“Just leave that to us.”
“No. You’re talking about a friend of mine. I can be real difficult, ker Rhif.
And we’re not in hani space.”
There was long, frozen silence. Rhif Ehrran’s ears flicked then, breaking the
moment. “You’re a fool, Chanur. I can’t say I don’t respect your position.”
“Where’s he going?”
“Trust me, Chanur, that things go on in this universe somewhat remote from your
interests. Suffice it to say that this is not a unilateral action.”
“Gods rot it, he’s not a load of fish!”
“If you have such concern for his safety, captain, I’d suggest you distance you
from him and him from you — considering the condition of your ship — and let
me get him out of here.”
She looked away, found no solace elsewhere. Glanced back again. “We’ll bring
him.”
“I’ll send a car.”
“Someone of my crew will take the ride with him,” she said quietly. “By your
leave. He’s not going to like this.”
“I assure you–”
203
C. J. Cherryh
A dark figure appeared in the corridor, at the accessway: Ehrran’s ears twitched
round and body followed as Pyanfar reached for her pocket, but it was
mahendo’sat, not kif.
“Customs officer,” Pyanfar said.
“Advice,” Rhif Ehrran said. “This is Kshshti. Not Meetpoint. If you can get this
ship running, get back to Urtur and get on to Kura. Fast. If she won’t stand it,
sit tight”
“Same advice you give Prosperity?”
“Prosperity’s on han business, Leave it at that. Stay out of things that don’t
concern you, Chanur.”
“I hear you. I hear you very well.”
“The car will be here in an hour. I don’t want any foulups.”
“Understood, captain.”
Ehrran inclined her head in scant courtesy, collected her crewwoman and departed
the corridor, past the mahendo’sat who turned and stared.
It was a small, worried-looking mahen official who slouched past the departing
Ehrran with a backward look. Mahen female, this, a clerical with the usual
clutter of clipboard and signatures and seals and notebooks hung about her
chest; but the belt which held up the kilt about her rather pot-bellied person
had the badges of middling authority.
Then the gut came moderately in and the head came up — no miraculous
transformation, only the suddenly sharper look of this disreputable individual.
“Voice, I,” she said.
“Huh,” said Pyanfar, laying back her ears. She set her hands on hips, drew a
neat quick breath, tried to reset her wits for another frame of reference. Gods.
A Voice, yet. No dockside official. “Ehrran know you? Whose voice?”
A second look back, this one taller and disdainful. The Voice — if voice it was
— have no name, no particular identity, and yet a considerable one, being
alter-ego to some Personage, speaker of the unspeakable, direct negotiator. She
straightened round again. “Voice stationmaster Kshshti. Stationmaster send say
you number one fool come in like that.”
“No choice.”
“More fool deal with fool.” The Voice gestured over her shoulder, where the
Ehrran had vanished. “Where cargo?”
Pyanfar made a deprecating gesture toward the self-claimed Voice. “Where
authorization?”
The mahe drew out one small object from her belts, a badge inlaid with gold and
the Kshshti port emblem. “You keep this cargo aboard.”
She laid her ears down, pricked them up again. “Look–”
“Keep. Not permit this transfer.”
Pyanfar tucked her hands in her belt, turned a frown Tirun’s way and looked back
again. No time to start shouting. Not yet. She gestured toward lower-deck ops.
“Look, you want go sit down, Voice? Get drink, talk?”
“What talk? Like got big cargo, got damage, got make foulup whole business?”
“Look Honorable.” Now it was time to shout. “The Pride’s no gods-blasted
warship, got no weapons, hear? I risk my ship twice, got damage, and I got the
promise of your government to make it good.” She pulled the authorization from
her pocket and handed it to the Voice. “We got downtime, got cargo lost–”
“We fix.”
It was like leaning on a wall and feeling it go down. She was off her balance an
instant, staring into those dark, earnest eyes.
Then it made sense. She drew in a breath and twitched her ears back in the