Uncharted Stars

  We did not return to the room in which the Orbsleon had interviewed me, but rather to one which might be a small edition of the hock-locks I well knew. There was a long table with various specto-devices clamped on it. In fact, it was a lab which many an appraiser on a planet might have envied. And on the walls were outlines of “safe” cupboards, each one with the locking thumb hole conspicuous in the center, where only the thumb of one authorized to open it would register to release its contents.

  “Snooper ray on us,” Eet informed me. But I had already guessed that, knowing why I had been brought here. They were going to prove my claim of being an appraiser, which meant tricky business. I would have to call on all I had learned from the man I seemed to be, all that I had picked up since I had left his tutelage, in order to survive such a test.

  The things to be valued were spread on the table, under a protective ull web. I went straight to it, for in that moment my lifetime preoccupation took command.

  There were four pieces in all, gemmed and set in metal—their glitter sparking life clear across the room. The first was a necklace—koro stones, those prized gems from out of the Sargolian seas which the Salariki doubly value because of their ability to give forth perfume when warmed by the body heat of the wearer.

  I held it up to the light, weighed each of the jewels in my hand, sniffed at each stone. Then I let it slide carelessly from my grasp to the bare surface of the table.

  “Synthetic. Probably the work of Ramper of Norstead—or of one of his apprentices—about fifty planet years old. They used marquee scent on it—five, maybe six steepings.” I gave my verdict and turned to the next piece, knowing I did not have to impress the guard, or the two other men in the room, but rather those who held the snooper ray on me.

  The second piece was set in a very simple mounting. And its dark rich fire held me for a moment or two. Then I put it in the cup below the infrascope and took two readings.

  “This purports to be a Terran ruby of the first class. It is unflawed, true enough. But it has been subjected to two forms of treatment. One I can identify, the other is new to me. This has resulted in a color shift. I think it was originally a much lighter shade. It will pass, save for quality lab testing. But any expert gemologist would be uneasy about it.”

  The third on that table was an arm band of metal which was reddish but carried a golden overcast that shifted across the surface when the ornament was handled. The maker had taken advantage of that overcast in working out the pattern on it, which was of flowers and vine, so that the gold appeared to line some of the leaves at all times. There was no mistaking it and my mind jumped back to the day my father had shown me such work, but then as a small pendant he had sold to a museum.

  “This is Forerunner, and it is authentic. The only piece I have previously seen was taken from a Rostandian tomb. That was decided by the archaeologists to be very much older than the tomb even. Perhaps it had been found by the Rostandian buried there. Its origin is unknown as yet.”

  In contrast to the three other offerings the fourth was dull, leaden-gray, ugly metal set with an ill-formed cluster of badly-cut stones. It was only the center stone, one of perhaps four carats, which seemed to have any real life, and that, too, had been unimaginately treated.

  “Kamperel work. The centerpiece is a sol sapphire and would pay recutting. The rest”—I shrugged—“not worth working with. A tourist bauble. If this”—I turned to the two men, who had not spoken—“is the best you have to show me, then indeed, rumor has greatly overrated the take of Waystar.”

  One of them came around the table to restow the four pieces under the web. I was wondering if I were now to be returned to my cell when the monotonous click of the Veep’s voice sounded from some concealed com.

  “As you think, this was test. You will see other things. The sol—can you recut?”

  Inwardly I sighed with relief. My father had not had that training, I need not be forced to claim it.

  “I am an appraiser, not a cutter. It will take skill to make the most out of that stone after it has been mishandled the way it has. I would suggest that it be offered as is”—I thought furiously—“to such a firm as Phatka and Njila.” Again I pulled names from my memory, but this time from Vondar’s warning about borderline dealers whose inventories of stones were kept in two or three different accountings, those they could sell openly, those to be sold privately. That they had Guild affiliations was suspected but unproved. But my ability to name them would be more proof that I had dealt on the border line of the law.

  There was a period of silence. The man who had re-wrapped the treasures in the web now sealed them into one of the wall cubbies. No one commented, nor did the com speak again. I shifted from one foot to the other, wondering what would happen now.

  “Bring here—” the com finally clicked.

  So I was taken back to the room where the Orbsleon Veep wallowed in his fluid-filled seat. Swung out over the surface of that was a lap table and on it lay a single small piece of metal.

  It had no gem and it was an odd size. But the shape I had seen before and knew very well indeed. A ring—meant to fit, not a bare finger, but over the bulky glove of a space suit. Only this had no zero stone, dull and lifeless, in its empty prongs. That it was, or had been, twin to the ring which had caused my father’s death, I was sure. Yet the most important part was missing. I knew instantly that this was another test, not of my knowledge as an appraiser, but of how much I might know on another subject. My story must hold enough truth to convince them.

  “There is a snooper ray on.” Eet had picked up my thought.

  “What this?” The Veep wasted no time in coming to the test.

  “May I examine it?” I asked.

  “Take, look, then say,” I was ordered.

  I picked up the ring. Without its stone it was even more like a piece of battered junk. How much dared I say? They must know a great deal about my father’s “death”—So I would give them all my father had known.

  “I have seen one of these before—but that had a stone.” I began with the truth. “A dim stone. It had been subjected to some process which rendered it lifeless, of no value at all. The ring was found on the space glove of a dead alien—probably a Forerunner—and brought to me for hock-lock.”

  “No value,” clicked the voice of the Veep. “Yet you bought.”

  “It was alien, Forerunner. Each bit we learn about such things is knowledge, which makes some men richer. A hint here, a hint there, and one can be led to a find. This in itself has no value, but its age and why it was worn over a space glove—that makes it worth payment.”

  “Why worn on glove?”

  “I do not know. How much do we know of the Forerunners? They were not even all of one civilization, species, or time. The Zacathans list at least four different star empires before they themselves developed a civilization, and claim there are more. Cities can crumble, suns burn out, sometimes artifacts remain—given proper circumstances. Space itself preserves, as you know well. All we can learn of those Forerunners comes in bits and pieces, which makes any bit of value.”

  “He asks,” Eeet told me, “but the questions are now from another.”

  “Who?”

  “One more important than this half-fish.” For the first time Eet used a derogatory expression, allowed an aura of contempt to pervade his mind-touch. “That is all I know. The other wears a protective antiesper, antisnoop device.”

  “This was a ring,” I repeated aloud and laid the plundered circlet back on the lap table. “It held a stone now gone, and it resembles the one I held for a time which had been found on a Forerunner.”

  “You held—now where?”

  “Ask that,” I returned sharply, “of those who left me for dead when they plundered my shop.” False now, but would any snooper detect that? I waited, almost expecting some loud contradiction of my lie. If any had been made perhaps those in the room were not aware of it yet. And if my last statement were accepted as tru
th, perhaps there might be awkward questions asked inside the ranks of the Guild, the which would do me no harm at all.

  “Enough,” the voicer clicked. “You go—sales placewatch.”

  My escort moved for the door. He did not snap to attention as a Patrolman, but he wore a tangler at his belt and I did not dispute his right to see me to where the Veep ordered my attendance.

  We passed along one of the balcony corridors which rimmed the open center. It was necessary to shuffle, not lifting the feet much, keeping a handhold on the wall rail, or the low gravity became a hazard. When our way led down on a curled rod with handholds instead of stairsteps, we managed almost as if we were in a grav lift, coming to the third level below that where the Veep had his quarters.

  This possessed some of the bustle of a market place. There was a coming and going of many races and species, Terrans, Terran-mutants, humanoids, and nonhumanoid aliens.

  Most of them wore ship uniforms, though unmarked by any official badges. And all of them wore stunners, though I saw no lasers. And I thought perhaps there might be some rule against more lethal weapons here.

  The booth into which I was ushered lacked the elaborate detection equipment of the lab. Another Orbsleon (plainly of inferior caste, since he still had the crab legs long ago removed from the Veeps) squatted in a bowl with just enough liquid washing in it to keep him on the edge of comfort. It was plain he was in charge and must have expected me. He clicked nothing on his talker, but gestured with one tentacle to a stool back against the wall, where I obediently sat down, Eet hunkering at my feet. There were two others there, and seeing them, I realized, with a shudder I hoped I successfully suppressed, just how far outside the bounds of law I was.

  There has always been slavery within the galaxy, sometimes planet-orientated, sometimes spread through a solar system, or systems. But there are kinds of slavery which make men’s stomachs turn more readily than the war-captive, farm-labor type most widely known. And these—these—things—were the result of selective breeding in a slavery the Patrol had worked for years to eliminate from any star lane.

  The Orbsleon’s servants were humanoid—to a point But there had been both surgical and genetic modifications, so that they were not truly “men” as the Lankorox scale defines men in an alien-Terran-mutant society. They were rather living machines, each programmed for a special type of service, knowing nothing else. One sat now with his hands resting limply on the table, his whole puffy body slack, as if even the energy which brought him pseudo life had drained away. The other worked with precise and delicate speed at a piece of jewelry, a gem-studded collar such as is worn at a feast of state by a Warlockian Wyvern. He pried each gem from its setting, sorting them with unerring skill, and at the same time graded them, placing the gems in a row of small boxes before him. The many-lensed orbs in his misshapen, too large, too round head were not turned upon what he did but rather stared straight ahead out of the booth, though they were not focused on anything beyond.

  “He is a detect—” Eet told me. “He sees all, reports without defining what he sees. The other is a relay.”

  “Esper!” I was suddenly afraid, afraid that that loosely sprawling hulk of flesh before us might tune in on Eet, know that we two together were far more than we seemed.

  “No, he is on a lower band,” Eet returned. “Only if his master wishes—”

  He lapsed into silence and I knew he, too, knew the danger.

  Why I had been sent here I did not know. Time passed. I watched those go to and from outside. The detect slave continued his work until the collar was entirely denuded of its jewels and then the metal went into a larger box. Now the busy fingers brought out a filigree tiara. Selections were made from the boxes of gems, and with almost the same speed with which they had been pried forth from their first settings they were put into the tiara. Though all the jewels were not used, I could see that the result of the work would be a piece which would easily bring a thousand certified credits in any inner planet shop. But all the time he worked, the slave never looked at what he wrought.

  What were to be my duties, if any, I was not told. And while the activities of the detect slave interested me for awhile, it was not enough to hold my attention too long. I found the inactivity wearing and I was restless. But surely anyone in my situation would want employment after awhile and no one would be suspicious if I showed my boredom.

  I was shifting on what became an increasingly hard stool the longer I sat on it when a man stepped inside the booth. He wore the tunic of a space captain without any company insignia and he appeared to be familiar with the establishment, as he bypassed the table where the slaves sat and came directly to the Orbsleon.

  He had been pressing his left hand against his middle—reminding me of my own frequent check on my gem belt. Now he unsealed his tunic and fumbled under its edge. The alien pushed forward a swing table much like the one his Veep had used to display the ring.

  The spacer produced a wad of ull web, picked it apart to show a very familiar spot of color—a zoran. The Orbsleon’s tentacle curled about the stone and without warning threw it to me. Only instinct gave me the reflex to catch the flying stone out of the air.

  “What!” With a sharp exclamation the captain swung around to eye me, his hand on the butt of his stunner. I was turning the stone around, examining it.

  “First grade,” I announced. Which it was—about the best I had seen for some time. Also it was not a raw stone but had been carefully cut and mounted in a delicate claw setting, hooked to hang as a pendant.

  “Thank you.” There was sarcasm in the captain’s voice. “And who may you be?” He lost now some of his aggressive suspicion.

  “Hywel Jern, appraiser,” I answered. “You wish to sell?”

  “I wouldn’t come here just for you to tell me it’s first grade,” he retorted. “Since when has Vonu added an appraiser?”

  “Since this day.” I held the stone between me and the light to look at it again. “A fleck of clouding,” I commented.

  “Where?” He went across the booth in two strides, snatched the jewel out of my hand. “Any clouding came from your breathing on it. This is a top stone.” He swung around to the Orbsleon. “Four trade—”

  “Zorans are not four trade,” the talker clicked. “Not even top grade.”

  The captain frowned, half turned, as if to march out of the booth. “Three then.”

  “One—”

  “No! Tardorc will give me more. Three!”

  “Go Tadorc. Two only.”

  “Two and a half—”

  I had no idea what they bid, since they did not use the conventional credits. Perhaps Waystar had its own scale of value.

  The Orbsleon seemed to have reached a firm decision.

  “Two only. Go Tadorc—”

  “All right, two.” The captain dropped the zoran on the lap table and the alien’s other tentacle stretched to a board of small buttons. When that mobile tip punched out a series on it there was no vocal reply. But he used the talker again.

  “Two trade—at four wharf—take supplies as needed.”

  “Two!” The captain made an explosive oath of that word as he left with a force which might have been a stamp in a place of higher gravity.

  The alien again threw the zoran, this time to be caught by the detect, who tucked it away in one of his boxes. And it was then that my earlier guide-guard came to the front of the booth.

  “You”—he gestured to me—“come along.”

  Glad for the moment to be released from the boredom of the booth, I went.

  XIII

  “Top Veep,” Eet’s warning came, to match my own guess as to where we were being taken. We again climbed through the levels to the higher ways of the station, this time passing the one where the Orbsleon had his quarters. Now the time-roughened walls about us showed dim traces of what had once been ornamentation. Perhaps for whatever creatures had built this station this had been officer territory.

  I
was motioned through a roll door, my guards remaining outside. They made a half-hearted attempt to stop Eet, but he suddenly developed an agility he had not shown before and pushed past them. I thought it odd they did not follow. Then, a moment later, I discovered why the inhabitant of these particular quarters did not need their attendance, for with another step I struck rather painfully against a force wall.

  Also, inside this room the light gravity to which I had partially adjusted not only had become full for my race, but had an added pull, so it was an effort to take a step.

  Beyond that invisible barrier the room was furnished as might be one in a luxury caravansary on some inner planet. Yet the furniture did not harmonize but was jammed together, showing even differences in scale size, as if some pieces had been made for bodies smaller or larger than my own. The one thing these had in common was their richness, which in some cases was gaudy and blatantly flamboyant.

  Stretched in an easirest was the Veep. He was of Terran descent, but with certain subtle differences, modifications of feature, which suggested mutation. Probably he came from a race which had been among the early colonists. His hair had been cut so that it stood above his partially shaven skull in a stiffened roach, making him resemble one of the mercenaries of old times, and I wondered how he got a space helmet over that crest, if he ever did. His skin was brown, not just space-tanned, and there were two scars, too regular to be anything but inflicted on purpose for a patterning, running from corner of eye to chin on either side of his mouth.

  Like the gaudy room, his clothing was a colorful mixture of planetary styles from several worlds. His long legs, stretched out in the rest, which fitted itself to give him greatest comfort, were encased in tight-fitting breech-legging-boots of a pliable, white-furred hide, the fur patterned with a watered rippling. Above his waist he wore the brilliant black-and-silver combination of a Patrol admiral’s dress tunic complete with begemmed stars and ribbons of decorations. But the sleeves of that had been cut out, leaving his arms bare to the shoulders. Below his elbows he wore on both arms very wide bracelets or armlets of irridium, one mounted with what could only be Terran rubies of the first water, the other with sol sapphires and lokerals running in alternate rows, the vivid greens and blues in harmonious contrast. Both armlets were barbaric in taste.