about them, in spite of that ape Sumitral’s insistence that the clues were all there. Reeve had made a fool of him, claimed he jeopardized the colony.

Well, the colonists had been in the wrong. They had violated the Siwannese protocol, had resisted being removed from the planet in spite of their feigned horror over that violation, and had been compounding that transgression anathema for a quarter of a century. Now was the moment to eradicate that mistake, put it behind him. He fully intended to do so. His opportunity had been handed to him, calligraphed, signed, sealed, and set under a glass bell. To make it the sweetest possible revenge, Todd Reeve, the hysterical, bilingual boy child of Ken Reeve, was to be the key to ending this quarter century of humiliation. The Treaty Council was buzzing: rumors of resignation threats already abounded. Landreau was looking forward to hearing Rogitel’s full report.

There were cat people all over the building where he gridded in. Their hairy, fang-toothed faces made him shudder. The Hrrubans were an abomination against nature’s plan. Cats shouldn’t walk like Humans. They should go on all four legs like the basically feral animals they imitated.

When the mist of transfer cleared, he was facing one of the very creatures he abhorred. The animal operating the grid center opened its mouth at him and showed its teeth, casually displaying its bestiality. The horror was that it thought it was smiling. He nodded curtly and stepped down.

It was outrageous that these Hrrubans should have stumbled on any technology as powerful as the transportation grid. While the grid was convenient, having to use it frightened him: he preferred to be in control of the mechanisms used in travel. What if the operator hadn’t been well enough trained, and Landreau was trapped in the grid, neither one place nor another? Supposing someone with a grievance against him took a bribe and sent him to the wrong destination, even a fatal one? He would have preferred to have the one facility on Earth destroyed, and its operator returned to its homeworld. Wherever that was. If Landreau could only find it ... That damned Treaty neatly blocked that aspiration. However, the cats were not fooling Admiral Al Landreau. He had long since deduced their real objective. This transport grid of theirs: a single grid, like the one on Terra, could be quickly built into a giant one, capable of moving armies. Yet the blockheads and simpering idiots in positions of power on the Amalgamated Worlds refused to see the threat inherent in the cats’ technology. But he had made allies, supported causes in return for the support of his. This year would see the end to the Hrruban threat before it became a nightmare reality.

The grid operator said something in the ridiculous collection of grunts and growls that served the beast race for a language. Sounded like bad plumbing. And that was yet another insult: that Human beings were to imitate such filthy noise instead of good, clean Terran.

“Commander? I’m Nesfa Dupuis,” a low voice at his elbow said in the Terran language.

Startled but relieved, Landreau turned. The speaker was a small Human woman with dark skin and glowing brown eyes. She stood next to the grid station, her hands folded quietly into her voluminous sleeves.

“Treaty Councillor,” Landreau said smoothly, with a gracious nod and a quick handshake. “I want to see everything that you have on this vexing matter. When may I meet with the Council? It is important that I see them immediately.”

The small woman held up a hand. “Not today, I’m sorry to inform you. We’re in the midst of deep negotiation on space rights, Commander.”

“Hmmph!” Landreau snorted. “Isn’t such a negotiation irrelevant in the face of the crimes reported to you? You’re wasting time. Might as well address yourself to immediate and germane issues. Save yourself the bother.”

Landreau realized immediately that he had misjudged this one. She was a Doona colony sympathizer. Another fardling New Ager. He sighed and turned on a charm that never failed to work. “I’d like you to consider me a friend in this case, Councillor. My lifelong ambition has been to promote the improvement of the quality of life for Humanity. I’ll do everything in my power to help expedite a successful conclusion to this disgraceful incident. Then the Council can continue its more important responsibilities.”

“You are so cooperative, Admiral,” Dupuis said aloud, her schooled expression not revealing her true feelings, but she had long since taken the Admiral’s measure and was aware of some of his machinations. “The Council is, of course, grateful for any assistance in bringing this unfortunate situation to a swift conclusion. You will doubtless wish to confer with your assistant. An office has been set at your disposal near the one Commander Rogitel is using. This way, please.”

* * *

The deep male voice crackled over the speaker in the airfield control tower. “Tower, this is Codep ship
Apocalypse,
on final insertion through orbit. I’ll be down there in a minute.”

“Can’t you be more specific, Fred?” Martinson asked, clapping one hand to his headset and checking the screens which displayed telemetry from the orbiting navigation probes around Doona. “Good to hear from you. Pad eight is open for your use. Got two mechanics on duty this morning if you need any refitting. Happy landing.”

The transport ship appeared as a ball of fire in the sky as the retros ignited in atmosphere and slowed the descent velocity. Below, the roof of number 8 bay was rolling open.
Apocalypse
set down expertly in the ring encircling the number on the fireproof surface of the launchpad. There was one final burst of fire and a belch of black smoke as the engines shut down. Martinson arrived alongside the
Apocalypse
in a flitter, with a fumigation team and a customs official in tow.

“Hello, Martinson. Sorry to have missed New Home Week,” the burly trader said, descending from the ship as the team crowded him on its way up into the passenger compartment. “Probably cost me a lot of business, but you can only go so fast in space, eh? I’ve got bushels of test seed designated for the farms here. Say, what’s all this?” He glanced at Newry, the customs agent, who took his manifests out of his hand and marched around to the ship’s cargo hatch.

“Sorry, Fred,” Martinson said. “Every ship has to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Orders.”

“I’ve got my orders, too!” Horstmann boomed. He was a big man with a big voice, and pale hair buzzed short in a spaceman’s clip. “Got customers waiting! You’ll get your duty fees. I’ve never shorted you. So what’s the scramble for?”

“Only takes a few minutes,” said Martinson, refusing to discuss the matter. He was determined not to be caught bending the rules again.

Horstmann stood, impatiently tapping his hand on his thigh until the customs agent returned with the clipboard. “Is everything all right? I’ve got business to do! You can’t stop the Horstmann of the
Apocalypse
from his ride forever! Ha, ha, ha!”

“All clear,” Martinson said, ignoring Fred’s traditional joke. Newry handed his chief the clipboard full of manifests. He nodded over his shoulder toward the flitter. From the passenger seat, the thin form of Rogitel arose and approached the trader.

“Ah! Commander,” Horstmann said, extending his hand. “Nice to see you. I’ve got your little package for you, tapes from the governor of Zapata Three. Kept it next to my heart. Got a real fine collection of seals from a lot of places I didn’t know existed ... ?” He cocked his head, hoping to be enlightened.

“Just pass it over,” Rogitel said, ignoring the query and Horstmann’s extended hand.

With a shrug, Horstmann drew the package out of one of his sealed shipsuit pockets. Rogitel took the parcel, examined it briefly, and handed a credit chit to the captain.

“And thank you,” Horstmann said, with overblown mock courtesy as the Spacedep official turned and walked off without another word. “Huh! What’s the matter here? Doona’s usually a hospitable place. Couldn’t he waste an extra syllable to be polite? Some people!” The Codep captain shook his head ruefully. “Well, credits are credits.” Horstmann tucked away the chit in his pouch. “Bobby! Come on! Customers are waiting!”

He walked into the Launch Center’s warehouse, where stalls were set up for traveling traders across from the permanent trading booths for the Doona Cooperative of Farmers and Skillcrafters. These facilities, originally the odd table or two set up for the display and sale of merchandise, had evolved into tidy shops, complete with display cases and specialized lighting. The exchange of goods and money became comfortable and convenient for traders who didn’t need to establish an on-planet trading route at every stop, and for their customers, who could browse about the wares displayed. Ali Kiachif had suggested the improvements. His ships carried trade goods from one world to another. Now the port attracted persons of both species from all over Doona, to sell their own goods and buy what traders might have on offer.

“Give me a moment to unload the merchandise, good folk!” Horstmann pleaded. “Ah, today’s a good day to do business.”

A couple of Hrruban ranchers from their Third Village had a string of pack ponies with them for sale. As the
Apocalypse
had suitable facilities for animal transport, Horstmann prowled around the little animals, lifting a hoof, examining teeth, before he made an opening offer.

Ken Reeve arrived at the warehouse in time to see Rogitel stalk away in the company of the portmaster.

“Hello, Horstmann,” he called over the heads of the crowd.

“Well! Reeve, good to see you,” Horstmann boomed, coming over to greet him. His huge hand engulfed Ken’s in a companionable grasp.

“What was the commander after here? He usually doesn’t grace a launchpad with his presence.”

“I’d a special delivery for Ol’ Skinny Shanks. Bird from Zapata Three passed it on to me for him. Since I’m not due on Terra for another couple of weeks, I could make the detour here. I got paid for it. Feels like tapes or something. Sealed up from one end to the next from places I’ve never visited.” Then Horstmann lowered his voice. “You looking for information, eh?”

“Just curious,” Ken replied, equally circumspect. “Rogitel and Landreau have been on Doona for a week, and they’ve stayed on Treaty Island. Not like Landreau to waste time before jumping down our throats on some damned fool petty issue.”

“Hmm,” Horstmann rumbled sympathetically. “Heard some spacescud I didn’t like. I don’t believe for a millisec that Todd’d be dealing in irreplaceables. If he was, why didn’t he notify me? Everyone knows I offer the best prices on curios. What else can I tell you?”

“When is Kiachif due here next?” Ken asked.

The big trader laughed. “Soon, I hope! I’m supposed to meet him here in a few days, and I want to be on my way ASAP. Codep’s got some new rulings about trading, and he wants everyone to hear them from his immortal lips. But I’ve got a schedule to keep.”

“Having a profitable season?” Vic Solinari asked, coming over to greet Fred.

“Oh, I’ve made a few credits in commissions. Went through Zapata Three like wind through the trees. Almost thought they’d never seen an honest trader before.” Horstmann patted his credit pouch with an air of satisfaction.

“And have they seen one now?” Vic Solinari asked, winking broadly at Ken.

“Vic! That cuts me to the quick,” Fred said, his huge hands crossed dramatically over his heart. “How many times have I given you fellows the shirt off my back?” Then he made another abrupt change of mood. “In fact, I did once, when no other size I was carrying would fit one of the miners on Zlotnik. Poor devil. Gave him a pretty good deal, I might add. Say, perhaps you’ll be interested in these. Zapata’s doing a good line in metal chain, all grades and gauges. Bobby!” he shouted to his young son, who served as his supercargo. The boy, who was driving a loader full of merchandise, stopped when he heard his father shout. “Roll out some of that chain! I brought them a galvanizer last trip, and the results are fine. Won’t ever rust. You got my personal guarantee. They’re starting a line of ergonomic hand tools that I’ll
bring along next time. Fit the hand. Save the blisters. You’ll be interested in those.”