Crisis On Doona (20 page)

The two Hrrubans came over to discuss the ponies and ended up taking part of their price in narrow-gauge metal chain. They shook hands and Horstmann arranged with one of the Humans from First Village to have the beasts boarded until he was ready to load up and leave. Ken looked over the metalwork and other goods which Horstmann’s son placed on the long tables. The trader himself passed among them, shaking hands and arranging deals quickly. Some Doonans paid in credit vouchers; others with goods, such as rough or cut gemstones or finished craftwork.

Pottery, textiles, ready-to-wear tunics and overalls were placed out by Horstmann’s crew for inspection. A large, floppy bundle came out on the next skidload, and Fred pounced on it.

“Well, these have come a long way. Hey, Reeve,” he called. “Here’s horsehides with your ranch markings on them. Sell them, they get ridden and eaten, and the hides end up back here for craftwork. Now, that’s recycling.”

“My brand?” Ken asked curiously, making his way over to look. “That’s my brand, all right. Where did you say these came from? Zapata? I didn’t sell this many to anyone on that world. At least I don’t think so.”

“Well, you must have,” Horstmann pointed out. “I’d know the Reeve Ranch markings anywhere, and Zapatan provenance is with ‘em.”

Ken flipped over one hide after another. Twenty still showed his freeze mark but he couldn’t remember having sold a full score of horses to Zapata Three. He’d easily recall a sale that would have fed his family for a year or more. Then he clicked his tongue on his teeth. Could he be looking at hides of animals that had gone missing? Over a period of years, there’d been a fair number of inexplicable disappearances. Some he could chalk up against hunting mdas, disease, or ssersa: a few would be a normal enough loss for any rancher. But twenty? Maybe Todd was right. Rustlers had returned to Doona and taken the animals off-world in spite of satellite surveillance.

Hides kept a long time. They could be accumulated and then sold when enough time had passed to dim memory of their loss. Someone had blundered, letting the rustled hides make their way back to Doona. The general method of making profit from rustling was to take the animals to a pastoral world that wasn’t yet cleared for animal residence, where colonists were desperate for breeding stock and fresh meat. Thriftily then the colonists traded cured hides to other planets for goods. Probably swapped hides for some of Zapata’s new chains.

Now if he could just trace the hides back, to Zapata to the colonists and then to the men who’d sold them the animals, he could pass that information on to Poldep. Having them come back in a lump proved it was one person who’d been responsible all along, not several different gangs. That’d be a good fact to pass on to Poldep.

“Fred, who sold you these?”

“Why?” The trader squinted at him suspiciously. “Something wrong with ’em? You know damned well, Reeve, I don’t deal in stolen goods and I’ve the Zapatan provenance.”

“So you do,” Ken said reasonably, “but I’d be grateful if you could give me a name.”

“Truth to tell, I can’t. I was shaking hands and changing credits so fast that I have no face to attach to the goods.” Horstmann looked genuinely regretful. “I’d’ve checked if I’d thought it odd, but I know you sell off-world.”

Ken suppressed his frustration and asked with a friendly smile, “How long will you be on Doona?”

“I’ve got to wait for Kiachif, ‘come frost, fire, or flood,’ as he says,” Fred replied, grinning. “I’m supposed to take a shipment for him into the Hrruban arm, and he hasn’t caught up with me yet. I got a message on the beacon that this time I’d better stay where I am. Not that I wouldn’t. Don’t tell him, but I’m fond of the old pirate.”

“Good,” Ken said. “Fred, I know you got the provenance so don’t take this wrong, but I’ve got a feeling that these animals were stolen from me. Would you let me take the hides to check against the sales records?”

“I’d like to, Ken, I really would,” Horstmann said, bobbing his head from side to side in his reluctance, “but I might be able to sell ’em. Can’t sell ’em if the buyer can’t see ’em, now can I? Why, my wife hear about me doing something like that, even to a good honest man like yourself, and she’d skin me and put
my
hide in with the rest.”

“I understand, Fred, I really do,” Ken said, hiding his exasperation. “But look, there’s a computer outlet right here in the Hall. Just let me have a chance to check the brand numbers. Won’t take long and these could be evidence.”

At the word “evidence,” Horstmann froze. Poldep investigations were the bane of any licensed trader. They meant unavoidable and unlimited delays. He narrowed an eye at Ken. “Well, so long’s it’s only just across the Hall. But I didn’t get ’em illegal. You know we don’t deal in bad merchandise.”

“I know that, Fred. Thanks.” Under Horstmann’s baleful gaze, Ken switched on the terminal and keyed in his user code. Ken watched the trader out of the corner of his eye until he got involved in a deal and temporarily forgot about Ken and evidence.

If these were horses that had gone missing over the past few years, then he—and other ranchers who said they’d had periodic losses—might be able to break up this new spate of rustling. That is, if they could also solve how the rustlers were getting past the security satellites. Having solid evidence to show Poldep would ensure their cooperation. And prove ranchers hadn’t just been careless in pulling up ssersa or keeping proper track of their stock.

Ken had to think hard to remember when he first lost track of a horse for which a carcass had never been found. Even mdas left the skull and hooves and occasionally scraps of hide and bone fragments. It had to have been five or more years ago. He called up his records for a date ten years back when the horses were rounded up for their annual checkup. Now he remembered. In late summer, one of his stallions hadn’t come home, a big powerful bay who’d sired a fine few foals before he disappeared. Buster he’d been called. Ken initiated a search for that name.

The screen blanked and was replaced with the “One Moment Please” graphic. Ken twitched impatiently while the search went on. In a few minutes, the screen cleared, then filled with name, description, and freeze mark. Ken jotted the number down and started flipping through the hides, trying to find a match. He didn’t.

“I’m doing this backward,” he told himself. He blanked the screen and began to type in the numbers on the Zapatan hides and asked for matching data.

The program, in the way of all computer inventory programs, was painfully slow. Each query consumed several minutes, having to access data from the master mainframe on the other side of the planet. Fretfully Ken drummed his fingertips on the console and glared at the cheery graphic. When the screen changed, he pounced on the keyboard.

“There! Cuddy, two-year-old, sired by Maglev out of Corona, black and white pinto, gelded.” Ken slapped the hide, pleased. “Six years ago, eh?” He hit the key to copy and print the document, then flipped Cuddy’s hide over to the next one. His hand was arrested in midair as he glanced from the hide to the screen and back again. This was an Appaloosa hide, leopard Appaloosa at that, small black flecks on white. “Wait a minute! This didn’t come off Cuddy.” Undeniably the file said pinto, but the skin was white flecked with black.

Ken sat back in the chair with a thump. Not that a pinto could change its spots to leopard Appaloosa. He checked the brand numbers again but the figures tallied. Could Lon or Todd have entered the freeze brand to Cuddy’s file? He felt a spurt of righteous anger over such sloppiness. But neither Lon nor Todd was prone to be slipshod. Not about recording the correct markings. He frowned. He didn’t have many Appies. Kelly’s father liked the breed. But the freeze mark was his, not Vic’s. Perplexed, he turned to the next one, a bright bay with a white saddle mark shaped like a parallelogram just below the freeze brand.

The brand designated a two-year-old chestnut with no saddle mark. Could there be a glitch in the system? Could the computer be scrambling his files? He’d have remembered a leopard Appaloosa and a bright bay with such a distinctive saddle mark. These were totally unfamiliar animals. He needed a control.

He entered the markings from a horse he knew better than any other animal on Doona, his mare Socks. She was Reeve Ranch entry #1. Socks was elderly now, but still willing to go out for a ride in fine weather. Data scrolled up, and Ken went straight to the description of the animal. This one was all right. It was the mare, all the way down to her four white socks. So what was wrong with the other files?

He brought up again the first two he had tried, wondering if solar flares had interfered with the satellite transmission of data from Treaty Island Archives the first time. To his chagrin, they remained unaltered and the hides still bore marks of horses he didn’t recognize.

One by one, Ken compared his records with the freeze-dry markings for each hide in the bundle. When he was through, not one of the hides matched the color description of the horse that should have worn it. It was as if someone had lifted the brands from his horses and transferred them onto someone else’s, a removal that he knew was, if not impossible, then certainly achieved by a heretofore unknown process.

“You get what you want, Reeve?” Horstmann asked cheerfully, coming over in between a spate of deals to slap the other man on the back.

Ken shrugged. “Yes and no, Fred.” A very clever operator was making a profit on selling rustled animals on Zapata Three and, probably, elsewhere. And with Zapatan provenances, surely there was a way of finding out who that clever person was. “When Ali Kiachif arrives, I’d like to talk with him. Had any bids on these hides?” Ken didn’t want them scattered, but he also couldn’t block a sale for Fred just to keep the evidence in one place.

“Well, the Hrruban in the Doona Cooperative of Farmers and Skillcrafters booth sounded interested in them.”

“Look, I’ll give you a deposit ...”

“Against the price? Or just to hold ’em?”

“To hold ’em, Fred. That provenance might be forged.”

“Didn’t look forged to me!” Fred’s eyes widened at the mere suggestion that he’d been conned.

“Nevertheless, you don’t want to sell and then find out the provenance was counterfeit, if you know what I mean.” Ken deliberately used Ali Kaichif’s favorite phrase.

“I know what you mean: fines! Okay. Under the circumstances, Ken, I’ll waive the deposit and put these damned things to one side where no one’ll see ’em. That help you?”

“It surely does, Fred, and I appreciate it more than I can say.” Ken smiled gratefully but he rather suspected that Horstmann might be cutting some sly deals on the side that he didn’t want the senior Codep captain to know about. Normally such a favor cost a lot more than just the breath it took to ask it. “Don’t forget to tell Kiachif that I need to see him.”

* * *

Armed with his curious findings, Ken arranged an interview with the Poldep chief in charge of Doona’s quadrant of the Amalgamated Worlds. Poldep, the enforcement arm of the Amalgamated Worlds Administration, had jurisdiction on every planet which had signed the charter. Sampson DeVeer listened politely to Ken’s theory about rustlers somehow evading the security satellites, but clearly he was finding it hard to believe.

“It’s a very interesting theory, Mr. Reeve,” he said blandly. He was a tall man who had been called good-looking by many women behind his back, because his diffident manner kept them from approaching the man himself. He had broad shoulders and an intelligent face. His wavy hair and moustache were nearly black. “I’d need proof to proceed, you understand. Not just speculation.”

“I have proof,” Ken said, producing the film copies. DeVeer’s casual attitude was beginning to get on his nerves. DeVeer was rumored to be antiDoona, though he wasn’t an active antagonist to the colony. He claimed he was just trying to do his job, and the presence of unknowns like the Hrrubans made it more difficult for him. “These hides have been altered in some way.”

DeVeer tented his fingers, peering through them at the hard copy that Ken had spread out on his desk. “That’s very unlikely, Mr. Reeve. It’s more probable the records were changed. In
my twenty years serving Poldep, I have never come across anyone, or anything, that can produce an undetectable alteration to the freeze-dry-process brands.” His tone was unequivocal.

“Well, someone has,” Ken insisted, indicating the leopard Appaloosa hide which ought to have been black and white. “I don’t run Appies. But that’s my freeze brand. And you know a horse has never been known to alter its hide.”

“Perhaps the skin was dyed?”

“If the leopard Appie had turned black and white, I’d say that was possible, but not probable. There is also no trace of dye according to this chemical analysis of the hide.” And Ken tossed that flimsy across the desk to DeVeer.

“Mr. Reeve,” DeVeer said again patiently. “These are negative proofs. You have the hide of a horse that you say you never owned with a brand to an animal you did.” He held up a hand to forestall an outburst. “I know that rustling has been an ongoing problem on Doona. I’ve investigated several cases myself. The freeze-brand system was developed to prevent rustling. I’d say it has. Now you come along, wanting to contest the validity of that excellent system. Frankly I don’t think this is a case of rustling. Maybe you should look a little closer to home, where some people might have a chance to duplicate your brand on strays that they can legally sell off-world. Doesn’t your son have regular access to spacegoing transport?”

Ken barely kept himself from reaching across the desk and planting his fist firmly in DeVeer’s face. “Are you suggesting that Todd has rustled horses from the ranch he will one day inherit?”

“Inherit might be presumptuous, Mr. Reeve, but the opportunity is there ... Now, now, look at this objectively, Mr. Reeve. I’m trying to clarify a perplexing set of facts. I’m not speaking with any intent to offend. Let me put it to you this way. If, for example, you had a horse, a living one, with a brand matching one of these stolen hides, I would have a lead to investigate ... a duplication of numbers, which is a possibility. An honest error at branding time when you got to handle a lot of foals. Or if you know who had bred this leopard Appaloosa, I’d have another lead. And if you knew how these brands could be altered, which is something I’ve never heard of, then we really would have a cause for an immediate and intensive inquiry. As it is, we have nothing to go on but unlikely speculation and possible data base errors.” He stood up, indicating the interview was over. “I assure you that, if you come to me with something concrete—even one piece of evidence—I’ll be glad to listen.”