Which in the case of Kita Point and their berth was a distance off, far enough to be inconvenient on a station too small and too rough to afford a full time shuttle service.
So one walked. And walked, stood in line at the office because Kita Point had no separate line for ships’ lading credentials or spacers wanting to certify a live pet for transport, which made a very strangely assorted, unruly and uncomfortable line to be in—a line that snarled and snapped in two instances, and struggled in wild panic in another.
“The hani trader Chanur’s Legacy ,” she was finally able to say, with the waft of kifish presence in her nostrils—two of them were in line behind her, but the mahendo’sat with the wildlife had gone through. She slid the physical papers across, left the mahen agent in peace to survey the requisite stamps, and made out the request for cargo receipt.
“Station load,” she said, meaning it was for the station’s own use. And that usually got priority. She stood waiting.
And felt something in the back waist of her trousers.
She reached back, suspecting wildlife or an off-target pickpocket.
And found a piece of paper.
She looked around, found nothing but a blank-faced shrug from the mahe immediately behind her in line, and saw a whisk of a white scuttling figure in a gray cloak vanishing around the corner.
Stsho. But no way was she going to leave her place in line to give chase.
“Sign,” the agent was saying, and she took the stylus and the tablet and signed, in the several places marked.
“You when want offload?”
“Ready now. Soon as possible.” She tried to sneak a look at the paper, but the agent was saying,
“You got volatiles? You need sign form.”
“Right. No problem.” She got a look. It said, in bad block print, Help. 2980-89.
A phone number? An address?
“You sign here,” the agent said.
She looked distractedly at the form. She read the variables and signed, collected the requisite form and took the paper with the message with her, on her way to a public phone.
Better not involve the captain.
Haisi Ana-kehnandian took a puff on the abominable smoke-stick, blew the contaminated air into the neon-lit ambient, and smiled lazily. “I tell you, pretty hani, you got one bastard lot luck. Just so, Atli-lyen-tlas come here like we know. Then … not good news. Atli-lyen-tlas gone kif ship.”
“Kif!”
“And four stsho dead like day old fish. Big damn mess.”
She didn’t want to owe Haisi a thing. She didn’t want to have to ask. But the mahe sat there smiling smugly and knowing she had no choice.
“So? Why?”
“Kif big suspect. Or maybe scare to death.”
“Residents here or come in with the ambassador. Don’t string it out, out with it.”
“You so impatient. Got pretty eyes.”
“Who were the stsho?”
“Three resident. One secretary Atli-Iyen-tlas.” Another cloud of smoke in the pollution zone. “I got photo, you want see?”
He reached into his pouch and pulled them out. She leaned over gingerly and took the offering, fanned them in her fingers. Not a pretty sight, no, especially the close-ups. “What did they die of?”
“Poison, maybe. Maybe scare to death. Stsho delicate.”
“Where’d you get these?”
“Got cousin in station office.”
“You got cousins everywhere.”
“Big-“
“Big family. You said.”
“Same like Chanur. Big fam’ly. Influ-ential fam’ly.”
“I’m a merchant captain trying to make a living! I’ve got no influence with my aunt, I don’t know her business, she doesn’t know mine, we don’t speak!”
“Hear same. Sad, fam’ly quarrel.”
“None of your business.”
The waiter set the drinks down. Iced fruit for Ana-kehnandian and iced tea for her. Intoxicating tea. She sipped hers carefully.
“What’s the truth?” she asked. “Who’s your Personage aligned with? Who does she do business with? What’s her connection to my aunt or does she have one?”
“A. You want I say my Personage business.”
“Might increase my trust of you.”
Another puff on the smoke-stick. “You long time on The Pride, now you not speak? What story?”
“Not your business either.”
“You clan head.”
“I am. In name. Ker Pyanfar appointed me.”