Cherryh, CJ – Merchanters Luck

beyond his recollections. Sol trade—sounded half fanciful, until now.

Harder to run a scam here, if they were short and overcrowded. Or it might even

be easier, if station offices were too busy to run checks, if they were getting

such an influx on the strength of these rumors that a ship with questionable

papers could lose itself in the dataflow… no, it was just a matter of rethinking

the approach and the tactics…

“This is Pell central,” a sudden voice reached him, and the pulser stung him

mercilessly, confusing him for the instant which to reach for first. He shut the

pulser down, keyed in the mike, leaning forward. “You have come in at velocity

above limit. Consult regulations regarding Pell operational restrictions,

section 2, number 22. This is live transmission. Further instruction assumes you

have brought your speed within tolerance and keep to lane. If otherwise, patrol

will be moving on intercept and your time is limited to make appropriate

response. Query why this approach? Identify immediately… We are now picking up

your initial dump, Lucy. Please confirm ID and make all appropriate response.”

It was all ancient chatter, from the moment of station’s reception of his entry,

the running monologue of lightbound com that assumed he could have begun

talkback much, much earlier.

“We don’t pick up voice, Lucy. Query why silence.”

He reached lethargically for the com and punched in, frightened in this

pricklishness on station’s part. “This is Stevens’ Lucy inbound on 4579 your

zenith on buoy assigned lane. I confirm your contact, Pell central. Had a little

com trouble.” This was a transparent lie, standard for any ship illicitly out of

contact. “Please acknowledge reception.” In his ear, Pell was still talking,

constant flow now, telling him what it perceived so that he would know where he

was on the timeline. “Appreciate your distress, Pell central. This is Stevens

talking, of Stevens’ Lucy, merchanter of Wyatt’s Star Combine, US 48-335 Y. Had

a scare on entry, minor malfunction, put me out of contact a moment. I’m all

right now. Had a backup engaged, no further difficulty. Please give approach and

docking instructions. I’m solo on this run and wanting a sleepover, Pell

central. I appreciate your assistance. Over.”

Communication from Pell ran on, an overlapping jabber now, as the com board gave

up trying to compress it and created two flows that would drive a sane man mad.

He slumped in the seat which embraced him and held his aching bones, unforgiving

even in its softest places. He blinked from time to time, kept his eyes open, to

make sure the lines on the approach graph matched. He listened for key words out

of the com flow, but Pell seemed convinced now that he was honest—still

possible, another, dimmer voice insisted in his head, that some patrol ship

could pop up out of nowhere, meaning business.

Station op, in the long hours, began to send him questions and instructions. He

was on the verge of hallucinating. Once station queried him sharply, and he woke

in a sweat, eyes scanning the instruments wildly, trying to find out where he

was, how close—and too close, entering the zone of traffic.

“You all right, Lucy?” the voice was asking him. “Lucy, what’s going on out

there?”

“All right,” he murmured. “I’m here. Receiving you clear. Say again, Pell

central?”

Getting in was nightmare. It was like trying to line up a jump blind drunk. He

stared slackjawed at the screens and did the hairbreadth lineup maneuvers on

visual alone, which no larger ship could have dared try, but he was far too

fuzzed to use comp and read it out, only to take its automated warnings, which

never came. He was proud of himself with a manic satisfaction as he made the

final touch, like the same drunk successfully walking a straight line: only one

beep out of comp in the whole process, and Lucy nestled into the lockto dead

center.

He was so satisfied he just sat there. Dockside com came on and told him to open

his docking ports, and his hands were shaking so violently he had trouble

getting the caps off the switches.

“This is Pell customs and dock security,” another voice came through. “Have your

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