Hesperus shivered in the shower as lukewarm water teased congealing soup from his fur. The Dubious Profit was, admittedly, a little run-down. The Python-class freighter had not been in prime condition when he had purchased her, and – despite the Python’s near-legendary ability to take punishment and keep on running – she was definitely the worse for wear. Rus was always nagging him: This is worn out, Hesperus; that needs replaced, Hesperus; these definitely shouldn’t be leaking plasma, Hesperus. Maybe Rus was right. Maybe he had squandered the profits from the Teraed-Rigeti run, chasing after a bigger score when it might have been more sensible, in the long run, to have overhauled the ship.
No! No. No, this was sheer negativity, and nothing more. What did Rus know about the dance of commerce, the glorious, intricate weaving patterns of profit and loss that flowed across the spacelanes? The dance where – if you listened to the secret music, if you timed your moves just so – instead of the humdrum dribble of a steady income, the true artiste could spring in one great leap into the Perfect Deal, and wealth beyond the dreams of avarice! Although secretly Hesperus had at least one doubt about this theory: his own dreams of avarice ran at such dizzying heights he found it hard to comprehend how any deal could come near to them. Still though: boldness! Confidence! He stepped from the shower, shaking water from his fur, his natural poise fully restored, and allowed warm air-currents to dry him down. The inevitable post-shower puffiness of his tail-fur could not dampen his optimistic mood. Even the undignified necessity of folding that appendage into the baggy seat of his (cheap, and non-species-specific) trousers failed to take the edge off it. Booted, suited and free from soup, he bounced off down the corridor from his cabin to the cockpit.
Stepan, the large, hairy Erbitian navigator, was on watch, lounging in the co-pilot’s chair and scratching at his unkempt mane. He looked round incuriously as Hesperus entered.
“Stepan, set a course – no, on second thoughts, I’ll do it. You are relieved. Get yourself down to the mess: if you’re quick there might still be some soup, ah, on the table.” Stepan yawned, stretched and shambled off, humming to himself. Hesperus slid into the command couch and called up the charts.
Inines. A rich industrial world; a high-technology planet whose teeming human population enjoyed enforced contentment. Inines used advanced memetic engineering to ensure strict social conformity: only three basic personality types were permitted, each one fiercely loyal to the Communist principles of the Ininish Peoples’ Party. The system was also home to the Lucky Thirteenth: Sector Command Thirteen of the Co-operative Navy hung there, and the local volume swarmed with Navy frigates, scouts, couriers and battle-wagons. It was the sort of system Hesperus would usually avoid: crammed with unyielding Authority, and unsympathetic to the individual entrepreneur. But Inines was the rendezvous specified by his contact. And Hesperus smelt possibilities with this deal. Definite possibilities.