Uncharted Stars (20 page)

This possessed some of the bustle of a market place. There was a coming and going of many races and species, Terrans, Terran-mutants, humanoids, and nonhumanoid aliens.

Most of them wore ship uniforms, though unmarked by any official badges. And all of them wore stunners, though I saw no lasers. And I thought perhaps there might be some rule against more lethal weapons here.

The booth into which I was ushered lacked the elaborate detection equipment of the lab. Another Orbsleon (plainly of inferior caste, since he still had the crab legs long ago removed from the Veeps) squatted in a bowl with just enough liquid washing in it to keep him on the edge of comfort. It was plain he was in charge and must have expected me. He clicked nothing on his talker, but gestured with one tentacle to a stool back against the wall, where I obediently sat down, Eet hunkering at my feet. There were two others there, and seeing them, I realized, with a shudder I hoped I successfully suppressed, just how far outside the bounds of law I was.

There has always been slavery within the galaxy, sometimes planet-orientated, sometimes spread through a solar system, or systems. But there are kinds of slavery which make men's stomachs turn more readily than the war-captive, farm-labor type most widely known. And these—these—
things
—were the result of selective breeding in a slavery the Patrol had worked for years to eliminate from any star lane.

The Orbsleon's servants were humanoid—to a point But there had been both surgical and genetic modifications, so that they were not truly “men” as the Lankorox scale defines men in an alien-Terran-mutant society. They were rather living machines, each programmed for a special type of service, knowing nothing else. One sat now with his hands resting limply on the table, his whole puffy body slack, as if even the energy which brought him pseudo life had drained away. The other worked with precise and delicate speed at a piece of jewelry, a gem-studded collar such as is worn at a feast of state by a Warlockian Wyvern. He pried each gem from its setting, sorting them with unerring skill, and at the same time graded them, placing the gems in a row of small boxes before him. The many-lensed orbs in his misshapen, too large, too round head were not turned upon what he did but rather stared straight ahead out of the booth, though they were not focused on anything beyond.

“He is a detect—” Eet told me. “He sees all, reports without defining what he sees. The other is a relay.”

“Esper!” I was suddenly afraid, afraid that that loosely sprawling hulk of flesh before us might tune in on Eet, know that we two together were far more than we seemed.

“No, he is on a lower band,” Eet returned. “Only if his master wishes—”

He lapsed into silence and I knew he, too, knew the danger.

Why I had been sent here I did not know. Time passed. I watched those go to and from outside. The detect slave continued his work until the collar was entirely denuded of its jewels and then the metal went into a larger box. Now the busy fingers brought out a filigree tiara. Selections were made from the boxes of gems, and with almost the same speed with which they had been pried forth from their first settings they were put into the tiara. Though all the jewels were not used, I could see that the result of the work would be a piece which would easily bring a thousand certified credits in any inner planet shop. But all the time he worked, the slave never looked at what he wrought.

What were to be my duties, if any, I was not told. And while the activities of the detect slave interested me for awhile, it was not enough to hold my attention too long. I found the inactivity wearing and I was restless. But surely anyone in my situation would want employment after awhile and no one would be suspicious if I showed my boredom.

I was shifting on what became an increasingly hard stool the longer I sat on it when a man stepped inside the booth. He wore the tunic of a space captain without any company insignia and he appeared to be familiar with the establishment, as he bypassed the table where the slaves sat and came directly to the Orbsleon.

He had been pressing his left hand against his middle—reminding me of my own frequent check on my gem belt. Now he unsealed his tunic and fumbled under its edge. The alien pushed forward a swing table much like the one his Veep had used to display the ring.

The spacer produced a wad of ull web, picked it apart to show a very familiar spot of color—a zoran. The Orbsleon's tentacle curled about the stone and without warning threw it to me. Only instinct gave me the reflex to catch the flying stone out of the air.

“What!” With a sharp exclamation the captain swung around to eye me, his hand on the butt of his stunner. I was turning the stone around, examining it.

“First grade,” I announced. Which it was—about the best I had seen for some time. Also it was not a raw stone but had been carefully cut and mounted in a delicate claw setting, hooked to hang as a pendant.

“Thank you.” There was sarcasm in the captain's voice. “And who may you be?” He lost now some of his aggressive suspicion.

“Hywel Jern, appraiser,” I answered. “You wish to sell?”

“I wouldn't come here just for you to tell me it's first grade,” he retorted. “Since when has Vonu added an appraiser?”

“Since this day.” I held the stone between me and the light to look at it again. “A fleck of clouding,” I commented.

“Where?” He went across the booth in two strides, snatched the jewel out of my hand. “Any clouding came from your breathing on it. This is a top stone.” He swung around to the Orbsleon. “Four trade—”

“Zorans are not four trade,” the talker clicked. “Not even top grade.”

The captain frowned, half turned, as if to march out of the booth. “Three then.”

“One—”

“No! Tardorc will give me more. Three!”

“Go Tadorc. Two only.”

“Two and a half—”

I had no idea what they bid, since they did not use the conventional credits. Perhaps Waystar had its own scale of value.

The Orbsleon seemed to have reached a firm decision.

“Two only. Go Tadorc—”

“All right, two.” The captain dropped the zoran on the lap table and the alien's other tentacle stretched to a board of small buttons. When that mobile tip punched out a series on it there was no vocal reply. But he used the talker again.

“Two trade—at four wharf—take supplies as needed.”

“Two!” The captain made an explosive oath of that word as he left with a force which might have been a stamp in a place of higher gravity.

The alien again threw the zoran, this time to be caught by the detect, who tucked it away in one of his boxes. And it was then that my earlier guide-guard came to the front of the booth.

“You”—he gestured to me—“come along.”

Glad for the moment to be released from the boredom of the booth, I went.

XIII

“Top Veep,” Eet's warning came, to match my own guess as to where we were being taken. We again climbed through the levels to the higher ways of the station, this time passing the one where the Orbsleon had his quarters. Now the time-roughened walls about us showed dim traces of what had once been ornamentation. Perhaps for whatever creatures had built this station this had been officer territory.

I was motioned through a roll door, my guards remaining outside. They made a half-hearted attempt to stop Eet, but he suddenly developed an agility he had not shown before and pushed past them. I thought it odd they did not follow. Then, a moment later, I discovered why the inhabitant of these particular quarters did not need their attendance, for with another step I struck rather painfully against a force wall.

Also, inside this room the light gravity to which I had partially adjusted not only had become full for my race, but had an added pull, so it was an effort to take a step.

Beyond that invisible barrier the room was furnished as might be one in a luxury caravansary on some inner planet. Yet the furniture did not harmonize but was jammed together, showing even differences in scale size, as if some pieces had been made for bodies smaller or larger than my own. The one thing these had in common was their richness, which in some cases was gaudy and blatantly flamboyant.

Stretched in an easirest was the Veep. He was of Terran descent, but with certain subtle differences, modifications of feature, which suggested mutation. Probably he came from a race which had been among the early colonists. His hair had been cut so that it stood above his partially shaven skull in a stiffened roach, making him resemble one of the mercenaries of old times, and I wondered how he got a space helmet over that crest, if he ever did. His skin was brown, not just space-tanned, and there were two scars, too regular to be anything but inflicted on purpose for a patterning, running from corner of eye to chin on either side of his mouth.

Like the gaudy room, his clothing was a colorful mixture of planetary styles from several worlds. His long legs, stretched out in the rest, which fitted itself to give him greatest comfort, were encased in tight-fitting breech-legging-boots of a pliable, white-furred hide, the fur patterned with a watered rippling. Above his waist he wore the brilliant black-and-silver combination of a Patrol admiral's dress tunic complete with begemmed stars and ribbons of decorations. But the sleeves of that had been cut out, leaving his arms bare to the shoulders. Below his elbows he wore on both arms very wide bracelets or armlets of irridium, one mounted with what could only be Terran rubies of the first
water
, the other with sol sapphires and lokerals running in alternate rows, the vivid greens and blues in harmonious contrast. Both armlets were barbaric in taste.

In addition, his stiffened top ridge of hair was encircled by a band of mesh metal, green-gold—from which hung, flat against his forehead, a pendant bearing a single koro—about ten carats and very fine. The whole effect was that of what he must be, a pirate chief on display.

Whether he wore that mixture of splendor and bad taste by choice or for the effect such a bold showing of wealth might have on his underlings, I did not know. The Guild men in the upper echelons were usually inclined to be conservative in dress rather than ostentatious. But perhaps as master, or one of the masters, of Waystar, he was not Guild.

He watched me reflectively. Meeting his dark eyes, I had the impression that his clothing was a mask of sorts, meant to bedazzle and mislead those with whom he dealt. He was holding a small plate of white translucent jade in one hand, from time to time raising it to his mouth to touch tongue tip in a small licking movement to the gob of blue paste it held.

“They tell me”—he spoke Basic with no definable accent—“that you know Forerunner material.”

“To some extent, Gentle Homo. I have seen, have been able to examine perhaps ten different art forms.”

“Over there—” He pointed, not with his empty hand, but with his chin, to my left. “Take a look at what lies there and tell me—is it truly Forerunner?”

A round-topped table of Salodian marble supported what he wanted appraised. There was a long string of interwoven metal threads dotted here and there with tiny brilliant rose-pink gems; it could have been intended as either a necklace or a belt. Next to it was a crown or tiara, save that no human could have worn it in comfort, for it was oval instead of round. There was a bowl or basin, etched with lines and studded here and there with gems, as if they had been scattered by chance or whim rather than in any obvious pattern. And last of all, there was a weapon, still in a sheath or holster—its hilt or butt of several different metals, each of a different color but inlaid and mingled with the others in a way I knew we had no means of duplicating.

But what was more, I knew we had found what we had entered this kolsa's den to seek. This was the larger part of the treasure the Zacathans had found in the tomb; I had been too well briefed by Zilwrich to mistake it. There were four or five other pieces, but the best and most important lay here.

It was the bowl which drew my attention, though I knew if the Veep had not already caught the significance of those seemingly random lines and gems he must not be given a hint, by any action of mine, that it was a star map.

I walked toward the table, coming up against the barrier again before I reached it—a circumstance which gave me a chance to assert myself as I was sure Hywel Jern would have done.

“You cannot expect an appraisal, Gentle Homo, if I cannot inspect closely.”

He tapped a stud on the chair arm and I could advance, but I noted that he tapped it again, twice, when I reached the table, and I did not doubt I was now sealed in.

I picked up the woven cord and ran it through my fingers. In the past I had seen many Forerunner artifacts, some in my father's collection, some through the aid of Vondar Ustle. Many others I had studied via tri-dee representation. But this stolen treasure was the richest it had ever been my good fortune to inspect. That the pieces were Forerunner would of course have been apparent even if I had not known their recent past history. But as everyone knew, there were several Forerunner civilizations and this workmanship was new to me. Perhaps the Zacathan expedition had stumbled upon the remains of yet another of those forgotten stellar empires.

“It is Forerunner. But, I believe, a new type,” I told the Veep, who still licked at his confection and watched me with an unwavering stare. “As such it is worth much more than its intrinsic value. In fact, I cannot set a price on it. You could offer it to the Vydyke Commission, but you might even go beyond what
they
could afford—”

“The gems, the metal, if broken up?”

At that moment his question was enough to spark revulsion and then anger in me. To talk of destroying these for the worth of their metal and gems alone was a kind of blasphemy which sickened anyone who knew what they were.

But he had asked me a direct question and I dared not display my reaction. I picked up each piece in turn, longing to linger in my examination of the bowl map, yet not daring to, lest I arouse his suspicion.