—absurdly complicated books with scores of accounts to record a simple matter of buying gems cheap on Vega and
chartering a ship in the hope of selling them dearly on Lyra. The complicated books and overlapping accounts did tell the story, but they made it very easy for an auditor to erroneously read a number of costs as far higher than they actually were. Alen did not fall into the trap.
On the fifth day after blastoff, Chief Elwon rapped, respectfully but urgently, on the door of Alen’s cubicle.
“If you please, Herald,” he urged, “could you come to the bridge?”
Alen’s heart bounded in his chest, but he gravely said: “My meditation must not be interrupted. I shall join you on the bridge in ten minutes.” And for ten minutes he methodically polished a murky link in the massive gold chain that fastened his boat-cloak—the “meditation.” He donned the cloak before stepping out; the summons sounded like a full-dress affair in the offing.
The trader was stamping and fuming. Chief Elwon was riffling through his spec book unhappily. Astrogator Hufner was at the plot computer running up trajectories and knocking them down again. A quick glance showed Alen that they were all high-speed trajectories in the “evasive action” class.
“Herald,” said the trader grimly, “we have broken somebody’s detector bubble.” He jerked his thumb at a red-lit signal. “I expect we’ll be overhauled shortly. Are you ready to earn your twenty-five per cent of the net?”
Alen overlooked the crudity. “Are you rigged for color video, merchant?” he asked.
“We are.”
‘Then I am ready to do what I can for my client.”
He took the communicator’s seat, stealing a glance in the still-blank screen. The reflection of his face was reassuring, though he wished he had thought to comb his small beard.
Another light flashed on, and Hufner quit the operator to study the detector board. “Big, powerful and getting closer,” he said tersely. “Scanning for us with directionals now. Putting out plenty of energy—”
The loud-speaker of the ship-to-ship audio came to life.
“What ship are you?” it demanded in Vegan. “We are a Customs cruiser of the Realm of Eyolf. What ship are you?”
“Have the crew man the squirts,” said the trader softly to the chief.
Elwon looked at Aleij, who shook his head. “Sorry, sir,” said the engineer apologetically. “The Herald—”
“We are the freighter Starsong, Vegan registry,” said Alen into the audio mike as the trader choked. “We are carrying Vegan gems to Lyra.”
“They’re on us,” said the astrogator despairingly, reading his instruments. The ship-to-ship video flashed on, showing an arrogant, square-jawed face topped by a battered naval cap.
“Lyra indeed! We have plans of our own for Lyra. You will heave to—” began the officer in the screen, before he noted Alen. “My pardon, Herald,” he said sardonically. “Herald, will you please request the ship’s master to heave to for boarding and search? We wish to assess and collect Customs duties. You are aware, of course, that your vessel is passing through the Realm.”
The man’s accented Vegan reeked of Algol IV. Alen switched to that obscure language to say: “We were not aware of that. Are you aware that there is a reciprocal trade treaty in effect between the Vegan system and the Realm which specifies that freight in Vegan bottoms is dutiable only when consigned to ports in the Realm?”
“You speak Algolian, do you? You Heralds have not been underrated, but don’t plan to lie your way out of this. Yes, I am aware of some such agreement as you mentioned. We shall board you, as I said, and assess and collect duty in kind. If, regrettably, there has been any mistake you are, of course, free to apply to the Realm for reimbursement. Now, heave to!”
“I have no intentions of lying. I speak the solemn truth when I say that we shall fight to the last man any attempt of yours to board and loot us.”
Alen’s mind was racing furiously through the catalogue of planetary folkways the Rule had decreed that he master. Algol IV—some ancestor-worship; veneration of mother; hand-to-hand combat with knives; complimentary greeting, “May you never strike down a weaker foe”; folk-hero Gaarek unjustly accused of slaying a cripple and exiled but it was an enemy’s plot—