The Tar-aiym Krang (2 page)

Rising from the center of the city to dominate all was the great palace of the rulers of Drallar. Generations of kings had added to it, each stamping a section here, a wing there, with his own personality. Therein dwelt King Dewe Nog Na and his court. Sometimes he would take a lift to the topmost minaret, and there, seated comfortably on its slowly revolving platform, leisurely survey the impossible anthill that constituted his domain.

But the most beautiful thing about Moth was not Drallar, with its jeweled towers and chromatic citizenry, nor the innumerable lakes and forests, nor the splendid and variegated things that dwelt therein. It was the planet itself. It was that which had given to it a name and made it unique in the Arm. That which had first attracted men to the system. Ringed planets were rare enough.

Moth was a winged planet.

The “wings” of Moth doubtless at one time had been a perfect broad ring of the Saturn type. But at some time in the far past it had been broken in two places—possibly the result of a gravitational stress, or a change in the magnetic poles. No one could be certain. The result was an incomplete ring consisting of two great crescents of pulverized stone and gas which encircled the planet with two great gaps separating them. The crescents were narrower near the planet, but out in space they spread out to a natural fan shape due to the decreasing gravity, thus forming the famed “wing” effect. They were also a good deal thicker than the ancient Saturnian rings, and contained a higher proportion of fluorescent gases. The result was two gigantic triangular shapes of a lambent butter-yellow springing out from either side of the planet.

Inevitably, perhaps, the single moon of Moth was designated Flame. Some thought it a trite appelation, but none could deny its aptness. It was about a third again smaller than Terra’s Luna, and nearly twice as far away. It had one peculiar characteristic. It didn’t “burn” as the name would seem to suggest, although it was bright enough. In fact, some felt the label “moon” to be altogether inappropriate, as Flame didn’t revolve around its parent planet at all, but instead preceded it around the sun in approximately the same orbit. So the two names stuck. The carrot leading a bejeweled ass, with eternity forever preventing satisfaction to the latter. Fortunately the system’s discoverers had resisted the impulse to name the two spheres after the latter saying. As were so many of nature’s freaks, the two were too uncommonly gorgeous to be so ridiculed.

The wing on Drallar’s side was visible to Flinx only as a thin, glowing line, but he had seen pictures of it taken from space. He had never been in space himself, at least, only vicariously, but had visited many of the ships that landed at the Port. There at the feet of the older crewmen he listened intently while they spun tales of the great KK ships that plied the dark and empty places of the firmament. Since those monster interstellar craft never touched soil, of course, he had never seen one in person. Such a landing would never be made except in a dire emergency, and then never on an inhabited planet. A Doublekay carried the gravity well of a small sun on its nose, like a bee carrying pollen. Even shrunk to the tiny size necessary to make a simple landing, that field would protect the great bulk of the ship. It would also gouge out a considerable chunk of the planetary crust and set off all sorts of undesirable natural phenomena, like tsunamis and hurricanes and such. So the smaller shuttle ships darted yoyolike between traveler and ground, carrying down people and their goods, while the giant transports themselves remained in Polyphemian exile in the vastnesses of black and cold.

He had wanted to space, but had not yet found a valid reason to, and could not leave Mother Mastiff without anyone. Despite unceasing bellows asserting to her good health she
was
a hundred and something. To leave her alone simply for a pleasure trip was not a thought that appealed to him.

He tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, half-burying Pip in the folds of thick fur. As human-inhabited worlds go, Moth was not an exceptionally cold planet, but it was far from tropical. He could not remember the time when he had not been greeted upon awakening by a wet and clammy fog. It was a dependable but dampish companion. Here furs were used more to shed water than to protect from bitter chill. It was cold, yes, but not freezing. At least, it snowed only in winter.

Pip hissed softly and Flinx absently began feeding him the raisins he’d plucked from the
thisk-
cake. The reptile gulped them down whole, eagerly. It would have smacked its lips, if it’d had any. As it was, the long tongue shot out and caressed Flinx’s cheek with the delicate touch of a diamond cutter. The minidrag’s iridescent scales seemed to shine even brighter than usual. For some reason it was especially fond of raisins. Maybe it relished their iron content.

He glanced down at the plus window of his personal cardmeter. They weren’t broke, but neither were they swimming in luxury. Oh, yes, it was definitely time to go to work!

From a counter of her variegated display booth, Mother Mastiff was pleading amiably with a pair of small, jeweled thranx
touristas.
Her technique was admirable and competent. It ought to be, he reflected. She’d had plenty of time in which to perfect it. He was only mildly surprised at the insectoid’s presence.
Where humans go, thranx also, and vicey-versy, don’t you know?
So went the children’s rhyme. But they did look a bit uncomfortable. Thranx loved the rain and the damp, and in this respect Moth was perfect, but they also prefered a good deal less cold and more humidity. Paradoxically, the air could be wet and to them still too dry. Every time a new hothouse planet turned up they got ecstatic, despite the fact that such places invariably possessed the most objectionable and bellicose environments. Like any human youngster, he’d seen countless pictures of thranx planets: Hivehom, their counterpart of Terra, and also the famous thranx colonies in the Amazon and Congo basins on Terra itself. Why should humans wear themselves out in an unfriendly climate when the thranx could thrive there? They had put those inhospitable regions to far better use than man ever could or would have—as had humans the Mediterranean Plateau on Hivehom.

Indeed, the Amalgamation had worked out very well all around.

From the cut of their necklaces these two were probably from Evoria. Anyhow the female’s tiara and ovipositor glaze were dead giveaways. Probably a hunting couple, here for some excitement. There wasn’t much to attract thranx to Moth, other than recreation, politics, and the light metals trade. Moth was rich in light metals, but deficient in many of the heavier ones. Little gold, lead, uranium, and the like. But silver and magnesium and copper in abundance. According to rumor, the giant thranx Elecseed complex had plans to turn Moth into a leading producer of electrical and thinkmachine components, much as they had Amropolous. But so far it had remained only rumor. Anyway, inducing skilled thranx workers to migrate to Moth would necessitate the company’s best psychopublicists working day and night, plus megacredits in hardship pay. Even off-world human workers would find the living conditions unpalatable at best. He didn’t think it likely. And without native atomics there’d be a big power problem. Hydroelectricity was a limited servant due to the lack of white water. It formed an intriguing problem. How to generate enough electricity to run the plant to produce electrical products?

All this musing put not credit in one’s account nor bread in one’s mouth.

“Sir and madame, what think ye on my wares? No better of the type to be found this side of Shorttree, and damn little there.” She fumbled, seemingly aimless, about her samples. “Now here’s an item that might appeal to ye. What of these matched copper drink-jugs, eh? One for he and one for she.” She held up two tall, thin, burnished copper thranx drinking implements. Their sides were elaborately engraved and their spouts worked into intricate spirals.

“Notice the execution, the fine scroll work, sir,” she urged, tracing the delicate patterns with a wrinkled forefinger. “I defy ye to find better, yea, anywheres!”

The male turned to his mate. “What do you say, my dear?” They spoke symbospeech, that peculiar mixture of Terran basic and thranx click-hiss which had become the dominant language of commerce throughout the Humanx Commonwealth and much of the rest of the civilized galaxy besides.

The female extended a handfoot and grasped the utensil firmly by one of its double handles. Her small, valentine-shaped head inclined slightly at an angle in an oddly human gesture of appraisal as she ran both truehands over the deeply etched surface. She said nothing, but instead looked directly into her mate’s eyes.

Flinx remained where he was and nodded knowingly at the innocent smile on Mother Mastiff’s face. He’d seen that predatory grin before. The taste of her mind furnished him with further information as to what would inevitably follow. Despite a century of intimate familiarity and association with the thranx there still remained some humans who were unable to interpret even the commoner nuances of thranx gesture and gaze. Mother Mastiff was an expert and knew them all. Her eyes were bright enough to read the capital letters flashing there: SALE.

The husband commenced negotiations in an admirably offhand manner. “Well . . . perhaps something might be engendered . . . we already have a number of such baubles . . . exorbitant prices . . . a reasonable level. . . .”

“Level! You speak of
levels?”
Mother Mastiff’s gasp of outrage was sufficiently violent to carry the odor of garlic all the way to where Flinx stood. The thranx, remarkably, ignored it. “Good sir, I survive at but a subsistence level now! The government takes all my money, and I have left but a pittance, a pittance, sir, for my three sons and two daughters!”

Flinx shook his head in admiration of Mother Mastiff’s unmatched style. Thranx offspring always came in multiples of two, an inbred survival trait. With most things terrene and human there had been little or no conflict, but due to a quirk of psychology the thranx could not help but regard human odd-numbered births as both pathetic and not a little obscene.

“Thirty credits,” she finally sighed.

“Blasphemous!” the husband cried, his antennae quivering violently. “They are worth perhaps ten, and at that I flatter the craftsman unmercifully.”

“Ten!” moaned Mother Mastiff, feigning a swoon. “Ten, the creature says, and boasts of it! Surely . . . surely, sir, you do not expect me to consider such an offer
seriously!
‘Tis not even successful as a jest”

“Fifteen, then, and I should report you to the local magistrate. Even common thieves have the decency to work incognito.”

“Twenty-five. Sir, you, a cultured and wealthy being, surely you can do better than taunt and make sport of an old female. One who has doubtless fertilized as many eggs as you . . .” The female had the grace to lower her head and blush. The thranx were quite open about sex . . . theirs or anyone else’s . . . but still, Flinx thought, there
were
lines over which it was improper to step.

Good manners it might not have been, but in this case at least it appeared to be good business. The male harrumphed awkwardly, a deep, vibrant hum. “Twenty, then.”

“Twenty-three five, and a tenth credit less I will not say!” intoned Mother Mastiff. She folded her arms in a recognizable gesture of finality.

“Twenty-one,” countered the male.

Mother Mastiff shook her head obstinately, immovable as a Treewall. She looked ready to wait out entropy.

“Twenty-three five, not a tenth credit less. My last and final offer, good sir. This pair will find its own market. I must survive, and I fear I may have allowed you to sway me too far already.”

The male would have argued further, on principle if for nothing else, but at that point the female put a truehand on his b-thorax, just below the ear, and stroked lightly. That ending the bargaining.

“Ahhh, Dark Centers! Twenty-five . . . no, twenty-three five, then! Thief! Assaulter of reason! It is well known that a human would cheat its own female-parent to make a half-credit!”

“And it is well known also,” replied Mother Mastiff smoothly as she processed the sale, “that the thranx are the most astute bargainers in the galaxy. You have gotten yourself a steal, sir, and so ‘tis you and not I the thief!”

As soon as the exchange of credit had been finalized, Flinx left his resting place by the old wall and strolled over to the combination booth and home. The thranx had departed happily, antennae entwined. On their mating flight? The male, at least, had seemed too old for that. His chiton had been shading ever so slightly into deep blue, despite the obvious use of cosmetics, while the female had been a much younger aquamarine. The thranx too took mistresses. In the moist air, their delicate perfume lingered.

“Well, mother,” he began. He was not indicating parentage—she had insisted on that years ago—but using the title bestowed on her by the folk of the markets. Everyone called her mother. “Business seems good.”

She apparently had not noticed his approach and was momentarily flustered. “What? What? Oh, ‘tis you, cub! Pah!” She gestured in the direction taken by the departed thranx. “Thieves the bugs are, to steal from me so! But have I a choice?” She did not wait for an answer. “I am an old woman and must sell occasionally to support myself, even at such prices, for who in this city would feed me?”

“More likely, mother, it would be you who would feed the city. I saw you purchase those same mug-spirals from Olin the Coppersmith not six days ago . . . for eleven credits.”

“Ay? Harrumph,” she coughed. “You must be mistaken, boy. Even you can make a mistake now and then, you know. Um, have you eaten yet today?”

“A
thisk-
cake only.”

“Is that the way I raised ye, to live on sweets?” In her gratefulness for a change of subject she feigned anger. “And I’ll wager ye gave half of it to that damned snake of yours, anyway!”

Pip raised his dozing head at that and let out a mild hiss. Mother Mastiff did not like the minidrag and never had. Few people did. Some might profess friendship, and after coaxing a few could even be persuaded to pet it. But none could forget that its kind’s poison could lay a man dead in sixty seconds, and the antidote was rare. Flinx was never cheated in business or pleasure when the snake lay curled about his shoulder.