At regular intervals around the chamber perimeter were large tunnels topped with directional signs. They served as pedestrian thoroughfares, or gave access to elevators and the small network of transport capsules. Other openings in the lobby wall, stoppered by glass doors with heavy gaskets, led to Sheltok offices, the better human-style hotels, and the quarters of legitimate trading establishments.
I wasn’t interested in the latter.
As I stood in a small alcove studying a holographic map of the place, a young Y’tata sidled up to me. His wrinkled albino skin was an unhealthy gray and the beady red eyes were crusted with matter. He was dressed in light green pants, a long-sleeve green shirt, and a copper-scaled kilt and vest. The garments were typical of a Y starship crew member, but they were shabby and tarnished.
“Hey, Mr. Joru, welcome to Phleg! You maybe need a guide? I’m your main man. Whataya say?” He spoke in Standard English, as aliens are obliged to do on human worlds—at least when humans are likely to be listening. Y’tata translation devices have a snappy command of semiobsolete English slang.
“Go away,” I said shortly. I figured him for a maroony, one of those unfortunate wretches who can be found on almost any galactic way station, dumped off for some infraction of ship’s discipline and trying to earn enough credit through odd jobs to get back to their home world. Human and Y maroonies were the most common, although Qastt castaways were coming on strong in the Perseus Spur now that they’d signed a trade treaty with the CHW.
“I’m Sh’muz. Good name for a fast talker, hey? Or doesn’t that translate? Ha-ha! I can help you find absofuckin’-lutely anything you need. How’s about a comfy high-oxygen hotel with nice hard beds? A restaurant with juwulimopsh like your dear old mothers used to cook? Hey, you into sex for hire? Primo dope? Honest Injun gambling?”
I stared haughtily at the entity in the condescending manner of my kind. Joru and Y’tata shared roughly the same region of the inner galaxy, where for over twenty thousand terrestrial years they were the only stargoing Insaps. Their relationship had been one of contemptuous toleration until the advent of the appalling Commonwealth of Human Worlds, with its superior technology and policy of relentless racial aggrandizement. A sense of mutual humiliation had drawn the Joru and Y’tata closer together.
But not too close.
For Y’tata digestive processes generate peculiarly malodorous gases that once served as a useful deterrent to predators on their planet of origin. The effluvia are a rank offense to the sensibilities of the fastidious Joru, whose breathing equipment concentrates oxygen from the ambient atmosphere of exotic worlds and tends to amplify smells as well. On Earth and the larger human colonies, there are laws requiring Y’tata visitors to avert the danger of backfiring by taking special medication; but minor settlements like Phlegethon that make a special effort to attract alien customers tend to be more easygoing. With a little extra effort, your average Y-on-the-street can control himself in most interracial social situations.
Sh’muz was doing his best not to offend, but not really succeeding. I was much taller and probably scary-looking, making the creature nervous.
Maybe it was the olfactory assault that overcame my common sense. At any rate, I committed what eventually proved to be a major blunder. Stepping back a few paces from the worst of the fug, I muttered, “There is only one way in which you might assist me, disgusting noisome entity. Do you know where I might find a human trader named Barney Cornwall?”
Sh’muz blinked his red eyes rapidly, a mannerism indicating both disappointment and despair. “Never heard of the bugger.” He perked up. “But I know a Bernie Cohen! Any kinda contraband you wanna buy or sell, Bernie’s the guy. I can take you to his burrow in the Bazaar right now.”
“Thank you, no.” I began to move away.
“Look—I’ll ask around, see if anybody ever heard of this Barney Cornwall. Get right back to you. You got a phone code? How about the name of your hotel?”
“No! Begone, obnoxious person!”
Sh’muz had no intention of letting go of a live one. “I’ll find the guy for you, trust me. I got contacts! How’s about we meet in about ten hours, see what shakes? There’s this bar, La Cucaracha Loca, a human joint but all kinda entities welcome. On Level 4, near the heavy-craft refueling bays. Midnight. Whataya say?”
The answer to that one was: Oh, shit. I’d carefully worked out stratagems for introducing Barky Tregarth’s alias into conversations with Phlegethon locals, in hopes of luring him to my bait. None of my tactical scenarios included a clown like Sh’muz trumpeting Barney Cornwell’s name about the asteroid like some flatulent town crier.
“Please do not exert yourself on my account,” I said firmly. “I am not really interested in meeting Trader Cornwall after all. Is that clear? Forget him and forget me!”
“Aww …” Utter dejection. The pathetic Y’tata maroony was probably counting on the tip for eating money.
I opened a pouch in my baldric, extracted a human hundred-dollar bill, and handed it over. “Please leave me alone. Here is a little something to tide you over until you find another client to guide.”
The Y’tata’s eyes blazed like the taillights of a BMW as he registered appreciation.
“Hey—thanks a bunch, Mr. Joru! You’re a prince. Or prime minister. Or whatever! I’ll find Cornwall if I hafta tear this orbiting garbage heap apart. Don’t forget! Cucaracha Loca. Twenty-five hundred hours. Be there!”
He dashed away into the crowd, leaving me cursing in a miasma.
I got on an elevator and headed down.
The uppermost levels of Phlegethon were devoted to fuel storage areas, starship repair shops, Sheltok offices, and traveler amenities. Below were situated enormous ultrasecure warehouse caverns, many with access tunnels opening to the surface, labeled only with anonymous alphanumerics. Some of the merchandise locked inside might have been legitimate trade goods; a larger percentage was undocumented contraband. Sheltok’s port officials didn’t care what went into and out of the storerooms; they simply charged extortionate rent and collected stiff entrance and exit fees on every transshipment.
Beneath the storage levels the elevator passed farm galleries lit by dazzling vapor lights, alternating with blocks of environmental utilities. In the denser core of the asteroid, where embedded ice and volatile organic chemicals were at a minimum, were apartment warrens for the permanent inhabitants and the catacombs where shady traders congregated.
The more prosperous of these hucksters conducted business in an area called the Bazaar, on Level 32. Here hundreds of chambers had been carved out of the asteroid’s interior substance. Some were no-frill holes in the wall that bordered on the squalid, wide open to passersby, crude excavations fitted out with desks, computers, com equipment, and a few stools. Others, with sample merchandise on display, were fully enclosed and as elaborately tarted up as the small retail stores in Toronto’s Underground Path. Both kinds of outfits were swarming with customers.
A directory, divided into categories, was posted next to the elevator. I consulted it and made a list of arms traders. There were over a dozen of them, peddling everything from Kalleynian ceremonial tail-sabres to antimatter torpedoes. Since guns and matériel had been Barky Tregarth’s area of expertise in the Perseus Spur, I hoped he was still in the same game here in the Sag. It would certainly fit neatly with his interest in the Haluk.
I visited each merchant of death in turn, beginning with the humans. Most of them brushed me off almost immediately when they discovered the esoteric nature of my trade goods. To those who showed an interest, I delivered my spiel, which went something like this:
MERCHANT OF DEATH: What you want? I’m a busy man, Joru, so make it quick. None of your damned time-wasting yackety-yak.
HELLY AS JORU: I have some extremely valuable merchandise on offer, of a most unusual nature. It does not readily fit into any category listed in the Bazaar directory; but since the material has a certain strategic value, I wish to sound out
your interest.
MOD: Extremely valuable? …
HAJ: [Taking a single small biocontainer out of his baldric case while simultaneously allowing his sleeve to fall back, revealing an arm holster containing a Kagi pistol with a glowing ready-light] Allow me to open this refrigerated cylinder. Ah—there! The contents are a genetic engineering viral vector known as PD32:C2.
MOD: Never heard of it. And I don’t deal in biological warfare items. Get lost.
HAJ: This viral vector is of special interest to the Haluk race. They pay the human corporation Rampart Concern enormous sums for it.
MOD: [Slight lessening of hostility] Oh. That stuff.
HAJ: Precisely. In the Perseus Spur a similar small vial of this precious substance would bring 250,000 on the black market—twice as much if sold directly to the blue-skinned ones.
MOD: [In disbelief] Half a million bucks for one of those little ampules? You shittin’ me, high pockets?
HAJ: That is still twenty percent less than Rampart retail. But here is an interesting thing: this PD32:C2 was not manufactured by Rampart! It comes from an entirely new viral source on a certain Joru world. The simpletons there do not realize that the vector they are producing for the genetic modification of livestock is identical to the substance so desperately coveted by the Haluk. This vial I have shown you is only a sample. I have access to unlimited quantities—and my price is a mere 120,000 per vial.
MOD: [Shaking head]You should be peddling this stuff in the Perseus Spur, fella. Around these parts … it could be really hard to move. Nobody’s gonna give a guy like you anything like the kind of deal you quoted. Maybe not even a tenth the price.
HAJ: [Seeming not to understand the implied invitation to dicker] One hears rumors. Very persistent rumors of a clandestine Haluk presence in this Sagittarian zone, in association with individuals of the putrid Y’tata race. And so, rather than travel from my home base on Didiwa to the forbiddingly remote Perseus Spur, where Haluk trade operations are spied upon by arrogant agents of Rampart Concern and the Human Commonweal, and I or my agents might be imperiled, I traversed Red Gap to this place of … peculiar reputation, where I had never before done business. Even though Phlegethon is a possession of Sheltok Concern—may diseased maslaw defecate upon their corporate earnings report!—I understand that it is possible here to engage in confidential undertakings without personal hazard. I confess that I hoped to find knowledgeable and enterprising persons in this asteroid who might have access to the far-ranging Haluk.
MOD: [Uncomfortably] I’ve heard the rumors about Haluk pirates going after Sheltok carriers in the Sag. Far as I know, they’re just rumors. No blueberry bandits ever drop in here to fuel up or hit the casinos.
HAJ: I must speak frankly now. The name of a certain human who has been known to trade with the Haluk was suggested to me by a colleague on Didiwa. I confess that I originally came to Phlegethon hoping to make contact with this trader—but no human I have spoken to thus far seems to know him. Or if they do, they will not reveal his whereabouts to a Joru. I would pay an extremely generous finder’s fee to the person who steered me to him.
MOD: What’s this joker’s name?
HAJ: He is called Barney Cornwall.
MOD: [Elaborately casual] Mmm. The name’s sort of familiar. I seem to remember that he’s a hard guy to get a hold of. Comes and goes, you know?
HAJ: You do have his acquaintance, then?
MOD: I didn’t say that.
HAJ: [Taking a dilapidated magslate out of the baldric case] This device contains the complete manufacturing sequence for the Joru vector production facility. Of course, the verbal portions are in the Joru language, but that should not prove too much of an obstacle. In order to prove the authenticity of my merchandise, I am willing to allow a cooperative person to copy this manufacturing data and pass it on to the man Cornwall.
MOD: How about handing over one of those sample vials? For all I know, you could be peddling grape jelly.
HAJ: [Insulted] It is the true PD32:C2, only from a new source! I vow it upon my honor as a Joru! The virus will pass any test. If you wish, we can take it to a bioassay establishment immediately. I note that there is one listed in the Bazaar’s directory.
MOD: Well … maybe that won’t be necessary.
At this moment of truth I would tell the arms peddler that he could buy the sample for fifty kay and resell it to Cornwall for whatever the traffic would bear. He would laugh scornfully and accuse me of playing a confidence game. I would become furiously indignant at the insult, grab up my things, and storm out of the place.
Four dealers called me back before I got out the door, calmed my wounded feelings, and eventually persuaded me to let them have a freebie along with a dime copy of the magslate contents, citing their excellent reputation among the local entrepreneurs and their strong hope of being able to track down Barney Cornwall. I promised to phone the next day.
After making my pitch to the last trader, I returned to Makebate, stripped off my disguise, and had a long hot shower. Then I reconstituted some barbecued baby back ribs, a baked potato, some Blue Lake green beans, and a handful of snickerdoodle cookies, and ate them seated in my command chair while listening to quiet jazz selections by Bill Evans and Marian McPartland.
By and large I was well satisfied with the day’s masquerade. Surely one of the four traders who had taken a sample would pass it on to Barky Tregarth—or at least contact him with news of the sensational find. Then my only challenge would be figuring out a safe way to snatch him and do the preliminary interrogation. I hoped the old man wouldn’t be too frail to withstand the rigors of interrogation. Maybe he’d spill his guts for a payoff, as Adam Stanislawski had suggested. Then all I’d have to verify was the general truth of his statements.
I put on another recording—surf breaking on a barrier reef, rustling mint-palms, crooning elvis-birds—reclined in the chair and fell asleep. I dreamed of my tropical island on Kedge-Lockaby, 23,600 light-years away, and my new yellow submarine, which I’d hardly had a chance to break in.
In the “morning” I ate a big breakfast, since I’d get almost nothing to eat while in costume. It took nearly an hour and a half to restore my Joru makeup. Then I climbed into the gig and returned to the asteroid. On the way in I phoned the four arms dealers.
Two of them said they’d had no luck finding Barney Cornwall. They offered to return my vector samples. The other two, shiftier than the first pair, told me they were still looking. I should call again tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.
Rats.
I’d have to try my shtick on the other contraband merchants. There were nearly a hundred of them in the Bazaar, trading in everything from scandium fuel catalyst to Kalleyni pornography, and lots more were doing business in bars of public corridors. Even if I confined myself to humans and Y’tata, those races were far and away the most numerous among the dealers. I was in for a long and unpleasant haul.
Y’tata offensiveness went without saying. And if yesterday’s experience held true, the human traders would be spectacularly rude. Interspecies harmony wore thin in the galactic boondocks, especially between humanity’s lower orders and the snotty Joru, who had a rep for pennypinching. It wasn’t much fun being an alien after all …
I left the docked gig and reentered the asteroid’s big lobby, thinking depressed thoughts, for the first time facing the possibility that my clever scheme was a piece of shit. Maybe Ram Mahtani had suckered me out of Stanislawski’s big bribe after all. Maybe Barky Tregarth had been dead for years. Or if he was alive, maybe Ram had warned the old geezer to run for his life. Maybe I was a self-deluding asshole off on a futile snipe-hunt, and I should have listened to Karl and stayed home on Earth making use of the evidence we already had—
“Hey, Mr. Joru! Missed you last night at Cucaracha Loca.”
I whirled about and found Sh’muz. His garb was cleaner and his complexion had lost some of its terminal lividity. A little money, a little hope of cashing in further
on a good thing, can do that.
“I told you that I do not require your services,” I harrumphed.
“Sure you do,” he retorted breezily. “I found somebody you might really wanna meet.”
“What! Are you saying you found Barney Cornwall?”
“An entity who knows him.” He paused, then rubbed his digits together in a gesture nearly universal among sapient beings.
“Of course I’ll pay you for the information.” I named a sum that would buy a ticket to any Y’tata planet within Zone 3. “You say ‘entity.’ Does this mean that your source is not a human?”
“Y’tata starship captain. Independent operator.” Sh’muz meant pirate. “He’ll want to be paid, too. Lots more than me.”
“That part of the transaction need not concern you. When and where may I meet this person?”
He twirled his eyes in the Y gesture equivalent to a wry human shrug. “You coulda done it last night if you’d met me in La Cuca. Come tonight. Same time, midnight. I’ll do the introduction, you pay me, I skedaddle.”
“You are absolutely certain that this person can put me in contact with Barney Cornwall?”
“Hey—is the Pope Catholic?”
I huffed disdainfully through my mask. “That Standard English slang phrase does not translate into Joru, but I presume it is affirmative. Very well. Expect me at the drinking establishment at 2500 hours.”
Sh’muz gave a jaunty farewell bounce—fortunately without losing control—and skipped away into the throng. I stood there for a while, thinking. It seemed a good idea to retrieve the two samples of PD32:C2—after all, they were Rampart property—so I did so, giving modest tips to the honest gun merchants. Then I scoped out La Cucaracha Loca and its immediate environs, with a view to abduction.