Trader's World (20 page)

Mike did not answer. Every Trader trainee knew it, from the time of the first introductory courses. That only made things worse. He ought to have known exactly what was going on. But the talk had been so easy, the rapport so immediate, and Jeanette had been so warm, so admiring, so enthusiastic in lovemaking . . .

And so expert. That had been the point he could not ignore. Even while she enticed him and excited him, some corner of his brain had told him that a simple innkeeper's daughter should never be so diabolically skillful.

"How soon can I get out of here and into the advanced training course?" he asked abruptly.

"It can be arranged at short notice."
Daddy-O's reply came almost too quickly.
"Indicate when you wish to begin, and I will at once initiate necessary action. When will you be returning?"

When? At once, was Mike's immediate thought. He didn't know if he could stand to see Jeanette again. It would be too painful.

And yet, was it fair to blame her? And blame her for what? For giving him great pleasure and a wonderful night? She knew he was a fully qualified Trader; she must assume that he had known exactly what he was doing. Any misunderstanding was his own refusal to face facts, and that was certainly not her fault.

As Mike sat staring at the terminal another of his senses slowly demanded attention. There was a fabulous smell coming from behind him, a mixed aroma of fresh-baked scones, coffee, and frying bacon. He spun around in the chair.

Jeanette was in the kitchen behind him. She was standing barefooted and tousle-haired at the stove, dressed in a modest pink robe of quilted silk. She must have followed him downstairs immediately, because she had finished cooking and was quietly loading a huge wooden tray with a great pot of coffee, a giant mixed grill, and a full plate of hot bread. She saw him looking at her and pointed upstairs.

"The atmosphere created by the Economic Community is highly artificial,"
Daddy-O was saying in didactic tones, as Mike turned his attention back to the headphones.
"And the inhabitants must know it. They were untouched by the Heavenly Cloud, but they did not escape the general economic collapse. The Community is a
created
society, a copy of the past. But its people can turn back the clock and suspend the disbelief of others, I conjecture, only because they have come to believe the illusion
themselves.
They have become what they pretend to be."
There was a satisfied humming from the headset, then a moment's pause.
"Now, Mike, I am finally in communication with the schedulers for the advanced training course. When do you wish to begin? Tomorrow, or the day after . . ."

Mike nodded at Jeanette. She pursed her mouth in a kiss, lifted the loaded tray, and turned to leave.

"Eight weeks from now," Mike said. "Longer than that, if you can arrange it. I'll be in touch."

Daddy-O presumably replied, but Mike never heard it. He had removed the headset, turned off the terminal, and was heading for the stairs.

For once he agreed with Loverboy Lester: some things one didn't even try to explain to a computer.

CHAPTER 9

SHE GREETS US AS WE ENTER THE WORLD; SHE IS WITH US WHEN WE LEAVE IT. SHE IS NEVER MORE THAN A SECOND AWAY FROM US, AS CLOSE AS OUR OWN HEARTBEAT; BUT WHEN SHE DOES NOT STAND DIRECTLY BEFORE US, WE CANNOT RECALL HER FACE.

"WHEN SHE CALLS, LOUD AND CLEAR, WE DROP WHATEVER WE ARE DOING AND ATTEND TO HER NEEDS ALONE. AT THE TOUCH OF HER HAND WE FORGET WORK, FRIENDS, AND LOVERS. SHE IS THE MISTRESS OF THE UNIVERSE. SHE IS PAIN."—DOMINIC MANTILLA.

Not the message to greet a man climbing drowsily out of bed on a rainy November morning. Mike rubbed his eyes and scrolled the message display. At the bottom of it was a brief addition: MY OFFICE, AT HALF PAST SEVEN—LYLE CONNERY.

That disposed of any ideas of a pleasant and restful breakfast—and meant he was already late.

Mike dressed and left at a run. If he were a Trader for a hundred years, he'd probably never lose that uneasy feeling about his first instructor. He halted, checked the shine on his boots, and straightened his jacket before he knocked on Connery's office door.

"Seat." Connery waved a bare, muscular arm across his desk as Mike entered. "I gather the lab's finally finished with you?"

"I hope so. They've been prodding and bleeding and nagging me again. I can't see how they'll get any more information about the Dulcinel Protocol out of me—but they want me there again in a month."

"Ah, you and Jack are their prize subjects. With luck you'll get some benefits from the Protocol yourself, even though you haven't had a full treatment. But the vacation's over now. Jack is on-line. It's time for work."

Mike's anxiety level increased. He nodded at the blank screen of the data terminal. "Hi, Lover-boy. How's everything?"

"Couldn't be better."
The mechanical synthesizer managed a jaunty tone.
"How you doing, boyo? Getting the end away regular, were yer?"

"All right, Jack, save that for later." Lyle Connery turned to Mike. "Sorry, both of you, but we're in a hurry. Question: how much do you know about Beanstalks?"

"You mean Orbital Towers? A little bit. I know they're freestanding cables extending from the surface of the earth out past geosynchronous orbit; and I know the Chipponese would like to build one, to send stuff to space and back. What am I
supposed
to know about them?"

"Did you know that the Chipponese are looking to make a deal with the Unified Empire?" Connery was rocking comfortably backward and forward in his chair. "They have to have a place on the equator for the lower end of the beanstalk, preferably one on high ground. We've been negotiating on their behalf with Rasool Ilunga, but he's too wily for the Chipponese to feel comfortable. They'd like options. So they're interested in the high Andes, in the middle of the Unified Empire. Did you know that?"

Mike hesitated. He had picked up scraps of information in the hospital and rehabilitation center that he was not supposed to know. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"Told you,"
Jack cut in.
"System leaks secrets like a bloody sieve. Hell, people even come by and tell
me
things, and what am I supposed to do about it? Hey, Mike, let's get to it. How'd you like to serve as Trader negotiator between the Chips and Greasers for the Beanstalk deal?"

There was a long silence from Mike, while Lyle Connery stared at him expectantly. "Well? I must say I expected a bit more reaction."

"I'm sorry." Mike shook his head. "I guess I'm surprised. I heard through the grapevine that Wernher Eckart was already assigned as negotiator on that project."

"Did you now?" Lyle Connery sighed. "Lover-boy, you were right on target. How
do
you keep a secret in this place? The grapevine's quite right—damn it. But Wernher Eckart hasn't been heard from in three weeks, and neither has your friend Cesar Famares, who we sent to find out what happened to Eckart."

The conversation suddenly held a new interest for Mike. "Cesar's totally reliable. They must have been captured or hurt."

"Not captured, according to reports. And definitely not hurt or dead. Maybe crazy, though. Eckart sent back a deal that he negotiated, but it was terrible. The Chipponese wouldn't accept it in a million years; the terms were completely favorable to the Unified Empire. We tried to recall the pair of them, and they ignored the messages. From other evidence, it's clear that both of them are still alive—and they've broken Trader Oath with the Chipponese."

"Are you
sure
?" The question was reflexive. Lyle Connery would not have said it without compelling evidence. But that last statement was a shocker. A Trader
never
divulged information given under Trader Oath.

"Quite positive."

"But Cesar wouldn't do that. Not, to borrow your expression, in a million years."

"That was my own evaluation—of both of them." Connery was staring assessingly at Mike. "I'm sure you see where I am leading. Official mission: negotiate a treaty between the Chipponese and the Unified Empire for tethering a Beanstalk on Unified Empire soil. And your secondary mission . . ."

Mike was way ahead of him. "Find out what happened to Eckart and Cesar. Did Daddy-O calculate a success probability?"

"Certainly." Lyle Connery was looking straight at Mike, but there was a slightly uncomfortable expression in his eye. "Projected probability of success if you tackle this alone is four percent—one chance in twenty-five. But if you have the right partner, the probability goes up to thirty-six percent—better than one in three. So naturally, you'll be double teamed."

"With Lover-boy?"

"Gimme a break, Mike."
Jack Lester's voice was a shout through the terminal.
"I'm going to be in this tank for another six months. What you going to do, carry me along in a paper bag?"

"Not Jack. As he says, the rebuilding of his body still has a way to go." Connery cleared his throat and wriggled in his chair. "So it's not Jack. You'll be partnered with Melly Turak. That's Daddy-O's preferred choice."

"But that's great! I think Melly's terrific, and she knows Cesar better than I do. I'd love to see her again." Mike paused. Something didn't add up right. "I thought Melly was on some confidential mission in the Pacific."

"She was." Connery shook his head. "God help us, Mike, you're not supposed to know that. How'd you find out? No, don't bother to answer, just forget I asked."

"She's back now. And she says she can't wait to see you. You know, Mike, I think she has the hots for you."

"Jack, will you shut up for a minute." Connery turned back to Mike. "There's one other thing that's important about this, and there's no easy way to say it. She'll be your partner—but not an equal partner."

"Well, I think I can handle that."

"I hope so. You see, you'll be junior to her. She'll be in charge."

It was a body blow. Mike would never have admitted it, but he believed that he was a far better Trader than Melly would ever be. He sat and stared at Connery for a few seconds. There had to be a reason. "I assume she's already had a mission in the Unified Empire?"

"No. As a matter of fact she's never been on a mission south of the equator."

Mike started to stand up. He was restrained by Connery's outstretched hand on his shoulder. "Steady now, Mike. I know it's a shocker, and I know how you must be feeling. But Daddy-O doesn't get his calculations wrong."

Mike had never heard such a conciliatory tone in Connery's voice. It made things worse.

"You'll be fine with her, Mike,"
Jack added.
"And think of them hot Greaserland nights!"

"Jack, for God's sake will you
shut up
." Connery stepped closer to Mike and looked him in the eye. "I just want to say a couple more things, if Lover-boy will let me get a word in. After that, if you want to refuse the mission I'll pass the word to Daddy-O."

Refuse the mission.
Could
a Trader refuse a mission because his ego was hurt? But how could he work as a junior partner to Melly? He knew her limitations too well. He had struggled right through Trader training with her.

"She'll arrive here tonight from the Cook Islands," Connery went on. "She has accepted the mission. With or without you, she's willing to tackle it. So she'll be going, and she'll be teamed with
somebody.
Now, Daddy-O looked at every other team combination for Melly. The Asparian-Turak combination is the only one with a probability of success greater than one in twenty—the chance of any other pair even making it back here is no more than one in ten. You two are better than one in three for total success. You may not think you need
her
, Mike—but she sure as hell needs you.
And Cesar may need both of you worse than we know."

Mike glared at him. "That's blackmail!"

"Of course it is!"
Lester said.
"That's why it works."

"Jack!" Connery shook his head. "It's not blackmail. Let's call it Trader negotiation techniques."

"I don't think I can do it. I like Melly a lot, but I don't think I can."

"I understand how you feel." Connery's voice was soothing. "But at least think it over. All right? Just think it over."

"Well . . ."

"Good. At least you ought to see her and talk to her. You know, you remember her as a trainee, but she's a full Trader now. You'll find she's changed—a lot."

After that, it did not surprise Mike at all to find that dinner with Melly had already been arranged.

* * *

Before that dinner, Mike made his own checks. Since they finished training he had not been in touch with Melly. Her missions had taken her to the Pacific Rim, negotiating with the western Yankees. Then she had disappeared from contact, only to pop up again in the Trader base on the Cook Islands, half a world away.

First, Mike called out Daddy-O's performance statistics on her. He whistled in amazement at what appeared on the screen. She had never impressed him as anyone really special in training—smart, and pretty, but not unusually gifted. Now she showed up as the brightest new Trader in a generation. Although she had never been to the Unified Empire, already she spoke the language there better than Mike did. She was a natural partner for the mission. Mike ruefully admitted it to himself: if he hadn't known her in training, he'd have been delighted to be teamed with her.

Rule 18: Collect as much data as you can get.
Mike called Tip Muller, who had come from the Cook Islands to the Azores a few months ago and had just finished his second Mission.

"Sure I know her." Muller nodded from the screen. "Everybody there knew her. Why'd you ask?"

"She's been doing spectacularly well, hasn't she?"

Tip Muller looked puzzled. "Oh, nothing special. I mean, she's no smarter than me or you. What's the problem, Mike?"

"I'm not sure yet. Hey, Tip, if Melinda isn't unusually good as a Trader, why does everybody there know her?"

"Well . . ." There was suddenly a cautious look on Muller's fresh-complexioned face. "Hey, Mike, do you and her have something special going?"