Trader's World (31 page)

Do it now. Please go, Mikal, with my blessing. But come back anytime if you are sad or hurt—or just want to say hello.

Love, as always,
Jeannette

The bad news was waiting on the table when Mike came down to breakfast. The dining room was empty, but covered dishes of hot food had been left ready for him. Propped against one of them, prominent in its perfumed blue envelope, sat the letter.

Mike read it through twice, the first time with incomprehension, the second with bewilderment.

It was some sort of sick joke. A hoax. Not perpetrated by Jeanette—she wouldn't think it was funny—but by someone else, maybe one of the people he had bested locally in trade negotiations.

Mike carried the letter to the west-facing window and allowed the diffuse morning sunlight to play on the pages. He had intended to scan it again, searching for some clue as to what was going on, but before he could begin reading, another truth could no longer be denied: It was Jeanette's handwriting; by now he knew every stroke and loop, the peculiar back curve of the
f
and the
p
. And so it could be no hoax.

Not a joke.

Jeanette had left him. The shock of the thought made him cold all over.
Why
would she do it? In all their months together they had never had an argument, never an angry word. He had never been so happy and so at home. But Jeanette had left him.

Run out on him. In a fraction of a second, bewilderment turned to violent anger. What the hell was going on? This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing, it had to be a
planned
betrayal. Jeanette wasn't one to act casually, and now it was clear that she had intended to do this for a long time. A week ago, she had insisted that they cease their travels through the Economic Community and return to this inn, where they had first met, to "bring things full circle." That had meant nothing at the time; now it was very clear. Even the breakfast sitting on the table was an ironic gesture, the same meal as the first she had ever cooked for him. More symbolism. Jeanette was nothing if not consistent.

He read the letter anyway, but could find nothing new there, nothing to give him hope. He went back to sit hopelessly at the table. She had gone, and he could not bear to lose her. What could he do now? Only one thing: he would seek her out and tell her that she was wrong. Persuade her to stay with him.

He could do it; she always said he could persuade her to do anything.

Mike stood up, ready to rush to the door, and as he did so there crept into his mind the cold, quiet touch of reality.

He sat down again. Jeanette was right. She was
exactly
right. He felt as though he were waking from a pleasant dream, a personal fugue that had lasted for many months. Ever since the death of Jake Kallario, nothing had been real. Mike had been looking away, hiding his feelings, burying his old ambitions under a dead clay of indifference. Now, with the shock of Jeanette's letter, dormant feelings were springing back to life.

Jeanette had seen it all and said nothing. First she had coaxed him back to health, hiding her knowledge until he was well enough to live with the truth. And then she had done what she thought best.

But now . . . for God's sake, what now? Mike grimaced and pulled dishes of food toward him.
Food, drink, sleep—take them whenever you have a chance;
training died hard. He ate every morsel of food, drank every drop of coffee. Sleep would have to wait. He could feel a stirring inside him now, the itch to leave the lotusland of the Community and venture again into the Trader's world. Six months ago he had never wanted to hear of a negotiation again. Today, he longed for the challenge. He had to leave before he lost his nerve again.

Mike stood up, reached for a pen, and scribbled on the envelope:
Jeanette, I'm going back. But save a few paper dragons—just in case. Love always, Mikal.

He walked through into the little room at the back of the kitchen and picked up the antiquated communications device. As soon as his charge code was accepted, he set up a connection to Daddy-O.

CHAPTER 14

The door was visible as a dull black rectangle down at the end of the semicircular tiled corridor. Mike had limped along that curve at a fair clip, conscious of the ringing echoes from his own studded boots. But as he approached the door his pace gradually slowed. A few feet from it he stopped completely.

The portal was tall and broad, a slab of thick ebony. Mike knew very well what lay behind it: Maxwell Robert Dalzell, Master Trader.

Mike had seen the name of Dalzell on his first day as a trainee, when with forty-three other hopefuls he had wandered around the perimeter of the classroom looking at the names, pictures, and dates embossed on the paneled walls. His attention had been taken by the devil's grin and bright blue eyes on one of the pictures. He stopped to read the name and look at the full description.

Maxwell Robert Dalzell: graduate of the Traders' training course thirty years ago, at the age of seventeen. Master Trader seven years later, an unheard-of accomplishment for one as young as twenty-four. One more year, and Dalzell had engineered the signing of the first power treaty between the Great Republic and the Chills. He had made the first Trader trip to space, for discussions and negotiation with the Chipponese; and he was the absolute expert on the Unified Empire, with more than fifty successful trips to his credit to every major center from Mexity to F'waygo.

Since that first day, Dalzell and his exploits had never been far from Mike's thoughts. They had been flags to wave him on to greater personal efforts. That knowledge ran through his head now, when he at last touched the monitor at the side of the entrance.

The door slid open with a purr of motors at the base. He stepped forward and found himself looking into an empty room. "Be with you in a few minutes, Asparian," said a voice from inside the door itself. "I'm recording in the inner room. Come in and make yourself comfortable."

The room Mike entered was sparsely furnished with a desk, two chairs, and a long row of file cabinets. There was one other door: a plain sheet of solid steel at the far end, with heavy cipher locks on its edges. The walls were seamless, white-painted, and decorated everywhere with plaques and photographs. The desk top was covered with mementos, statues, and images.

Mike stood for a few seconds gazing expectantly at the inner door, then went to sit in the visitor's chair. He stared at the desktop array. It was a display of Trader memorabilia, beyond anything he ever seen or heard of outside the Trader Museum. There was a signed copy—or was it the original?—of the first Unified Empire/Cap Federation joint venture. Maxwell Dalzell had arranged that one himself. It was standing on part of a holmium Chipponese trading token, the sort they had used before the Traders brought them in line with the currencies of the other major regions. Dalzell again! Next to the platelike token was a facsimile of an early Yankee-Trader treaty, and behind it stood a picture of a smiling Strine bigmomma, displaying one of the first biolab products allowed to emerge from the Strine Interior.

There was no doubt where Dalzell's heart lay. None of the pictures showed the man himself, but every one was some personal triumph of Trader negotiation. Mike was still admiring them when the inner door opened and a tall, strongly-built man breezed through.

"Hello." He gave Mike a casual nod. "Don't need to bother with formal introductions, do we? I'm Max Dalzell, and you're Mikal Asparian. No, don't stand up," he went on, as Mike started to struggle to his feet. "I'm not the Trader Anthem." He flashed Mike the famous wide grin that went well with the abrupt manner. "Daddy-O says you're all charged up and raring for a new mission. Right?"

"I'm certainly ready to give it a try. I hope I'm not rusty."

"Don't worry about it. A good Trader never loses the knack. And from everything I've heard, you really needed a break. But the vacation's over. Now it's time for work." Dalzell flopped into the chair behind the desk and gave Mike a quick, appraising glance. That gave Mike a chance for his own inspection—he had seen pictures of Dalzell, dozens of them, but this was his first face-to-face encounter with a senior idol.

He saw a man almost a head taller than his own medium height, with a loose, athletic swing to the shoulders. The arms were well muscled in the short-sleeved shirt, and his wrists were thick and powerful, supporting massive, blunt-fingered hands. The surprise came lower on the body. Dalzell had a substantial paunch at his midriff—something never shown on his pictures. And his face was fuller and saggier than Mike expected, with jowls, a broader nose, and signs of a double chin.

A legend growing old; inevitable, but it couldn't have happened inside Mike's imagination. Dalzell was enshrined there as the golden-haired Master Trader, the youngest in history. Now the hair was receding from the temples, and it was streaked with gray.

The grin was still the same, though, and the gleam in the blue eyes was unchanged. It was clear that Maxwell Dalzell enjoyed big natural advantages as a Trader. There was something in that look and smile that reached out and demanded instant respect and sympathy. It made Mike suddenly dissatisfied with his own appearance.

There was another smile from across the desk, and a little nod of the graying head. "Fine. Inspections complete? Then let's talk. We've got a lot of ground to cover. We're going to be worrying today about the Cap Federation territories. How much do you know about the Chills?"

Mike thought for a moment and decided on the most honest answer. "If I weren't talking to Max Dalzell, I'd say I know a lot. But everyone says you're the expert. They say you've forgotten more about the Cap Federation than most people have ever learned."

"They do, do they?" Dalzell frowned, but did not look either surprised or displeased. "I ought to be used to what 'they' say about me, but I never am. But I can tell you this, I know the Greasers a whole lot better than I'll ever know the Chills—and I've got lots to learn about both of 'em. Now, how good is the grapevine these days? Did anyone leak why you're here?"

"No, sir." Mike hesitated, but Dalzell simply sat and waited. When he wanted to he gave an impression of infinite patience and unlimited time. "I received a message from Daddy-O, telling me I'm well enough for a new mission."

"Do you agree?"

There was the heart of the matter. "I'm not sure, sir."

"Well, we'll see. And while you're at it, you can stop calling me, sir." Dalzell leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his belly. "Daddy-O tells me you're pretty damned good. How do you feel about that?"

"I hope I'm good, sir." Mike winced, but the last word had popped out involuntarily. He shrugged. "You know, Rule Ten."
If you don't have confidence in your ability, no one else will.

"Damn right." Dalzell's gruff voice sounded delighted with the reply. "And that's the answer I was hoping for. So let's get down to it. I can tell you now: you'll
need
to be good for this one. We're talking of an official mission down onto the ice cap, to the middle of Cap Federation territory. You'll need to be one hotshot negotiator. The Unified Empire wants us to act on its behalf for a ten-year deal on gaming-table robot controllers. They're finally admitting what I've been telling 'em for fifteen years—the Chills are so far ahead of everybody else in microelectronics that nobody else has a hope of competing. Apparently it's finally sunk into their thick skulls, and they called me ten days ago. I set out terms they can live with, and I'm fairly sure Cap City will go along with them."

There was a lot hidden behind those words. Dalzell was doing his best to build Mike's enthusiasm and confidence, but more than that he was pointing out the difference between a Trader and a Master Trader: One didn't just
negotiate
a deal if one wanted to go to the top—one sold the idea of the deal
in the first place.
And terms of agreement that both sides would be able to live with were set up before anyone ever got near the negotiation table.

Dalzell was staring at him. "Well? Ready to try it? You don't look too keen."

Mike nodded reluctant agreement. "I'm ready to take the assignment, naturally. But it sounds as though you've already done the hard work."

"Dead right." The grin again. "By design. We want you to have lots of time to spare when you're down on the ice cap. You see, your second agenda item is a dilly. Ready for the old hook?"

Mike sat up straighter.

"Ever hear of Seth Paramine?"

"No, sir."

"Good. You shouldn't have. Ever hear of an idiot savant?"

"A . . . knowing idiot, isn't that what the words mean?"

"They do. But I think you'll admit that doesn't make much sense. Don't feel too bad, I was in the same position a week ago. 'Idiot savant' is a phrase used to describe a special sort of person, normal or often very subnormal in most areas, but with special talents in a particular field. We're all like that in some ways—you could train me forever, and I'd never be able to carry a tune—but the idiot savants take it to extremes. Take a look at something."

Dalzell leaned across to the control settings on the desk. A portion of the wall in front of Mike turned to reveal a holographic projection field. As the room lights dimmed, he found himself looking into a large bare room. The only furnishings were a thick carpet, with small spheres and oblongs of bright plastic scattered randomly across it, and a pile of white cardboard sheets next to them. Seated in the middle of the mess, head hunched forward on his shoulders, was an overweight youth in his late teens. His lower legs were bare, and he wore only a plain white smock that covered him from neck to knees. He was holding half a dozen of the colored plastic spheres and idly sliding them over each other.

"Seth Paramine," Dalzell said. "Nineteen years old. Born in the northern part of the Great Republic, in the wheat belt. Parents both normal, but he didn't learn to stand until he was five, or walk until he was six and a half. He said his first word at ten. He cannot read or write, or speak a complete sentence. He is sexually mature, but has no interest in sex. Until two years ago, the institute where he stayed thought he had no interest in
anything
, except food and toys. But they were wrong. Watch closely now. This is a top-secret recording that no other Traders have seen."