Freedom's Ransom (28 page)

By early evening, Zainal began to watch for signs of the usual rampage of guards and spacemen who would have spent most of the day drinking. When he felt the time would soon be upon them, and he noticed that other merchants were beginning to close their stalls, he called a halt to the day's work. Ferris chattered away to Eric as he and Bazil helped pack away the dental office, adding the coffee urn and cups from the main stall. Zainal had seen to it that all the goods they had bartered for had been taken to the BASS-1 as soon as the deals were completed. So it was a relatively simple matter to pack up and return to the KDM.

Everyone was hungry arid exhilarated by the success of the day, and full of ideas about how they could accomplish more the next.

Even Eric was in good form, having acquired several clients, besides Luxel, for gold crowns. Ditsy had said he should hire the man with the golden smile who had so fortuitously been there when needed.

“If word gets around, Zainal,” Eric said, waiting until Kris could fill his plate again, “I will need an assistant. My clients do not strike me as patient men.”

“Gino and I aren't doing anything much,” Ninety Doyle said. “If it's just muscle work you need . . .” He made a pantomime of tapping a hammer.

“Well, not exactly muscle work, but it does take time to pound even the softest gold into a malleable foil.” Then Eric perked up. “Old Natchi, what a talker. I understand about three words out of a dozen. I could fit him with a set of dentures that would do him better service than what he has left in his mouth.”

“Most of the time in the drinking places, when people get their teeth knocked out, it's after market hours,” Ferris said. “For emergency treatment, do I give them this berth number?”

Zainal did not like that idea, for he wished to be as private as possible on BASS-1, but he countered with a suggestion. “You can present yourself, and your qualifications, to the local medical men. Then, if they think your services are necessary, they can make an appointment for the patient to see you. Preferably at the market. As soon as we can, I will try to find a better place in which you can work, Eric.”

“That would save us from being a raree-show, certainly,” Eric said, accepting Zainal's offer.

“Does Floss have to go back?” Clune asked plaintively. The pair of them were holding hands under the table.

“I don't mind, dear,” she said, soothing him with a hand on his much bigger one. “At least they can't pinch me when I have the coffee bar in front of me.”

“Do not take any overt action, Clune,” Zainal felt obliged to warn him.

Clune snorted. “I'm not crazy, Zainal. Every one of them there today outweighed me, and a lot would have had the reach on me. Stupid I ain't. Taking on one of those guys would put me out of action. I gotta stay on duty, pet.”

“You could lick 'em one-handed,” Ditsy said with misplaced loyalty. “You got skill! And Chief Materu taught you some dandy moves.”

“There will be no competitions with Catteni brawlers,” Zainal said, eyeing Clune, who nodded willingly enough, and Ditsy, who finally settled as far back in his seat as he could, as if trying to make himself less visible.

“I know it was a wearing day,” Kris said, “but we have to pack more coffee beans for tomorrow. Having them on hand is very useful.” She nodded toward Kathy Harvey, who had put forth the suggestion. Everyone groaned but even Ferris and Zainal's sons roused themselves from the table to attend to the chore, packing the beans in bags they had taken from a deserted Terran Starbucks cafe.

“We're running out of the sacks we brought with us,” Ferris remarked. “They ought to pay us for universal advertising rights.”

“Can we find anything as useful here as these bags, Zainal?”

“Quite possibly. You boys, see what you can find tomorrow morning once we've set up the stalls. And look around for something that will suit Eric's requirements. Usually private stalls are at the head of the blocks.”

“You mean we can prowl?”

“Just keep order, Dits,” Zainal said.

“We can look, too, Father,” Peran volunteered eagerly.

“Perhaps, after your lessons with Brone, you may take a walk.” He nodded at Brone, who accepted the suggestion with a nod.

Zainal was loath to let his sons loose since, as Catteni boys, they would come under the scrutiny of all male adults, but with Brone in attendance, he could be sure
that their natural high spirits would not lead them into trouble.

“We will think Masai and ask ourselves if the chief would permit his band to do whatever it is we think of doing.”

“Chief Materu was very strict but fair,” Bazil said helpfully, “but by the Gods, he could scowl something fierce and that always meant extra duty.” He wrinkled his nose in dismayed remembrance of such disciplinary frowns. “A question, Father?” he added, raising a tentative index finger. When Zainal nodded, he went on. “In most African tribal lands, if things get stolen, they get stolen back right fast. I mean, we all know the market's full of things stolen from Earth. Couldn't we just steal them back without all this bartering?”

Zainal cleared his throat. In some of the very primitive societies he had seen as a scout, the stealthy reclamation of stolen goods was considered part of training. The idea being to get in, get the purloined things, and return unseen. The Turs had made that into an art, and many had died following that tradition elsewhere.

“We abide by the laws of the planet we're on, Bazil. And, however tempting, theft is brutally punished on this planet, and Kapash would relish a chance to apply the full measure of the law against any one of us.”

“Oh!” Ditsy and Ferris echoed Bazil's stunned response faintly.

“But if they didn't know it was us?” Bazil persisted, jabbing his thumb in his chest.

“Who else would they suspect, Bazil?” Chuck asked, frowning darkly as he lent weight to Zainal's comment.

“However, you may wander but just within the market area,” Zainal replied. “And check in hourly with me or Kris,” he added, pointing to their comm units.

“I got offered gold coin for mine,” Bazil replied.

“Accept nothing less than forty,” was Ferris's fast response until he noticed Zainal's frown.

“Do not suggest they are for sale,” he said firmly.

“I saw where we can get more,” Ditsy said, hauling a scrap of paper out of his pocket. Zainal leaned forward eagerly. “Iridium hand units, Stall Seventy-two-K. At least I think it's a K.” Ditsy passed Zainal the scrap, a dirty finger pointing to the logo.

“Right. Good for you, Dits,” Zainal said. “I wonder if Kapash will tell me who rents the stall.”

“If he doesn't, Natchi will,” Ferris said. “He knows everything there is to know about the market.”

At that, Kathy wrinkled her nose. “I don't know about the male facilities, but the ones for us are deplorable. Really, what does stall rental go for if not cleaning up the toilets?”

“Repairing the damage the drunks do,” Ferris replied with contempt.

Zainal gave Kathy a little nod. Such negligence could be a useful talking point in his next discussion with the market manager. But then, Kapash might have little interest in amenities for women. Zainal was certain Kapash held the traditional Catteni views on women: they should be grateful for what they get.

“I volunteer to do some cleaning there tomorrow,” Floss offered. “I can't stand the stench, and who knows what I'd pick up from it.”

Zainal wasn't sure why Kris looked so pleased by Floss's offer, but she clearly approved of the girl's willingness.

“Let's fill those sacks—”

“Tote dat barge, lift dat bale,” Clune sang in a deep, rich bass that startled everyone.

“Git a little drunk and you lands in,” Ferris sang in a cracked tenor voice and pointed to Clune to finish the song.

“Jay . . . ill . . .” was his response, dropping into the deepest part of his lush voice. A burst of applause ensued, which he hushed with his hand. “Ol' Man River, he just keeps rollin' along.” He finished the impromptu recital with a flourish and a bow and was accorded another
round of applause before he waved his friends to continue with their chore of packing beans.

Zainal did not know much of singing, but the work did go more swiftly as others asked Clune to sing their favorite songs. By the time Kris called a halt, they had worked their way through twenty-five pounds of dark-roasted robusta beans, and the same of the milder, washed arabicas, sufficient to meet unexpectedly high sales the next day. Sally finished adding up their income from the day's work and Eric reported on how many appointments he had made for dental work. He had insisted on being paid half of the cost of the work in advance—a fact that kept them solvent for local purchases—and half on completion. The dentistry was going to be a profitable asset of this tour. Zainal went through what he had done with the day's income and what he needed to do with tomorrow's.

“Then, we can take some profit,” he figured.

“With any luck,” Kris amended, and then covered her lips in apology for the negative comment. “However, I get the feeling that they are all holding back.”

“I do, too,” Kathy said.

“As if they were testing us, somehow? Or perhaps simply not willing to trade?” Chuck asked.

“But from what Natchi and that footless friend of his, Erbri, said, they have had no buyers for what's in their storage rooms, so why are they not willing to come forward and make what profit they can from us who are willing to buy?” Zainal remarked. “In fact, Natchi's bringing in two more mechanics besides Erbri to help fix the lifts and other reparable things left to rust. We've a good business going in repair and mechanics as a side venture.”

“Could Kapash be inhibiting the merchants for all he pretends to help?” Kris asked.

“He's not been helping,” Zainal said. “He's determined to thwart us. Be wary of him, all of you.”

“Why does he have it in for you, Zainal?” Chuck asked, expression bland.

“I knew him when he dealt in illegal drugs, and he knows I know it.”

“So he's the one made sure you were on that colony transport?” Kris asked.

Zainal let out a long breath. “I don't
know
that but I have been asking some discreet questions through Natchi, Erbri, and their coterie. Remember to give any disabled vet at least one cup of coffee, team.” Everyone nodded.

“What better way to get rid of a possible informer than to put him where he might die from indigenous causes or, with any luck, be executed by angry slaves?” Kris remarked irritably.

Clune spoke up with great dignity. “Chief Materu said that you make your own luck.”

“Chief Materu is a great leader,” Zainal said. “Then let us make our own luck!”

“Right!” Chuck seconded firmly, and there was agreement in the circle of tired bean packers before they rose stiffly to their feet and scattered to their on-ship quarters.

“Is this truly a good beginning?” Kris murmured to Zainal when they were abed.

“You can't exactly say they beat a path to our door,” he replied, smoothing her hair down, once again reveling in the silk of it, before he cuddled her close to him.

“Where'd you get that expression?”

“Ferris, of course,” Zainal said, giving her a little hug.

He closed his eyes to get on with the business of falling asleep.

It was a long while, despite her appreciation of his proximity, before she could follow his example. And the morning came far too quickly.

•   •   •

EVERYONE WAS AWAKE ON THE CALL AND came out quickly to eat their first meal of the day. Then Peran went to see if Natchi had arrived with his lift as he had agreed the previous evening. Peran had sneaked
a piece of good Botany bread, well lathered with honey, to give to Natchi. They had struck up quite a friendship. Natchi was there and grateful for the bread, which he said he had never tasted the like of. Peran had accessed a recipe for the stuff from the ship's library but didn't know where some of the ingredients might be had. He didn't know what “butter” was, or “flour” or “yeast.”

However, Natchi knew a great many things and would work on the problem. At least they had the method to make bread and knew its ingredients. You couldn't know if you could make things until you knew what they were comprised of. Which was why Peran's father was here on Barevi—to find the component parts needed for the comm satellites and other such highly technical things, which were supposed to make a vast number of things “better.” Peran already thought “life” was different and “better” when he recalled—which he did not often do—that time of his life spent without his father and being punished by his aunt and uncle for things that, for the most part, Peran didn't even know he'd done wrong. He'd warned Bazil and thus prevented his brother from receiving like measures of “corrective” discipline. Now that his father was here, it was always “better.” He would have liked being with his father sooner, but life in the Masai camp had been very interesting, too, and Chief Materu fair in his judgments. He never had understood what his father, who acted in all ways honorably, had done to deserve being an outcast from his family.

Peran, with Bazil's assistance, transferred the cartons of packed beans to the lift. By then everyone was ready to go, Clune carrying the hottle of coffee left over from breakfast. He had poured a cup for Natchi, who was quite willing to drink it down with the bread Peran had given him.

“The last of the bread is in today's sandwiches,” Kris announced as she deposited the basket—a hand-woven one from Botany—on the lift bed.

“Is it hard to make bread, Kris?” Peran asked, winking at Natchi.

“No, but you need certain things one can't find here on Barevi.”