“Connected with it. First they would say that they had never heard of any slave trade, or that it was just a wild rumor. Then they would say that, in any case, they just sell ships — and is a hardware dealer who sells a knife responsible if a husband carves his wife?”
“The cases aren’t parallel.”
“They wouldn’t concede that. They would say that they were not breaking any laws and even stipulating that there might be slavery somewhere, how can you expect people to get worked up over a possible evil light-years away? In which they are correct; you can’t expect people to, because they won’t. Then some smarmy well-dressed character will venture the opinion that slavery — when it existed — was not so bad, because a large part of the population is really happier if they don’t have the responsibilities of a free man. Then he’ll add that if they didn’t sell ships, someone else would — it’s Just business.”
Thorby thought of nameless little Thorbys out there in the dark, crying hopelessly with fear and loneliness and hurt, in the reeking holds of slavers — ships that might be his. “One stroke of the lash would change his slimy mind!”
“Surely. But we’ve abolished the lash here. Sometimes I wonder if we should have.” He looked at the display. “I’m going to record this; it has facets not yet considered together. Thanks for coming in. If you get more ideas, come in again.”
Thorby realized that his notion of joining the corps had not been taken seriously. “Marshal Smith . . . there’s one other thing I might do.”
“What?”
“Before I join, if you let me . . . or maybe after; I don’t know how you do such things . . . I could go out as Rudbek of Rudbek, in my own ship, and check those places — the red ones, ours. Maybe the boss can dig out things that a secret agent would have trouble getting close to.”
“Maybe. But you know that your father started to make an inspection trip once. He wasn’t lucky in it.” Smith scratched his chin. “We’ve never quite accounted for that one. Until you showed up alive, we assumed that it was natural disaster. A yacht with three passengers, a crew of eight and no cargo doesn’t look like worthwhile pickings for bandits in business for profit — and they generally know what they’re doing.”
Thorby was shocked. “Are you suggesting that –”
“I’m not suggesting anything. But bosses prying into employees’ sidelines have, in other times and places, burned their fingers. And your father was certainly checking.”
“About the slave trade?”
“I couldn’t guess. Inspecting. In that area. I’ve got to excuse myself. But do come see me again . . . or phone and someone will come to you.”
“Marshal Smith . . . what parts of this, if any, can be talked over with other people?”
“Eh? Any of it. As long as you don’t attribute it to this corps, or to the Guard. But facts as you know them –” He shrugged, “– who will believe you? Although if you talk to your business associates about your suspicions, you may arouse strong feelings against you personally . . . some of those feelings sincere and honest The others? I wish I knew.”
Thorby was so late that Leda was both vexed and bursting with curiosity. But she had to contain it not only because of possible monitoring but because of an elderly aunt who had called to pay her respects to Rudbek of Rudbek, and was staying the night. It was not until next day, while examining Aztec relics in the Fifth of May Museum, that they were able to talk.
Thorby recounted what Garsch had said, then decided to tell more. “I looked into rejoining the Guard yesterday.”
“Thor!”
“Oh, I’m not walking out. But I have a reason. The Guard is the only organization trying to put a stop to slave traffic. But that is all the more reason why I can’t enlist now.” He outlined his suspicions about Rudbek and the traffic.
Her face grew pale. “Thor, that’s the most horrible idea I ever heard. I can’t believe it.”