“Aye, captain.”
She hated when people she threatened were overanxious to go ahead.
“At ten percent off,” she said. But she failed to kill his enthusiasm. And it made her remember what he really wanted, which she wouldn’t give, wasn’t about to give, gods rot him. She had a smoothly functioning crew, they understood each other, they were relatives, they had everything they needed.
He was also too gods-rotted handsome and too feckless and too male, confound him, which was the main reason to get him out of here before more than the crew lounge and the galley found its way down here.
“Get!” she said, shoved a pocket com into his hand, and he got, down the main corridor toward the airlock, at a near run.
Couldn’t fault that. She looked for ways. She went into the laundry, looked around for signs of mayhem or misdeed, found nothing out of order except one unfolded blanket, the viewer, the Manual of Trade, for some gods-only-knew reason, and…
She bent and drew from under the blast cushion the printed book Hallan Meras had put there.
And who gave him that? she wondered.
Chapter Seven
You didn’t run on the rampway link, you respected that perilous connection, that icy cold passage that gave a ship pressured access to station.
But Hallan walked it very fast, and, via the pocket com, called Tarras to report in: he figured that was the first test, whether he could use it and whether he knew what to do next.
“What areyou doing out there?” Tarras snapped at him, probably cold, certainly surprised.
“The captain said I should, she said you could use some help.”
“Gods-rotted right I could use some help, but don’t scare the dockers! Are you on pocket com?”
“Aye.”
“You keep near the access ramp. And don’t be sightseeing!”
“I’m at the bottom now. Have you got a cam-link?” That, he figured, would tell Tarras he had some notion what his job was. “We’ve got space for one more can on the transport, we’ve got a 14 canner moving up. Have we got a destination list?”
“Your display, code 2, check it out. Docker chief’s a curly coated fellow, and just hold it, I’ll call him and tell him who you are. For godssake, bow, be polite, you ‘II scare him into a heart seizure. “
“Aye, I do understand. Tell me when it’s clear.” He used his time taking stock of the surroundings, feeling the cold near the access and wishing that he could move away from the draft. The pocket com had a display: keyed, it scrolled the offload, 142 of the giant containers gone to their various buyers, the loader with, one reckoned, 10 more in its grip, outbound, and the transport sitting there with 15, which meant that particular hold was probably approaching empty, and Tarras was going to have to initiate the number two hold, which—
“You’re clear, “Tarras said. “His name is Pokajinai, Nandijigan Pokajinai, he speaks the trade, mind your manners.”
“Got it.” He spotted the mahe docker chief, flipped the com to standby and strolled over. He saw the apprehensive expression, too, and made his most courteous bow. “Sir.” In case they thought hani males went homicidally for anything of like gender. “Hallan Meras. Na Pokajinai?”
A nervous laughter from the rest of the dockers.
“Name Nandijigan, call Nandi. You Meras.”
“Meras is fine.” His father would have his ears. “Ker Tarras is working inside, I’m her eyes out here.”
“Not hear Chanur ship got male,” somebody muttered. He was undecided whether to hear it or not. He decided not. He simply flipped the com to active and advised Tarras he’d made peaceful contact.
It was wonderful. It was the best thing in all the universe, being out here, trusted, with the smells and even the cold, and the noise of foreign voices—the clangs and bangs of machinery, and the romance of the labels that the docker chief had to give mahen customs stamps to, and write on, and sign for.
They were a lot less likely to have a miscount with one of the Legacy crew out here. It was a real position of trust the captain had given him—she had listened to the other crew on his case, so there was still hope of pleasing her and becoming indispensable and permanent.