between us. I suggest we keep it private. I suggest you bring your witnesses to
my deck. Expecting immediate reply.”
“In a mahen hell.”
“Captain?”
She restrained herself from violence to the board. “Reply to Ayhar: Tell it to
the kif.”
“Captain–”
“Send it.”
Geran ducked her head and bent to the keys. Other messages crawled past, mostly
stsho: a dozen threats of lawsuit from irate bazaar merchants; two scurrilous
letters from stsho vessels in port, impugning Chanur sanity; others were
rambling. Four were anonymous congratulations in mahen pidgin, some sounding
inebriate, one babbling obscure mahen religious slogans and offering support.
From Vigilance, not a word.
“Tirun,” said Chur behind her. “Got that customs contact.” And a moment later:
“Captain,” Tirun said. “Got the customs chief on. Claims the papers aren’t in
order on that shipment.”
She spun the chair about. “The Director cleared that! Tell gtst so.”
“The customs chief says you have to come and sign.”
“I signed that god-rotted thing!”
Tirun relayed as much, politely phrased. Amber eyes lifted. Ears flicked. “Gtst
says that was the customs release. Now they want a waiver against claims by the
consignor–”
She punched it in on her own com. “This is Pyanfar Chanur. If I come over there
I bring my whole ship’s company. Hear? And you can explain that to the Director,
you flat-bottomed bureaucrat!”
Silence from the other end.
She broke the contact. “Tirun: you and Geran get across that dock to that office
and watch those cans all the way.”
“Kif,” Tirun said.
“Gods-rotted right the kif. They’ve got their bluff in on the stsho.”
“Customs is back on,” Chur said. “Give it to five.” She punched it in. “Well?”
“I have schedule, hani.”
“You just put us at the head of it. Hear? I’m sending my own security. I’ve been
robbed once at this forsaken station. Not again!”
She broke the connection, leaned back and exhaled a long, long breath, staring
at Tirun. “Get!”
“Aye!” Tirun and Geran scrambled up and headed for the door.
“Arm and take a pocket com!” she shouted after them. “And be gods-rotted
discreet about it!” She spun the chair left to Haral. “I want that forward hold
warmed and pressurized.”
“How long’s Tully been in there?” Hilfy asked.
Pyanfar shot a glance at the chronometer overhead. “Figure six hours. At least.”
“How good’s that lifesupport?”
“The way Goldtooth’s set up the rest of this mess — who knows?” She shoved her
chair around and keyed up comp, hunting cargo lists, mass records. “This list
updated?”
“No,” Hilfy said.
“I need that list, gods rot it, niece.” “I’m on it,” Chur said, “Scan to your
number four, captain.”
She smoothed her nose with an effort, twitched her ears and heard the jingling
of the several rings. Experience, they meant. Wealth. Successful voyages. She
sat and watched for anything untoward, monitoring station corn, scan, every
pulse and breath of information Meetpoint central let them have. Their own
systems showed live in a series of amber lights.
“Pressure’s coming up,” Haral said.
“Estimate of mass loss to three, captain.”
She shunted it to Records. Comp brought up the revision. “Fine that down, Chur.
Navcomp’s taking main five.” “You’ve got them.”
Nav’s five segments unified themselves in comp and shunted other programs to
different banks: command screens acquired nav’s displays. Maing Tol. From
Meetpoint that was Urtur to Kita Point to Maing Tol at best.
“We can’t singlejump.” she said at last. “Not with the cargo we’ve still got,
not anything like it.”
Silence all round. “Aye,” –finally, from Haral.
She sat staring at the graphs. “Aunt,” Hilfy murmured, and turned her chair with
a wide-eyed look and the comset pressed in her ear. “Aunt, it’s Geran. Says
customs has those cans loaded and out already; they have a bunch of mahen
security on it, too.”
“Good gods. Something’s going right. How long?”
“How long?” Hilfy relayed; and her eyes flickered as she listened. “They’re
coming now.”
“How’s that pressure?”
“Pressure’s good,” Haral said.
“Captain–” Chur. “Someone’s down at the access com — It’s Banny Ayhar,
captain. She wants to talk to you.”
“Gods rot!” She punched in all-ship com. “Ayhar, get clear, hear me!”