Citizen of the Galaxy (9 page)

“Huh?”

“Screen broken back at the end of the house and dust disturbed. I think he got in this way, came down through your bedroom, and out.”

“Saints and devils! I could have been murdered in my bed! Do you call that police protection?”

“You're not hurt. But you'd better have that screen fixed, or you'll have snakes and all their cousins living with you.” He paused. “It's my thought he tried to stay in the district, found it too hot, and went back to the ruins. If so, no doubt well gas him out before the day is over.”

“Do you think I'm safe to go back to my bed?”

“Why should he bother an old sack of suet like you?”

“What a nasty thing to say! And just when I was about to offer you a drop to cut the dust.”

“You were? Let's go down to your kitchen, then, and well discuss it I may have been wrong.” Thorby heard them leave, heard the ladder being removed. At last he dared breathe.

Later she came back, grumbling, and opened the lid. “You can stretch your legs. But be ready to jump back in. Three pints of my best Policemen!”

The skipper of the Sisu showed up that evening. Captain Krausa was tall, fair, rugged and had the worry wrinkles and grim mouth of a man used to authority and responsibility. He was irked with himself and everyone for having allowed himself to be lured away from his routine by nonsense. His eye assayed Thorby unflatteringly. “Mother Shaum, is this the person who insisted that he had urgent business with me?”

The captain spoke Nine Worlds trade lingo, a degenerate form of Sargonese, uninflected and with a rudimentary positional grammar. But Thorby understood it. He answered, “If you are Captain Fjalar Krausa, I have a message for you, noble sir.”

“Don't call me 'noble sir'; I'm Captain Krausa, yes.”

“Yes, nob - yes, Captain.”

“If you have a message, give it to me.”

“Yes, Captain.” Thorby started reciting the message he had memorized, using the Suomish version to Krausa. “ 'To Captain Fjalar Krausa, master of Starship Sisu from Baslim the Cripple: Greetings, old friend! Greetings to your family, clan, and sib, and my humblest respects to your revered mother. I am speaking to you through the mouth of my adopted son. He does not understand Suomic; I address you privately. When you receive this message, I am already dead --”

Krausa had started to smile; now he let out an exclamation. Thorby stopped. Mother Shaum interrupted with, “What's he saying? What language is that?”

Krausa brushed it aside. “It's my language. Is what he says true?”

“Is what true? How would I know? I don't understand that yammer.”

“Uh . . . sorry, sorry! He tells me that an old beggar who used to hang around the Plaza -- 'Baslim' he called himself -- is dead. Is this true?”

“Eh? Of course it is. I could have told you, if I had known you were interested. Everybody knows it.”

“Everybody but me, apparently. What happened to him?”

“He was shortened.”

“Shortened? Why?”

She shrugged. “How would I know? The word is, he died or poisoned himself, or something, before they could question him -- so how would I know? I'm just a poor old woman, trying to make an honest living, with prices getting higher every day. The Sargon's police don't confide in me”

“But if -- never mind. He managed to cheat them, did he? It sounds like him.” He turned to Thorby. “Go on. Finish your message.”

Thorby, thrown off stride, had to go back to the beginning. Krausa waited impatiently until he reached: “-- I am already dead. My son is the only thing of value of which I die possessed; I entrust him to your care. I ask that you succor and admonish him as if you were I. When opportunity presents, I ask that you deliver him to the commander of any vessel of the Hegemonic Guard, saying that he is a distressed citizen of the Hegemony and entitled as such to their help in locating his family. If they will bestir themselves, they can establish his identity and restore him to his people. All the rest I leave to your good judgment. I have enjoined him to obey you and I believe that he will; he is a good lad, within the limits of his age and experience, and I entrust him to you with a serene heart. Now I must depart. My life has been long and rich; I am content. Farewell”

The Captain chewed his lip and his face worked in the fashion of a grown man who is busy not crying. Finally he said gruffly, “That's clear enough. Well, lad, are you ready?”

“Sir?”

“You're coming with me. Or didn't Baslim tell you?”

“No, sir. But he told me to do whatever you told me to. I'm to come with you?”

“Yes. How soon can you leave?”

Thorby gulped. “Right now, sir.”

“Then come on. I want to get back to my ship.” He looked Thorby up and down. “Mother Shaum, can we put some decent clothes on him? That outlandish rig won't do to come aboard in. Or never mind; there's a slop shop down the street; I'll pick him up a kit.”

She had listened with growing amazement. Now she said, “You're taking him to your ship?”

“Any objections?”

“Huh? Not at all . . . if you don't care if they rack him apart.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you crazy? There are six snoopers between here and the spaceport gate . . . and each one anxious to pick up the reward.”

“You mean he's wanted?”

“Why do you think I've hidden him in my own bedroom? He's as hot as bubbling cheese.”

“But why?”

“Again, how would I know? He is.”

“You don't really think that a lad like this would know enough about what old Baslim was doing to make it worth --”

“Let's not speak of what Baslim was doing or did. I'm a loyal subject of the Sargon . . . with no wish to be shortened. You say you want to take the boy into your ship. I say, 'Fine!' I'll be happy to be quit of the worry. But how?”

Krausa cracked his knuckles one by one. “I had thought,” he said slowly, “that it would be just a matter of walking him down to the gate and paying his emigration tax.”

“It's not, so forget it. Is there any way to get him aboard without passing him through the gate?”

Captain Krausa looked worried. “They're so strict about smuggling here that if they catch you, they confiscate the ship. You're asking me to risk my ship . . . and myself . . . and my whole crew.”

“I'm not asking you to risk anything. I've got myself to worry about. I was just telling you the straight score. If you ask me, I'd say you were crazy to attempt it.”

Thorby said, “Captain Krausa --”

“Eh? What is it, lad?”

“Pop told me to do as you said . . . but I'm sure he never meant you to risk your neck on my account” He swallowed. I'll be all right.”

Krausa sawed the air impatiently. “No, no!” he said harshly. “Baslim wanted this done . . . and debts are paid. Debts are always paid!”

“I don't understand.”

“No need for you to. But Baslim wanted me to take you with me, so that's how it's got to be.” He turned to Mother Shaum. “The question is, how? Any ideas?”

“Mmm . . . possibly. Let's go talk it over.” She turned. “Get back in your hide-away, Thorby, and be careful. I may have to go out for a while.”

Shortly before curfew the next day a large sedan chair left Joy Street. A patrolman stopped it and Mother Shaum stuck her head out. He looked surprised. “Going out, Mother? Who'll take care of your customers?”

“Mura has the keys,” she answered. “But keep an eye on the place, that's a good friend. She's not as firm with them as I am.” She put something in his hand and he made it disappear.

“I'll do that. Going to be gone all night?”

“I hope not. Perhaps I had better have a street pass, do you think? I'd like to come straight home if I finish my business.”

“Well, now, they've tightened up a little on street passes.”

“Still looking for the beggar's boy?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. But well find him. If he's fled to the country, they'll starve him out; if he's still in town, well run him down.”

“Well, you could hardly mistake me for him. So how about a short pass for an old woman who needs to make a private call?” She rested her hand on the door; the edge of a bill stuck out.

He glanced at it and glanced away. “Is midnight late enough?”

“Plenty, I should think.”

He took out his book and started writing, tore out the form and handed it to her. As she accepted it the money disappeared. “Don't make it later than midnight”

“Earlier, I hope.”

He glanced inside the sedan chair, then looked over her entourage. The four bearers had been standing patiently, saying nothing -- which was not surprising, since they had no tongues. “Zenith Garage?”

“I always trade there.”

“I thought I recognized them. Well matched.”

“Better look them over. One of them might be the beggar's boy.”

“Those great hairy brutes! Get along with you, Mother.”

“Hail, Shol.”

The chair swung up and moved away at a trot. As they rounded the corner she slowed them to a walk and drew all curtains. Then she patted the cushions billowing around her. “Doing all right?”

“I'm squashed,” a voice answered faintly.

“Better squashed than shortened. I'll ease over a bit. Your lap is bony.”

For the next mile she was busy modifying her costume, and putting on jewels. She veiled her face until only her live, black eyes showed. Finished, she stuck her head out and called instructions to the head porter; the chair swung right toward the spaceport. When they reached the road girdling its high, impregnable fence it was almost dark.

The gate for spacemen is at the foot of Joy Street, the gate for passengers is east of there in the Emigration Control Building. Beyond that, in the warehouse district, is Traders' Gate -- freight and outgoing customs. Miles beyond are shipyard gates. But between the shipyards and Traders' Gate is a small gate reserved for nobles rich enough to own space yachts.

The chair reached the spaceport fence short of Traders' Gate, turned and went along the fence toward it. Traders' Gate is several gates, each a loading dock built through the barrier, so that a warehouse truck can back up, unload; the Sargon's inspectors can weigh, measure, grade, prod, open, and ray the merchandise, as may be indicated, before it slides across the dock into spaceport trucks on the other side, to be delivered to waiting ships.

This night dock-three of the gate had its barricade open; Free Trader Sisu was finishing loading. Her master watched, arguing with inspectors, and oiling their functioning in the immemorial fashion. A ship's junior officer helped him, keeping tally with pad and pencil.

The sedan chair weaved among waiting trucks and passed close to the dock. The master of the Sisu looked up as the veiled lady in the chair peered out at the activity. He glanced at his watch and spoke to his junior officer. “One more load, Jan. You go in with the loaded truck and I'll follow with the last one.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The young man climbed on the tail of the truck and told the driver to take it away. An empty truck pulled into its place. It loaded quickly as the ship's master seemed to find fewer things to argue about with the inspectors. Then he was not satisfied and demanded that it be done over. The boss stevedore was pained but the master soothed him, glanced at his watch again and said, “There's time. I don't want these crates cracked before we get them into the ship; the stuff costs money. So let's do it right.”

The sedan chair had moved on along the fence. Shortly it was dark; the veiled lady looked at the glowing face of her finger watch and urged her bearers into a trot.

They came at last to the gate reserved for nobles. The veiled lady leaned her head out and snapped, “Open up!”

There were two guards on the gate, one in a little watch room, the other lounging outside. The one outside opened the gate, but placed his staff across it when the sedan chair started to go through. Stopped, the bearers lowered it to the ground with the right-hand or door side facing into the gate.

The veiled lady called out, “Clear the way, you! Lord Marlin's yacht.”

The guard blocking the gate hesitated. “My lady has a pass?”

“Are you a fool?”

“If my lady has no pass,” he said slowly, “perhaps my lady will suggest some way to assure the guard that My Lord Marlin is expecting her?”

The veiled lady was a voice in the dark -- the guard had sense enough not to shine the light in her face; he had long experience with nobles and fumed. “If you insist on being a fool, call my lord at his yacht! Phone him -- and I trust you'll find you've pleased him!”

The guard in the watch room came out. “Trouble, Sean?”

“Uh, no.” They held a whispered consultation. The junior went inside to phone Lord Marlin's yacht, while the other waited outside.

But it appeared that the lady had had all the nonsense she was willing to endure. She threw open the door of the chair, burst out, and stormed into the watch room with the other startled guard after her. The one making the call stopped punching keys with connection uncompleted and looked up . . . and felt sick. This was even worse than he had thought. This was no flighty young girl, escaped from her chaperones; this was an angry dowager, the sort with enough influence to break a man to common labor or worse -- with a temper that made her capable of it. He listened open-mouthed to the richest tongue-lashing it had been his misfortune to endure in all the years he had been checking lords and ladies through their gate.