The Forerunner Factor (4 page)

Simsa studied the starmen as they came closer. Two of them wore what she had come to know as ship’s uniform—their winged helms glittering in the sun, which also picked out the emblems appearing on the collar and breast of their jackets. But the third of their party, though he wore a close fitting one-piece garment like their suits, as well as the boots of a star rover, was different.

His one-piece garb was of a silver-grey, not unlike the piping on her new coat, and he had no distinguishing badge. Nor did he wear the winged helm, but a tight-fitting cap. His skin was not the dark brown of his companions, but much lighter in shade and he had dropped a step or two behind the rest of the party, who had completely ignored the would-be traders, his head turning from side to side as he went, as if he were fascinated by what he saw.

As he came up to the ramp, Simsa studied him very carefully. It was very plain, she decided, that this was his first visit to Kuxortal and, as a newcomer, he could be the very prey the merchants would be waiting for. It was difficult, of course, to judge ages—especially of these off-world men—but she thought he was young. If that were true, then he must also be a person of some consequence or he would not be included in the party of Guild and ship’s officers. Perhaps he was not part of the crew at all—rather some traveler who had been a passenger on board. Though why he would be here if he were no trader she could not begin to guess. His lighter skin was not the only difference about him. There was an oddity in the way his eyes were set and he was taller and thinner than his companions.

Those eyes were never still, she also noted. Then they met hers—and held. She thought she saw a kind of surprise in them. He nearly stopped, as if he thought he had met her somewhere, sometime, and wanted to call a greeting. Her tongue swept over her lips as if she could taste the sweet drink which the Old One used only on state occasions. If she could but get to him now! That spark of interest he had shown in her was an opening for bargaining.

He must have rich resources or he could not be a star traveler. She shifted the sleeve in which hung the weight of those pieces she had retained, and was inwardly irritated that she dared not approach him now.

Only after having glanced so long and with such interest at her, he was now going on up the ramp. Zass gave another small cry, protesting the light, the heat, and the noise of the market. Simsa watched the stranger out of sight, her mind busy making and discarding a number of hopeful plans.

At length, she decided that she could only leave matters to chance. The starman had noticed her where she stood. If he returned to the ship with any thought of individual trade in mind, then he might come seeking her. In the meantime, there were others on board. Sooner or later, they would be given planet leave—already the cargo crane had swung out of that larger hatch and the first of the boxes was swaying down to the waiting Guild handlers.

Simsa squatted down where she was, the mound to her back, the ramp close enough that she might have touched it—if her arm was only twice its length. She untied the shawl a little and Zass dropped thankfully down into the nest the girl so devised as she arranged the top folds to shelter the creature from the direct rays of the sun.

The girl was far away from the main lines of the merchants that none would try to encroach upon the small piece of ground where she so established herself, and she had learned patience long ago. It might be many turns of the sand glass before those from the ship would be free, which gave her time to fasten upon a plan of her own for attracting the right kind of attention. It was hot, and many of the merchants had settled down now, their wares ready; those who were fortunate enough to have a strip of cloth awning keeping well within it shade. As a Burrower, she had long since learned to stifle discomfort herself.

Opening her packet of food, she ate, sharing bites with Zass who was too sleepy to eat much and only wanted to be left alone. As she drank sparingly, Simsa’s other hand sought within her coat for that packet of jewelry she had stowed in the safest keeping she knew. She had prudently kept two of the best picture fragments belonging to Ferwar. Those would be her come-on. Then, if she could judge the interest of any those attracted, she could produce the cuff armlet, which to her own valuing was the least important of her other wares.

The pieces of stone she brushed off with the edge of her sleeve and set out just beyond her knee near the ramp. One was the likeness of some kind of a winged creature, time-worn so that only the general outline could be seen. The stone on which it had been engraved was a light green, veined with yellow—the veins having been cleverly used by the unknown artist to outline wings and form a crest for the figure. Simsa had never seen such stone hereabouts, or even in the city. However, it might have traveled many days from the place where men had freed it from the earth and fashioned it to their fancy.

Beside it, the other piece was in direct contrast for it was a velvety black, and it was not just a tracing upon a flat piece, but worked into the crouching form of an animal with one paw upraised, claws spread—though several of those had been broken off. Only half of the head remained also and that was time-worn so that one could see only a thick mane, the splintered stub of what must have been an ear, and a portion of face. For face it was, more than a beast’s mask, having an eye, a nose, and a bit of mouth which was not too far different from her own.

The substance of the stone was somehow pleasant to the touch. Simsa discovered that rubbing fingers back and forth across it gave one the same feeling as one might have caressing finely woven material. This she had felt when she had been able to hold and finger lovingly a fragment of some rich fabric found among the rags the Old One had dealt in as long as she could still hobble about raiding the dumps and trash places of the upper town.

Now Simsa sat, rubbing her black stone, thinking and planning. Though now even her thoughts came more slowly; she had to make an effort not to drift into drowsiness. Even her long-cultivated patience was beginning to wear thin by late afternoon. The cargo had come out of the ship, been transported city-wards.

Along the way leading from ramp to ship, people were stirring, shifting their bits and pieces, hoping to catch the eye more quickly with this adjustment or that. Simsa stood up, moving about, loosening her legs from their cramped position. She could see the sky turning orange red and that worried her. If the crewmen did not come soon, dusk would fall when they came and she would have no side lamp to show her wares. This would be a race between the setting of the sun and the ways of the starmen, a race which could disappoint her after all.

Zass poked her head from out of the bundle nest. The sensitive antennae on the furred head were half uncurled, an action which surprised the girl a little, for she would have believed that the subdued roar of the alerting market would have been too much for the zorsal. Now she noted that the creature’s head had swung part way around so that it faced, not the line of merchants with the ship, but rather the ramp itself as that same small head was forced up and back to allow the creature as much seeing vantage in that direction as she could achieve. On impulse, the girl swept Zass unceremoniously out of her bundle hiding place and brought the zorsal once more to perch on her shoulder.

Still the head was turned back and up towards the city, a certain intensity of that small body about which the wings were gathered like a night cloak developed as if she were about to be challenged. Yet Simsa could see nothing but the ramp and, above its summit, the stir of guild guards.

Not for the first time, she longed for clear communication with the creature. Though during the seasons she had nursed and sheltered the zorsal, she had learned to judge much of the creature’s emotions by its small actions, many times she could only guess. The zorsal now was nearly as alert as if she perched within striking distance of a ver-rat den and the den sharers were stirring, about to venture forth.

The girl clucked to the zorsal, drew the fingers of her right hand slowly and soothingly about the base of those half uncurled antennae. She could read no sign of alarm in the other’s watchfulness, merely an alertness. Still, that was enough to make her divide her own attention between the ramp and the starship.

The cargo hatch was closed now. A light had snapped on to glow outward from the smaller aperture which gave upon the landing stair. Below, the merchants were growing restless, there were noisy quarrels erupting here and there as they pushed and shoved for front-line showing.

Finally, there were crewmen coming out; Simsa counted five of them. They were too far away from her own place—badly chosen she now decided, and they seemed far more eager to reach the town above than to carry on any private trading ventures. In fact, in their tightly fitted ships-clothing, they had no pouches which showed that they transported anything of value. Also, none carried a bag or bundle and they passed the calling traders on either side without so much as a glance at what they had to offer. Instead, they ignored those, chattering among themselves and quickening pace towards the city ramp and whatever pleasures they had marked down for their own during a night of planetside freedom.

Simsa fought down her disappointment. She had been very foolish to think that she might make the beginning of her fortune on the first such try. Certainly, none of these looked to be the kind of man to pore over bits of broken carvings and consider them worth a price no matter how small a price she might make it. She studied them carefully, however, as they brushed past the merchants, sometimes actually pushing some overly importunate man or woman out of their paths, talking in their sharp, clicking language which resembled at times a zorsal’s grunts.

Nor did she raise her hand or voice to try to catch their attention as they strode past her chosen place to tramp up the ramp. Ruefully, she stooped, picked up her pieces, drew out bits of rag to rewrap them. Tomorrow would be another day. Men long in space could well have other things on their minds this night beside trading, though that might be their whole way of life.

Here and there, one of the disappointed merchants had already turned back to his or her pitch, set a brazier burning, getting ready a scrap meal. They would sleep curled among their wares, await the coming of sun and another contingent of starcrew, or else these who had gone on their way back, their space starved appetites of the body sated, ready to think once more of long-term gain rather than fleeting pleasure.

Simsa hesitated over her own choice. She had promised herself that this night she would sleep in a real bed place in one of the taverns on the lower reaches of the street where carveneers sheltered during their stay in Kuxortal. Weighing her one sleeve was a twist of broken silver from which she could pinch a finger’s length to ensure her that much. Also, her position here by the ramp was not so choice a one that she need defend it by hunching there to sleep in the chill open.

She made her decision and started back up the ramp where the crew men, well ahead, were just entering into the town. The Guild guards glowered at her but there was no reason for any questioning. They did not police the field market, and unless she were one who wore a cheek brand of a failed, outlawed thief, or committed some act against the city peace right before their eyes, they could not cross weapons before her to take her for questioning. The neatness of her newly purchased clothes were those of one who could be a messenger for some House Merchant sent on a private errand where a house badge would be an advertisement her master was not prepared to allow.

“Gentle-homo—”

It had been one of Simsa’s private employments to learn what she could of other tongues. She could speak with the same fluency that she could mouth the Burrowers’ coarse speech, the tongue of an upper river-man and two distinct seafaring dialects. Now she recognized off-world words—a salutation. But that it was addressed to her was a surprise which took her a breath or two to realize. It had been she who had been seeking to contact the starmen, she did not expect any of them to come seeking her. Nor was it one of the five who had climbed the ramp ahead of her, rather this was the stranger who come up town earlier with the officers.

He was looking straight at her though and the Guild guards had taken several steps away as if to pay him deference. Now, he pointed to the zorsal and said haltingly, in the speech of the merchants of the upper town: “You are the one Waremaster Gathar spoke of—the trainer of zorsals. I thought I would have to hunt far for you—yet here you have come as if I called and you heard.”

Gathar, Simsa thought swiftly—why? Zass shifted on her shoulder and grunted. The zorsal’s antennae had unrolled to the farthest extent the girl had ever seen happen save when the creature was on night guard. Both of them pointed directly at the off-worlder as if the creature listened to more than Simsa heard, something other than those halting words.

“Will you give me of your time, dealer in old things—” the starman was continuing. “There are questions of import which mean very much to me—some of which you may be able to answer.”

Simsa was wary. In her new clothing, she was sure she looked more boy than woman, and she did not believe that this was some ceremonious route to name a bed-price. If Gathar had mentioned her in connection with old things . . . Her fingers tightened about her swinging sleeve, weighted as it was with the two finds she had kept to tempt trade. All knew that the starmen were largely credulous about such discoveries and they could sometimes be bargained into such gains of trade as no one but the simple-witted here would strike hands over. She could not understand why Gathar had spoken of her at all. Which meant caution until she found out that much about
his
dealings. No one gave away even a smell of profit if he could help. However, if this starman had come to her because of the Old One’s bits and pieces, she would make the best of what she had left. Now, she nodded abruptly. Let him believe that she knew less of any save up town speech; such small precautions could sometimes lead to profit.