He glanced at it and glanced away. “Is midnight late enough?”
“Plenty, I should think.”
He took out his book and started writing, tore out the form and handed it to her. As she accepted it the money disappeared. “Don’t make it later than midnight”
“Earlier, I hope.”
He glanced inside the sedan chair, then looked over her entourage. The four bearers had been standing patiently, saying nothing — which was not surprising, since they had no tongues. “Zenith Garage?”
“I always trade there.”
“I thought I recognized them. Well matched.”
“Better look them over. One of them might be the beggar’s boy.”
“Those great hairy brutes! Get along with you, Mother.”
“Hail, Shol.”
The chair swung up and moved away at a trot. As they rounded the corner she slowed them to a walk and drew all curtains. Then she patted the cushions billowing around her. “Doing all right?”
“I’m squashed,” a voice answered faintly.
“Better squashed than shortened. I’ll ease over a bit. Your lap is bony.”
For the next mile she was busy modifying her costume, and putting on jewels. She veiled her face until only her live, black eyes showed. Finished, she stuck her head out and called instructions to the head porter; the chair swung right toward the spaceport. When they reached the road girdling its high, impregnable fence it was almost dark.
The gate for spacemen is at the foot of Joy Street, the gate for passengers is east of there in the Emigration Control Building. Beyond that, in the warehouse district, is Traders’ Gate — freight and outgoing customs. Miles beyond are shipyard gates. But between the shipyards and Traders’ Gate is a small gate reserved for nobles rich enough to own space yachts.
The chair reached the spaceport fence short of Traders’ Gate, turned and went along the fence toward it. Traders’ Gate is several gates, each a loading dock built through the barrier, so that a warehouse truck can back up, unload; the Sargon’s inspectors can weigh, measure, grade, prod, open, and ray the merchandise, as may be indicated, before it slides across the dock into spaceport trucks on the other side, to be delivered to waiting ships.
This night dock-three of the gate had its barricade open; Free Trader Sisu was finishing loading. Her master watched, arguing with inspectors, and oiling their functioning in the immemorial fashion. A ship’s junior officer helped him, keeping tally with pad and pencil.
The sedan chair weaved among waiting trucks and passed close to the dock. The master of the Sisu looked up as the veiled lady in the chair peered out at the activity. He glanced at his watch and spoke to his junior officer. “One more load, Jan. You go in with the loaded truck and I’ll follow with the last one.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The young man climbed on the tail of the truck and told the driver to take it away. An empty truck pulled into its place. It loaded quickly as the ship’s master seemed to find fewer things to argue about with the inspectors. Then he was not satisfied and demanded that it be done over. The boss stevedore was pained but the master soothed him, glanced at his watch again and said, “There’s time. I don’t want these crates cracked before we get them into the ship; the stuff costs money. So let’s do it right.”
The sedan chair had moved on along the fence. Shortly it was dark; the veiled lady looked at the glowing face of her finger watch and urged her bearers into a trot.
They came at last to the gate reserved for nobles. The veiled lady leaned her head out and snapped, “Open up!”
There were two guards on the gate, one in a little watch room, the other lounging outside. The one outside opened the gate, but placed his staff across it when the sedan chair started to go through. Stopped, the bearers lowered it to the ground with the right-hand or door side facing into the gate.
The veiled lady called out, “Clear the way, you! Lord Marlin’s yacht.”
The guard blocking the gate hesitated. “My lady has a pass?”
“Are you a fool?”