Part 7 (1/2)

There were shoutings. Whips cracked. Straining, horn-tossing _duryas_ heaved and dragged something, very deliberately, out from between warehouses under the arches of the grid. There were two dozen of the _duryas_, and despite the shouts and whip-crackings they moved with a stubborn slowness. It took a long time for the object with the wide-tired wheels to reach a spot below the s.p.a.cecraft. Then it took longer, seemingly, for brakes to be set on each wheel, and then for the draught animals to be arranged to pull as two teams against each other.

More shoutings and whip-crackings. A long, slanting, ladderlike arm arose. It teetered, and a man with a lurid purple cloak rose with it at its very end. The s.h.i.+p's air lock opened and a crewman threw a rope. The purple-cloaked man caught it and made it fast. From somewhere inside the s.h.i.+p of s.p.a.ce the line was hauled in. The end of the landing ramp touched the sill of the air lock. Somebody made other things fast and the purple-cloaked man triumphantly entered the s.h.i.+p.

There was a pause. Men loaded carts with cargo to be sent to remote and unimagined planets. In the air lock, Bron Hoddan stepped to the unloading ramp and descended to the ground. He was the only pa.s.senger.

He had barely reached a firm footing when objects followed him. His own s.h.i.+p bag--a gift from the amba.s.sador--and then parcels, bales, boxes, and such nondescript items of freight as needed special designation.

Rolls of wire. Long strings of plastic objects, strung like beads on s.h.i.+pping cords. Plexiskins of fluid which might be anything from wine to fuel oil in less than bulk-cargo quant.i.ties. For a mere five minutes the flow of freight continued. Darth was not an important center of trade.

Hoddan stared incredulously at the town outside one side of the grid. It was only a town--and was almost a village, at that. Its houses had steep, gabled roofs, of which some seemed to be tile and others thatch.

Its buildings leaned over the narrow streets, which were unpaved. They looked like mud. And there was not a power-driven ground vehicle anywhere in sight, nor anything man made in the air.

Great carts trailed out to the unloading belt. They dumped bales of skins and ingots of metal, and more bales and more ingots. Those objects rode up to the air lock and vanished. Hoddan was ignored. He felt that without great care he might be crowded back into the reversed loading belt and be carried back into the s.h.i.+p.

The loading process ended. The man with the purple cloak, who'd ridden the teetering belt-beam up, reappeared and came striding grandly down to ground. Somebody cast off, above. Ropes writhed and fell and dangled.

The s.h.i.+p's air lock door closed.

There was a vast humming sound. The s.h.i.+p lifted sedately. It seemed to hover momentarily over the group of _duryas_ and humans in the center of the grid's enclosure. But it was not hovering. It shrank. It was rising in an absolutely vertical line. It dwindled to the size of a basketball and then an apple. Then to the size of a pea. And then that pea diminished until the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p from Krim, Walden, Cetis, Rigel and the Nearer Rim had become the size of a dust mote and then could not be seen at all. But one knew that it was going on to Lohala and Tralee and Famagusta and the Coalsack Stars.

Hoddan shrugged and began to trudge toward the warehouses. The _durya_-drawn landing ramp began to roll slowly in the same direction.

Carts and wagons loaded the stuff discharged from the s.h.i.+p. Creaking, plodding, with the curved horns of the _duryas_ rising and falling, the wagons overtook Hoddan and pa.s.sed him. He saw his s.h.i.+p bag on one of the carts. It was a gift from the Interstellar Amba.s.sador on Walden. He'd a.s.sured Hoddan that there was a fund for the a.s.sistance of political refugees, and that the bag and its contents was normal. But in addition to the gift-clothing, Hoddan had a number of stun-pistols, formerly equipment of the police department of Walden's capital city.

He followed his bag to a warehouse. Arrived there, he found the bag surrounded by a group of whiskered or mustachioed Darthian characters wearing felt pants and large sheath-knives. They had opened the bag and were in the act of ferocious dispute about who should get what of its contents. Incidentally they argued over the stun-pistols, which looked like weapons but weren't because nothing happened when one pulled the trigger. Hoddan grimaced. They'd been in store on the liner during the voyage. Normally they picked up a trickle charge from broadcast power, on Walden, but there was no broadcast power on the liner, nor any on Darth. They'd leaked their charges and were quite useless. The one in his pocket would be useless, too.

He grimaced again and swerved to the building where the landing grid controls must be. He opened the door and went in. The interior was smoky and ill-smelling, but the equipment was wholly familiar. Two unshaven men--in violently colored s.h.i.+rts--languidly played cards. Only one, a redhead, paid attention to the controls of the landing grid. He watched dials. As Hoddan pushed his way in, he threw a switch and yawned. The s.h.i.+p was five diameters out from Darth, and he'd released it from the landing grid fields. He turned and saw Hoddan.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

”What the h.e.l.l do you want?” he demanded sharply.

”A few kilowatts,” said Hoddan. The redhead's manner was not amiable.

”Get outta here!” he barked.

The transformers and snaky cables leading to relays outside--all were clear as print to Hoddan. He moved confidently toward an especially understandable panel, pulling out his stun-pistol and briskly breaking back the b.u.t.t for charging. He shoved the pistol b.u.t.t to contact with two terminals devised for another purpose, and the pistol slipped for an instant and a blue spark flared.

”Quit that!” roared the red-headed man. The unshaven men pushed back from their game of cards. One of them stood up, smiling unpleasantly.

The stun-pistol clicked. Hoddan withdrew it from charging-contact, flipped the b.u.t.t shut, and turned toward the three men. Two of them charged him suddenly--the redhead and the unpleasant smiler.

The stun-pistol hummed. The redhead howled. He'd been hit in the hand.

His unshaven companion buckled in the middle and fell to the floor. The third man backed away in panic, automatically raising his arms in surrender.

Hoddan saw no need for further action. He nodded graciously and went out of the control building, swinging the recharged pistol in his hand. In the warehouse, argument still raged over his possessions. He went in, briskly. n.o.body looked at him. The casual appropriation of unguarded property was apparently a social norm, here. The man in the purple cloak was insisting furiously that he was a Darthian gentleman and he'd have his share or else--

”Those things,” said Hoddan, ”are mine. Put them back.”

Faces turned to him, expressing shocked surprise. A man in dirty yellow pants stood up with a suit of Hoddan's underwear and a pair of shoes. He moved with great dignity to depart.