Krells never set out to be a hero. He was the first to admit he was a trader. "In it for the money; I leave thinking to the experts." But the experts couldn't solve the problem of Ralcor IX.
Professional fighters and scientific investigators vanished or were mysteriously destroyed. The robot might of an armoured Bellicose 35 was found shredded like tinsel. Krells still refused to think of himself as hero material - but he wouldn't quit. Martia, his computer girl, and Galor, the despatch man, stayed with him. For some reason the power that had driven every other terrestrial humanoid off Ralcor IX couldn't dislodge the traders. Krells groped desperately for a reason. Finding one meant the return of his own people and that meant money. Something he couldn't understand was shielding him from the Unknown Menace. Suppose he accidentally stopped doing whatever it was that protected him...?
Most people would have become neurotic and quit - not Krells. He didn't seem to have enough intelligence or imagination to know when to worry.
Release date:
December 19, 2013
Publisher:
Orion Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
“The Department regrets its inability to grant a permit, of course …”
“Regrets?” Krells creased an acquisitive brow and his eyes burned angrily. “Damnation Comptroller! I’m 15,000 credits adrift at I.C.B. and your Department regrets …”
The Comptroller stiffened perceptibly. His cool aristocratic demeanor frosted into impenetrable ice.
“There are other worlds, Trader Krells; why not try Ralcor 4?”
“Because every cheap-jack in this half of the galaxy has been exploiting the mugs on Ralcor 4 since God made little apples.” Krells scowled belligerently. “My lines need new territory. I trade with the pioneers—frontier equipment—colonial first aid. Who needs any commodities on a civilized world like Ralcor 4? By the Belt of Orion! I might as well try selling on Earth.” He laughed dryly and derisively.
“The Department appreciates your problems and the matter has been considered as sympathetically as possible. However, the decision must be regarded as final. A permit cannot be granted.”
“Jargon,” snarled Krells. “Did you learn it for your grade three civil service exam? Or perhaps there’s a tape of it playing in the Bureaucrat College at meal breaks, so you all absorb it subliminally. I don’t want to hear the same old guff; I want facts. I want reasons. Why can’t I have a blasted permit?”
“I’m afraid the Department’s reasons cannot be disclosed. Confidential decisions must be …”
“So now I’m an Official Secret!” Krells crashed a pudgy fist on top of the laminated plastic.
Sweat stood out on his bald scalp and trickled slowly along the sloping creases of his forehead. His thick iron-grey brows diverted it. The Comptroller’s office was hot, he thought, but by the Great Purple Nebula he’d make it a damned sight hotter!
The Comptroller walked stiffly to the window and pressed the air conditioner control with a formal movement. He moved back to his desk carefully and precisely.
“I’m afraid I have another appointment. Good morning, Trader Krells.”
“Damn it! I haven’t started yet.”
“Good morning, Trader.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this.”
The Comptroller pressed a button at the side of his desk. A door opened with quiet efficiency and two heavily-built young men in Trade Department uniforms appeared, looking enquiringly at the Comptroller. “Show this gentleman out, please.”
Hercules and Samson moved purposefully towards the fuming trader.
“This way sir, if you please.”
“I don’t damned well please. Get you filthy hands off me.”
Struggling and cursing ineffectually Krells was half dragged, half carried to the door of the Comptroller’s office.
“This means war …” spluttered the trader.
“Don’t try to come back, sir. We don’t want any unpleasantness, do we?”
“Go to hell!” shouted Krells with considerable spirit. The door slammed shut with a horribly final sound. Krells thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his nylon overalls and shrugged. He had tried—God knows he had tried. It hadn’t accomplished anything, but at least he’d done something. Not like that spineless, eviscerated apology for a humanoid Torlosh. He’d gone without a word, without a murmur of protest. Solidarity—that was the trouble—no solidarity. Too many like Torlosh had let the side down. Why didn’t they fight? The Trade Department wasn’t the be-all and end-all of existence. Men had brought and sold their goods before ever the Department came along to organize their lives. Devil take the bureaucrats! Free trade: that’s what the Galaxy needed. Go where you like; sell what you like; charge what you like. Lose—and you go down hard. Nobody weeps for you; they’re all too busy fighting over the salvage rights on your wreckage. Win—and you rise like the morning suns over Ximenes 5. The universe is your oyster. Open it and eat.
Be fair, said the voice of reason deep down inside his mind. They do it for your own good. Torlosh could see it. Why can’t I? Torlosh had sense, said the voice of reason. Torlosh was a gutless creep, snarled another voice. The second voice gained the ascendency. If I want to risk getting killed on Ralcor 9 I demand the right to take the risk. What about Martia? whispered something that sounded like his conscience dying in a muffled recess. If you go, Martia will go. Is it fair? Of course it’s fair. Martia’s a fool. What about old Galor? He’ll come. He’d follow you to the other end of the ruddy galaxy. You’ve a responsibility to him … to him and to Martia. Loyalty breeds responsibility whether you like it or not. Damn you, conscience, shut up. If I listened to every whine of yours and every commonsense caution I’d be a cross between the Bishop of Deep Space and Torlosh.
“Alco by the litre. If you stop while I can stand I’ll cave your big hairy skull in.” Krells leaned across the bar and waved his plasto-glass threateningly under the barman’s nose. The barman was small, elderly and timid-looking. Even Krells looked rugged beside him. It inflated the trader’s ego. The barman’s cranium was neither large nor hirsute but the epithets had inflated Krells’ sense of importance. It made him feel like a gorilla tamer.
“Are you sure it’s wise, sir? I mean, will you be able to drive you spinner safely? I’m only trying to do what’s best for you. Please don’t have another, sir.”
“You whining old goat! If you don’t fix that alco I’ll come over and fix my own.” Krells raised an arm threateningly, spilling liquid from his plasto-glass.
“Now look what you’ve done!” grunted the trader. “Made me spill half of it. I demand one on the house, do you hear?” He leaned further across the bar and gritted his teeth. They made a noise like miniature gravel crushers laying a pioneers’ road. The timid old barkeeper stood further back, as far as the confines of the pastel plastic would permit. With trembling hands he produced a fresh drink for the trader. Krells took it grudgingly and moved unsteadily to the far side of the bar. He slumped down dejectedly into a corner seat and looked despondently at the alco in the plasto-glass container. He tipped the translucent curves this way and that, watching the wave patterns forming and subsiding on the surface. He sipped at the friendly amber waves and felt slightly steadier.
The bat-wing doors opened and a tall, deceptively slim individual entered quietly. The barman’s face registered respect that brimmed over into fear.
“Good evening, Mr. Delanex.”
“Number seven—make it a large one.” The thin man’s voice was a diamond on ray-proof glass. The barman mixed a number seven with hands trembling. His ageing eyes never left Delanex’s face. The newcomer sat down opposite and looked him over thoughtfully.
“I heard you wanted to see me.”
“I need your help. Can we talk here?” Krells had sobered magically at the sight of the thin man.
“He hears nothing unless I tell him to listen.” Delanex indicated the nervous barman with a hooked thumb.
“I’ve heard you can supply almost anything, Mr. Delanex.”
“Within certain obvious limits.” Delanex smiled knowingly.
“Documents?”
“Without limits—if the price is high enough.”
“That’s the problem. I’m 15,000 on the wrong side at I.C.B. already. They might let me have another 5,000, but that’s all I could hope to raise.” Krells looked at the thin man enquiringly.
“It’s not much … depends on what you want.” Delanex was watching Krells like a hawk. The jittery old barman brought over another number seven. He cast a furtive glance at the trader as he set the plasto-glass in front of Delanex.
The barman was watching the thin man, but he spoke over his shoulder to the trader.
“Another alco for you, sir?”
“I’d like to try what Mr. Delanex is drinking. What did you call it?”
“It’s known as a number seven, sir.”
“I like anonymity,” grunted the thin man.
“Fetch me one,” ordered Krells.
“At once, sir.”
Bottles bubbled interestingly behind the laminated pastel plastic bar. Krells leaned closer to Delanex and whispered: “Permit for Ralcor 9.”
“Is that all?” The thin man sounded bored. There was an undisguised tone of anti-climax in his voice.
“All?” The trader was practically speechless.
“It’s nothing … but in any case a fake permit won’t get you as far as blast off.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You traders rarely do,” sneered Delanex. Krells bit back the anger with an obvious effort. The thin man laughed quietly.
“Why wouldn’t a permit be any use? You say you can get one!”
“I could sell you enough to programme three main stream computers for 5,000 and all guaranteed indistinguishable from the genuine article.”
“Please explain … I’m confused.” Krells slumped back in his seat.
“The space port patrol would query it immediately. No one has a permit for Ralcor 9 any more!”
“No one?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But why? It can’t be that bad!”
“It’s not good.” Delanex paused. His vanity and psychopathic ego-involvement broke through the poker mask of his face. “Do you think I’m afraid of the dark? Am I the kind who dodges shadows?”
“Of course not.” Krells had enough native wit to feed Delanex’s monomania carefully.
“I wouldn’t go to Ralcor 9.” The thin man was vehement. “I know things …” he went on.
“Things?” Krells was curious in spite of himself.
“Information costs money—and this isn’t relevant for you, at least not immediately.”
“I’ll take your judgment on that,” conceded Krells.
“Perhaps you’re learning a little sense.” Delanex continued to smile mockingly.
“There’s no way of reaching Ralcor 9, then?”
“I didn’t say that.” Delanex was playing cat and mouse.
“There are still some pioneers there?” It was part statement, part question.
“A few … and their days are numbered in my opinion.”
“What’s the trade outlook?”
“Phenomenal—until the last of the settlers is killed or brought home. I don’t suppose any of them have seen a trader for months. After the recall order becomes definite, of course, there won’t be any trade at all … Everything would depend on timing. A man could make big gains if he got there soon enough.” Delanex was continuing his cat and mouse game.
“Suppose I wanted to risk it?” persisted Krells stubbornly.
“For 5,000 I can get you a genuine clearance. I have men in the Trade Department.”
“Would you?” Krells sounded close to ecstasy.
“Cash in advance; have it on this table in one earth hour and you’ve got a deal.”
“I don’t know if I can …” Krells’ mind was full of doubts. Maybe I.C.B. wouldn’t extend his credit.
“You’ll make it.” The thin man was smiling coldly as Krells left the bar. “Strange how much a man will pay for the privilege of getting killed, isn’t it?” he mused to the barman.
“Yes, sir.” The old man trembled and tried to steady his hands on the pastel plastic. Delanex walked out slowly.
“The Department is pleased to be able to advise you that your application has been reviewed, and although details of the revision cannot be disclosed, it has been decided to rescind the former decision. In short, special permission has been granted.”
“Thank you,” said Krells dryly. His eyes glinted with thinly veiled cynicism. “Why wasn’t it possible to grant a permit in the normal way? What’s this ‘special permission’ angle?”
“I suppose you mean what are the specific terms of the document which is being prepared?”
“That’s about it.” Krells was biting back the sarcasm with an effort. This has cost me 5,000—I mustn’t spoil it for the sake of some cheap crack. I can’t afford that kind of humour. Think anything you like: convulse your brain at his expense, but say nothing.
“I can tell you that this is the first permission of any kind that has been granted for Ralcor 9 since the emergency began last year.”
“So … I’m honoured!” Krells was grinning uncontrollably now and trying unsuccessfully to suppress it.
The Comptroller ignored it.
“In the event of full military law being declared, you would be under the jurisdict. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
