Chapter VII

BARRING ACCIDENT

The morning winds rustled through the grass forest and, closer to hand,

it pulled at the cloaks of the Salariki. Clan nobles sat on stools,

lesser folk squatted on the trampled stubble of the cleared ground

outside the stockade. In their many colored splendor the drab tunics of

the Terrans were a blot of darkness at either end of the makeshift arena

which had been marked out for them.

At the conclusion of their conference the Queen's men had been forced

into a course Jellico had urged from the first. He, and he alone, would

represent the Free Traders in the coming duel. And now he stood there in

the early morning, stripped down to shorts and boots, wearing nothing on

which a net could catch and so trap him. The Free Traders were certain

that the I-S men having any advantage would press it to the ultimate

limit and the death of Captain Jellico would make a great impression on

the Salariki.

Jellico was taller than the Eysie who faced him, but almost as lean. Hard

muscles moved under his skin, pale where space tan had not burned in the

years of his star voyaging. And his every movement was with the liquid

grace of a man who, in his time, had been a master of the force blade.

Now he gripped in his left hand the claw knife given him by Groft himself

and in the other he looped the throwing rope of the net.

At the other end of the field, the Eysie man was industriously moving his

bootsoles back and forth across the ground, intent upon coating them with

as much of the gritty sand as would adhere. And he displayed the supreme

confidence in himself which he had shown at the moment of challenge in

the Great Hall.

None of the Free Trading party made the mistake of trying to give Jellico

advice. The Captain had not risen to his command without learning his

duties. And the duties of a Free Trader covered a wide range of knowledge

and practice. One had to be equally expert with a blaster and a slingshot

when the occasion demanded. Though Jellico had not fought a Salariki duel

with net and knife before, he had a deep memory of other weapons, other

tactics which could be drawn upon and adapted to his present need.

There was none of the casual atmosphere which had surrounded the affair

between the Salariki clansmen in the hall. Here was ceremony. The storm

priests invoked their own particular grim Providence, and there was an

oath taken over the weapons of battle. When the actual engagement began

the betting among the spectators had reached, Dane decided, epic

proportions. Large sections of Sargolian personal property were due to

change hands as a result of this encounter.

As the chief priest gave the order to engage both Terrans advanced from

their respective ends of the fighting space with the half crouching,

light footed tread of spacemen. Jellico had pulled his net into as close

a resemblance to rope as its bulk would allow. The very type of weapon,

so far removed from any the Traders knew, made it a disadvantage rather

than an asset.

But it was when the Eysie moved out to meet the Captain that Rip's

fingers closed about Dane's upper arm in an almost paralyzing grip.

"He knows--"

Dane had not needed that bad news to be made vocal. Having seen the

exploits of the Salariki duelists earlier, he had already caught the

significance of that glide, of the way the I-S champion carried his net.

The Eysie had not had any last minute instruction in the use of Sargolian

weapons--he had practiced and, by his stance, knew enough to make him a

formidable menace. The clamor about the Queen's party rose as the

battle-wise eyes of the clansmen noted that and the odds against Jellico

reached fantastic heights while the hearts of his crew sank.

Only Van Rycke was not disturbed. Now and then he raised his smelling

bottle to his nose with an elegant gesture which matched those of the

befurred nobility around him, as if not a thought of care ruffled his

mind.

The Eysie feinted in a opening which was a rather ragged copy of the

young Salarik's more fluid moves some hours before. But, when the net

settled, Jellico was simply not there, his quick drop to one knee had

sent the mesh flailing in an arc over his bowed shoulders with a good six

inches to spare. And a cry of approval came not only from his comrades,

but from those natives who had been gamblers enough to venture their

wagers on his performance.

Dane watched the field and the fighters through a watery film. The

discomfort he had experienced since downing that mouthful of the cup of

friendship had tightened into a fist of pain clutching his middle in a

torturing grip. But he knew he must stick it out until Jellico's ordeal

was over. Someone stumbled against him and he glanced up to see Ali's

face, a horrible gray-green under the tan, close to his own. For a moment

the Engineer-apprentice caught at his arm for support and then with a

visible effort straightened up. So he wasn't the only one--He looked for

Rip and Weeks and saw that they, too, were ill.

But for a moment all that mattered was the stretch of trampled earth and

the two men facing each other. The Eysie made another cast and this time,

although Jellico was not caught, the slap of the mesh raised a red welt

on his forearm. So far the Captain had been content to play the defensive

role of retreat, studying his enemy, planning ahead.

The Eysie plainly thought the game his, that he had only to wait for a

favorable moment and cinch the victory. Dane began to think it had gone

on for weary hours. And he was dimly aware that the Salariki were also

restless. One or two shouted angrily at Jellico in their own tongue.

The end came suddenly. Jellico lost his footing, stumbled, and went down.

But before his men could move, the Eysie champion bounded forward, his

net whirling out. Only he never reached the Captain. In the very act of

falling Jellico had pulled his legs under him so that he was not supine

but crouched, and his net swept but at ground level, clipping the I-S man

about the shins, entangling his feet so that he crashed heavily to the

sod and lay still.

"The whip--that Lalox whip trick!" Wilcox's voice rose triumphantly above

the babble of the crowd. Using his net as if it had been a thong, Jellico

had brought down the Eysie with a move the other had not foreseen.

Breathing hard, sweat running down his shoulders and making tracks

through the powdery red dust which streaked him, Jellico got to his feet

and walked over to the I-S champion who had not moved or made a sound

since his fall. The Captain went down on one knee to examine him.

"Kill! Kill!" That was the Salariki, all their instinctive savagery

aroused.

But Jellico spoke to Groft. "By our customs we do not kill the conquered.

Let his friends bear him hence." He took the claw knife the Eysie still

clutched in his hand and thrust it into his own belt. Then he faced the

I-S party and Kallee.

"Take your man and get out!" The rein he had kept on his temper these

past days was growing very thin. "You've made your last play here."

Kallee's thick lips drew back in something close to a Salarik snarl. But

neither he nor his men made any reply. They bundled up their unconscious

fighter and disappeared.

Of their own return to the sanctuary of the Queen Dane had only the

dimmest of memories afterwards. He had made the privacy of the forest

road before he yielded to the demands of his outraged interior. And after

that he had stumbled along with Van Rycke's hand under his arm, knowing

from other miserable sounds that he was not alone in his torment.

It was some time later, months he thought when he first roused, that he

found himself lying in his bunk, feeling very weak and empty as if a

large section of his middle had been removed, but also at peace with his

world. As he levered himself up the cabin had a nasty tendency to move

slowly to the right as if he were a pivot on which it swung, and he had

all the sensations of being in free fall though the Queen was still

firmly planeted. But that was only a minor discomfort compared to the

disturbance he remembered.

Fed the semi-liquid diet prescribed by Tau and served up by Mura to him

and his fellow sufferers, he speedily got back his strength. But it had

been a close call, he did not need Tau's explanation to underline that.

Weeks had suffered the least of the four, he the most--though none of

them had had an easy time. And they had been out of circulation three

days.

"The Eysie blasted last night," Rip informed him as they lounged in the

sun on the ramp, sharing the blessed lazy hours of invalidism.

But somehow that news gave Dane no lift of spirit. "I didn't think they'd

give up--"

Rip shrugged. "They may be off to make a dust-off before the Board. Only,

thanks to Van and the Old Man, we're covered all along the line. There's

nothing they can use against us to break our contract. And now we're in

so solid they can't cut us out with the Salariki. Groft asked the Captain

to teach him that trick with the net. I didn't know the Old Man knew

Lalox whip fighting--it's about one of the nastiest ways to get cut to

pieces in this universe--"

"How's trade going?"

Rip's sunniness clouded. "Supplies have given out. Weeks had an

idea--but it won't bring in Koros. That red wood he's so mad about, he's

persuaded Van to stow some in the cargo holds since we have enough Koros

stones to cover the voyage. Luckily the clansmen will take ordinary trade

goods in exchange for that and Weeks thinks it will sell on Terra. It's

tough enough to turn a steel knife blade and yet it is light and easy to

handle when it's cured. Queer stuff and the color's interesting. That

stockade of it planted around Groft's town has been up close to a hundred

years and not a sign of rot in a log of it!"

"Where is Van?"

"The storm priests sent for him. Some kind of a gabble-fest on the

star-star level, I gather. Otherwise we're almost ready to blast. And we

know what kind of cargo to bring next time."

They certainly did, Dane agreed. But he was not to idle away his morning.

An hour later a caravan came out of the forest, a line of complaining,

burdened orgels, their tiny heads hanging low as they moaned their woes,

the hard life which sent them on their sluggish way with piles of red

logs lashed to their broad toads' backs. Weeks was in charge of the

procession and Dane went to work with the cargo plan Van had left, seeing

that the brilliant scarlet lengths were hoist into the lower cargo hatch

and stacked according to the science of stowage. He discovered that Rip

had been right, the wood for all its incredible hardness was light of

weight. Weak as he still was he could lift and stow a full sized log with

no great difficulty. And he thought Weeks was correct in thinking that it

would sell on their home world. The color was novel, the durability an

asset--it would not make fortunes as the Koros stones might, but every

bit of profit helped and this cargo might cover their fielding fees on

Terra.

Sinbad was in the cargo space when the first of the logs came in. With

his usual curiosity the striped tom cat prowled along the wood, sniffing

industriously. Suddenly he stopped short, spat and backed away, his spine

fur a roughened crest. Having backed as far as the inner door he turned

and slunk out. Puzzled, Dane gave the wood a swift inspection. There were

no cracks or crevices in the smooth surfaces, but as he stopped over the

logs he became conscious of a sharp odor. So this was one scent of the

perfumed planet Sinbad did not like. Dane laughed. Maybe they had better

have Weeks make a gate of the stuff and slip it across the ramp, keeping

Sinbad on ship board. Odd--it wasn't an unpleasant odor--at least to him

it wasn't--just sharp and pungent. He sniffed again and was vaguely

surprised to discover that it was less noticeable now. Perhaps the wood

when taken out of the sunlight lost its scent.

They packed the lower hold solid in accordance with the rules of stowage

and locked the hatch before Van Rycke returned from his meeting with the

storm priests. When the Cargo-master came back he was followed by two

servants bearing between them a chest.

But there was something in Van Rycke's attitude, apparent to those who

knew him best, that proclaimed he was not too well pleased with his

morning's work. Sparing the feelings of the accompanying storm priests

about the offensiveness of the spacer Captain Jellico and Steen Wilcox

went out to receive them in the open. Dane watched from the hatch, aware

that in his present pariah-hood it would not be wise to venture closer.

The Terran Traders were protesting some course of action that the

Salariki were firmly insistent upon. In the end the natives won and Kosti

was summoned to carry on board the chest which the servants had brought.

Having seen it carried safely inside the spacer, the aliens departed,

but Van Rycke was frowning and Jellico's fingers were beating a tattoo on

his belt as they came up the ramp.

"I don't like it," Jellico stated as he entered.

"It was none of my doing," Van Rycke snapped. "I'll take risks if I have

to--but there's something about this one--" he broke off, two deep lines

showing between his thick brows. "Well, you can't teach a sasseral to

spit," he ended philosophically. "We'll have to do the best we can."

But Jellico did not look at all happy as he climbed to the control

section. And before the hour was out the reason for the Captain's

uneasiness was common property throughout the ship.

Having sampled the delights of off-world herbs, the Salariki were

determined to not be cut off from their source of supply. Six Terran

months from the present Sargolian date would come the great yearly feast

of the Fifty Storms, and the priests were agreed that this year their

influence and power would be doubled if they could offer the devout

certain privileges in the form of Terran plants. Consequently they had

produced and forced upon the reluctant Van Rycke the Koros collection of

their order, with instructions that it be sold on Terra and the price

returned to them in the precious seeds and plants. In vain the

Cargo-master and Captain had pointed out that Galactic trade was a chancy

thing at the best, that accident might prevent return of the Queen to

Sargol. But the priests had remained adamant and saw in all such

arguments only a devious attempt to raise prices. They quoted in their

turn the information they had levered out of the Company men--that

Traders had their code and that once pay had been given in advance the

contract _must_ be fulfilled. They, and they alone, wanted the full cargo

of the Queen on her next voyage, and they were taking the one way they

were sure of achieving that result.

So a fortune in Koros stones which as yet did not rightfully belong to

the Traders was now in the Queen's strong-room and her crew were pledged

by the strongest possible tie known in their Service to set down on

Sargol once more before the allotted time had passed. The Free Traders

did not like it, there was even a vaguely superstitious feeling that such

a bargain would inevitably draw ill luck to them. But they were left with

no choice if they wanted to retain their influence with the Salariki.

"Cutting orbit pretty fine, aren't we?" Ali asked Rip across the mess

table. "I saw your two star man sweating it out before he came down to

shoot the breeze with us rocket monkeys--"

Rip nodded. "Steen's double checked every computation and some he's done

four times." He ran his hands over his close cropped head with a weary

gesture. As a semi-invalid he had been herded down with his fellows to

swallow the builder Mura had concocted and Tau insisted that they take,

but he had been doing a half a night's work on the plotter under his

chief's exacting eye before he came. "The latest news is that, barring

accident, we can make it with about three weeks' grace, give or take a

day or two--"

"Barring accident--" the words rang in the air. Here on the frontiers of

the star lanes there were so many accidents, so many delays which could

put a ship behind schedule. Only on the main star trails did the huge

liners or Company ships attempt to keep on regularly timed trips. A Free

Trader did not really dare to have an inelastic contract.

"What does Stotz say?" Dane asked Ali.

"He says he can deliver. We don't have the headache about setting a

course--you point the nose and we only give her the boost to send her

along."

Rip sighed. "Yes--point her nose." He inspected his nails. "Goodbye," he

added gravely. "These won't be here by the time we planet here again.

I'll have my fingers gnawed off to the first knuckle. Well, we lift at

six hours. Pleasant strap down." He drank the last of the stuff in his

mug, made a face at the flavor, and got to his feet, due back at his post

in control.

Dane, free of duty until the ship earthed, drifted back to his own cabin,

sure of part of a night's undisturbed rest before they blasted off.

Sinbad was curled on his bunk. For some reason the cat had not been

prowling the ship before take-off as he usually did. First he had sat on

Van's desk and now he was here, almost as if he wanted human company.

Dane picked him up and Sinbad rumbled a purr, arching his head so that it

rubbed against the young man's chin in an extremely uncharacteristic show

of affection. Smoothing the fur along the cat's jaw line Dane carried him

back to the Cargo-master's cabin.

With some hesitation he knocked at the panel and did not step in until he

had Van Rycke's muffled invitation. The Cargo-master was stretched on the

bunk, two of the take off straps already fastened across his bulk as if

he intended to sleep through the blast-off.

"Sinbad, sir. Shall I stow him?"

Van Rycke grunted an assent and Dane dropped the cat in the small hammock

which was his particular station, fastening the safety cords. For once

Sinbad made no protest but rolled into a ball and was promptly fast

asleep. For a moment or two Dane thought about this unnatural behavior

and wondered if he should call it to the Cargo-master's attention.

Perhaps on Sargol Sinbad had had _his_ equivalent of a friendship cup

and needed a check-up by Tau.

"Stowage correct?" the question, coming from Van Rycke, was also unusual.

The seal would not have been put across the hold lock had its contents

not been checked and rechecked.

"Yes, sir," Dane replied woodenly, knowing he was still in the outer

darkness. "There was just the wood--we stowed it according to chart."

Van Rycke grunted once more. "Feeling top-layer again?"

"Yes, sir. Any orders, sir?"

"No. Blast-off's at six."

"Yes, sir." Dane left the cabin, closing the panel carefully behind him.

Would he--or could he--he thought drearily, get back in Van Rycke's

profit column again? Sargol had been unlucky as far as he was concerned.

First he had made that stupid mistake and then he got sick and now--And

now--what _was_ the matter? Was it just the general attack of nerves over

their voyage and the commitments which forced their haste, or was it

something else? He could not rid himself of a vague sense that the Queen

was about to take off into real trouble. And he did not like the

sensation at all!