“Got — Pyanfar, got–” His teeth chattered, no improvement to his diction.
“Come see you — Need — need–”
The lift stopped on lower decks, hissed its doors open. “Take care of him,”
Pyanfar said, standing firm to stay aboard. “And do it fast. I want you on other
business. Hear?”
“Aye,” said Chur.
“Pyanfar!” Tully cried as they dragged him out. “Paper–”
“I hear,” she said, and held the packet as the door closed between them. “I got
it,” she muttered to herself; and remembering another matter, put a hand into
her pocket and felt the ring beside the gun barrel, a ring made for fingers, not
for ears. Only mahendo’sat and stsho wore finger rings, having no under-finger
tendon to their non-retractile claws; having one more joint than hani had. Or
kif. Not to mention t’ca and knnn and chi.
A human hand was mahe-like. Tully had been in kifish hands once. They had gotten
him from them. And gods knew he would not forget it.
Gods-rotted Outsider. A few minutes dealing with him and she was shaking all
over. He had a way of doing that to her.
“He’s all right?” Haral asked as she arrived sore-footed on the bridge.
“Will be. Shaken. I don’t blame him.” She settled to her chair, filthy as she
was, and curled her frost-singed feet out of contact with the floor. Haral,
immaculate, had the diplomacy not to wrinkle her nose. “You hear that Ehrran
business?”
“Some.”
“Got ourselves one fat report going home, I’ll bet. Tirun and Geran in?”
“They’re dumping out that fish and fruit. Getting rid of the stuff. Spoiled
cargo, we call it. Send it out as garbage.”
“Huh.” She leaned back into the chair, hooked a claw into the plastic seal of
the packet and ripped it open.
“What’s that?”
“Expensive,” she said.
The fattish packet yielded several clips of papers, a trio of computer spools.
She read labels and drew a deep breath at finding the document Goldtooth had
given into Tully’s hands — virtually indecipherable mahen scrawl, a printed
signature, and hand-printed at the top: Repair authorization in crabbed
Universal Block.
“. . . good repair . . .”, she made out. That the rest of it was unreadable gave
her no comfort at all.
Another document, pages thick, swarming with neat humped type in alien alphabet.
She flipped through the pages with further misgivings.
Human? She guessed as much.
The third document (typed):
Greeting, it said. Sorry go now, leave you this. Got lot noise on dock, got kif,
got trouble, got one mad stsho give me trouble. I send can customs, trust stsho
Stle stles stlen not much far. He Personage on this station, got faint heart,
plenty brain. If, Stle stles stlen, you reading this I promise cut out you heart
have it for last meal.
Tully come big trouble. Mahen freighter Ijir same find his ship, human give him
come. “Bring Pyanfar,” he say, all time “Pyanfar” not got other word. So I
bring. One stubborn fellow.
I know he ask hani help. Also I know the han, like you know han, lot politic,
lot talk, lot do nothing. Lot make trouble you about this mate business —
forgive I mention this, but truth. You stupid, Pyanfar, one stupid-bastard hani
give jealous hani chance bite your ankles. That translate? I know what you do.
You too long go outworld, got foreign idea, got idea maybe hani male worth
something. You sometime crazy. You know Chanur got personal enemy, know got lot
hani not like mahendo’sat, same got lot hani got small brain, not like change
custom, same got hani lot mad with stsho embargo. What you try, save time, fight
all same time? Hope you get smart, eat their hearts someday. But someday not
now. You go han they make big mess. I know. You know. You go han they turn all
politic. Instead go mahen Personage like good friend, take Personage message in
number one tape. Sorry this coded. We all got little worry.
Now give bad news. Kif hunting you. Old enemy Akkukkak sure dead, but some kif
bastard got ambition take Akkukkak’s command. We got another hakkikt coming up,