I Sikkukkut know about your passenger and likewise say this: wisest to give this
passenger to me. You would then be rich. But I Sikkukkut know the sfik of hunter
Pyanfar that this passenger has sfik-value and will be defended. Therefore I
Sikkukkut say to the sfik of Pyanfar Chanur that she must give this word to this
passenger: I Sikkukkut will speak with him at an appropriate time.
Shelter by my side, hunter Pyanfar. Together we might make a fine pukkukkta, and
the cost is less today than tomorrow.
Signal me and I Sikkukkut shall come to the dock where we shall find a quiet
place to talk.
“Kif bastard,” Pyanfar said, and crumpled the paper. “He wants Tully. That’s
what he wants. That’s what would buy him status.”
She looked at Khym, who sat listening to it all, saying nothing; but his ears
were back. “Consign a can at random to Harukk. Tell them and then tell the
stsho.”
“To the kif?” Haral gasped, and Khym turned round at his post with the whites of
his eyes showing.
“As a gift. To one Sikkukkut, captain of Harukk. Let the stsho sue him.”
A thoughtful, wicked look came into Haral’s eyes, bewilderment to Khym’s.
“No one sues the kif,” Khym said.
“No,” Pyanfar said, “they won’t. And let Sikkukkut and the station worry what’s
in that can, whether it’s valuable or not. If he won’t take it he’ll have to
wonder. If he does and finds nothing but trade goods — kif have remarkably
little sense of humor, where face is involved. Sfik. And gods know if he has one
of his cronies pick it up he’ll have to wonder whether he got all that was in
it. Kif don’t trust each other. They can’t.”
“But–” Khym said.
“No time. Do it, Haral.”
“Aye.” Haral sat down at com, stuck the receiver in her ear and punched out a
blinking light. “Captain, that’s Tully again. He’s called up here a dozen times.
Keeps asking something about a packet of papers. He wants to come up here and
discuss it with you.”
“Gods.” She raked at her beard distractedly and stared round her at the bridge,
at Khym’s broad back as he kept dutifully to the board, proving — proving
things to her. Deliberately. Stubbornly.
Then she realized what she was thinking and thrust the thought away. Male and
male, same space. Old ways of thinking died hard. He’s not hani, for the gods’
sakes. And they’re on the same ship.
“Tell him come up,” she said. “Tell everyone get up here soon as they secure the
hold. Prep ops for undock. And send that message.”
“Aye.” Haral’s voice droned the communications in sequence. She punched from one
to the other channels without amenities. Then in snarling stsho: “Meetpoint
Central Control, this is the hani ship The Pride of Chanur, berth 6, responding
to your notification regarding cargo: must inform you can 23500 has already been
consigned to berth 29, Harukk–”
“Get through to Sikkukkut,” Pyanfar said to her back. “Tell him there’s a
shipment for him in the hands of the stsho.”
“You can’t afford to lose that cargo,” Khym said, swinging round. “To stsho or
to kif. Pyanfar–”
“Captain,” she said, folding her arms. His eyes burned. She stood her ground.
“You’re on the bridge. It’s captain. Eyes to that board.”
He visibly trembled. The sigh gusted through his nostrils like the breath of a
furnace. And he turned back to the board.
“Huh,” she said, her worst anticipations overturned.
“The stationmaster wants to talk to you,” Haral said. “I think it’s gtst
interpreter.”
“I’ll take it.” She sat down in her place at controls and stuck a com plug in
her ear, leaned toward the board pickup and punched the blinking light. “This is
Pyanfar Chanur. Have you a question, esteemed director?”
“The director informs you–” the reply came back “–this high-handed threat will
not suffice. We have your signed acknowledgment of responsibility, but this does
not cover lawsuits and our liabilities. We wish payment now.”
“Is that so?” Her lips drew back as if she had the director in sight. “Tell the
director gtst new Phase is a scoundrel, a liar and a pirate.”