Night Lamp (27 page)

Landing formalities were nominal, after which Maihac and Gaing were at liberty to dispose of their cargo as best they could.

In response to Maihac’s question, the clerk in the terminal office informed them that two freight brokerage-houses were active in Loorie, the Lorquin Shipping agency and the Primrose consolidators, both with offices along the main street. The clerk was dubious about their prospects. “Lorquin and Primrose are both what I would call ‘special-purpose’ firms, each with its established clientele. Still—who knows? It does no harm to try. In fact, yonder stands Aubert Yamb, from Lorquin; he has come to check over the weekly manifests. Go speak to Yamb; he can tell you more than I can.”

Maihac and Gaing, turning, observed a plump moon-faced man, somewhat past his first youth, with taffy-colored hair hanging down past his cheeks. He stood by a bulletin board, making notes from the documents on display.

The two approached and introduced themselves. “We understand that you are an official at Lorquin Shipping Agency?”

“That is true, to a limited extent,” said Yamb. “In actual fact, a single official rules the roost; the rest of us bow to her command.”

“Still, you may be able to advise us. Our ship is the
Distilcord
; we carry a cargo of valuable tools which we want to sell. Lorquin Agency can do very well for itself if it acts quickly and makes us a fair offer. We hope to avoid protracted negotiations.”

“Hmm.” Yamb pursed his pink lips. “I’m afraid that you do not understand the trade practices in vogue at Lorquin Shipping. Conceivably Dame Waldop might take your goods on consignment, if you paid storage charges and accepted the scope of her commission. She might even buy outright, if the price were right, and you might as well forget the word ‘fair.’ ”

“This is not encouraging,” said Maihac. “What of the Primrose Consolidators?”

“Again, they might take a few items on consignment. Primrose is essentially the hub of a cooperative, which consolidates, imports and exports for ranchers and small concerns. By some miracle it survives from year to year, and so must serve a need. The executive directors are my Aunt Estebel Pidy and my cousin Twillie. I know their business well and I can assure you that while from sheer foolishness they might buy your cargo, they are not so foolish as to pay for it.”

“And there are no other freight brokers in Loorie?”

“None. Lorquin at times will buy such stuff as this, then take it elsewhere for sale. But expect no gratifying price: Dame Waldop’s penury is notorious.”

“Where is ‘elsewhere’?”

Yamb made an ambiguous gesture. “Oh—here, there; parts more remote.”

“Where would that be? We are already at the end of nowhere.”

Yamb screwed up his face, torn between a desire to correct Maihac’s assertion and the restraints of proprietary discretion. He said at last, “I shall say no more at the moment, and I hope that you will not reveal that I have hinted of markets elsewhere; Dame Waldop is quick to curb loose tongues.”

“You need fear nothing; we are discreet.”

Yamb rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “In fact, do not even recognize me in public, since I must guard my bona fides. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed. Tell us more about Dame Waldop, so that we will know best how to deal with her.”

“She is a great wowser of a woman; her stature and sheer presence are both impressive; she beetles over everyone with an important bodice, while her buttocks are like steel pontoons. She is starkly austere, and—dare I say it!—a bit of a martinet. Do not quote me on any of this.”

“So then, it seems that we are forced to deal with this imposing woman?”

“You have no choice, unless the director himself is on hand. His name is Asrubal, and he is as inflexible as Dame Waldop, and even more sinister.”

“We can only do our best,” said Maihac. “Unless we deal with the Primrose Consolidators.”

“That would be pointless, since they are not allowed to transact business on Fader.” Yamb stopped short and glanced guiltily over his shoulder. “I am far too free with my tongue.”

“Forget all I have told you.”

“It is not even a memory.”

Yamb sighed. “I am relieved. Excuse me now; I must go.”

According to the authoritative
Handbook of the Planets
, Nilo-May had been located originally by the legendary Wilbur Wailey.
[12]

The star Yellow Rose, along with Nilo-May, wandered across an empty gulf near the edge of the galaxy, in a region almost forgotten by the rest of the Reach.

To the east of Loorie rose the Hoo-Woo Hills; to the west, across ten miles of morass, lay the Bay of Bismold; to south and north were farms and other agricultural enterprises. Except for the district surrounding Loorie and a few outback stations, the world was uninhabited by Gaeans, and in fact was a savage wilderness.

An equatorial desert girdled the planet, with channels connecting a pair of shallow oceans to north and south. Odd oily rivers originated in the desert uplands and flowed through forests of punkwood trees and gigantic sprawling dendrons of many colors. Beyond spread swamps punctuated by floats of cottonpuff and stalks of blackrod supporting persimmon-colored pads, where large lizard-like beings danced and gyrated, leaping from pad to pad. Often they built conical structures of fiber and mucilage thirty feet high. Through small round windows the lizards thrust their heads, looked to right and left, then jerked back into the darkness. Along the equator a curtain of perpetual rain hung from a high wall of black clouds, constantly fed by trade winds from south and north, sweeping together, colliding, rising high into the upper atmosphere, to curl over and flow back toward the poles. The Swamps along the fringes of the desert and beside the rivers seethed with life. Balls of tangled white worms, prancing web-footed andromorphs with green gills and eyes at the end of long jointed arms, starfish-like pentapods tiptoeing on limbs twenty feet long; creatures all maw and tail; wallowing hulks of cartilage with pink ribbed undersides.

At Loorie the population of seven thousand folk lived by a low-key philosophy, which renounced haste, tension, and strident ambition. Visitors often spoke enviously of the “unflappable sangfroid” which they had discovered at Loorie. Others, of a different temperament, used such terms as “apathetic” or “lazy,” to describe the same conduct.

The structures of Loorie, when viewed as a group, created an effect which was unique, even quaint, though no individual structure by itself seemed remarkable. The architecture was uniform: walls of punkwood planks slabbed from dendrons, cemented with their own sap, supported nine-sided roofs, which in turn were surmounted by a selection of ironmongery, to the owner’s taste: wind-vanes, ghostchasers, spin-wheels, fortune-fonts, and the like. Commercial enterprises lined the main street: the Natural Bank, the Fragrant Hotel, Cudder’s Market, Lorquin Shipping Agents, Tecmart, the Peurifoy Refreshment Parlor, Bon Ton Salon, an IPCC office of the Fifth Grade, staffed by a pair of local recruits, and further along the street, the Primrose Consolidators. Dendrons grew in the back-yards and open spaces, casting shade and exhaling a dry peppery odor.

Maihac and Gaing stopped by the Peurifoy Refreshment Parlor, seating themselves at the front, in the shade of black and green foliage. A small girl, wearing an ankle-length gown of brown muslin, looked from the dark interior, subjected the two to a slow inspection, then marched out to inquire their needs, and presently returned with pots of beer.

The local time was about noon, to judge by the altitude of Yellow Rose. It shone without dazzle, producing a serene light which played odd tricks with perspective. The streets were quiet. The townsfolk moved sedately about their affairs, slippers gliding silently across the pavement. Some walked with heads bent, arms clasped behind their backs, as if engrossed in abstract calculation; others paused to rest on benches where they contemplated their plans for the day. They showed themselves as neither gregarious nor voluble. Persons passing on the street gave each other suspicious side-glances under hooded eyelids. When friends or business associates met and communication was necessary, they first looked right and left over their shoulders, then spoke in guarded undertones, as if imparting matters of secret import. On this basis, Loorie seemed a veritable hive of intrigue. A flight of three long-billed birds, pink with black crests rising along their necks, glided overhead. Their wings, narrow and of remarkable span from tip to tip, flapped almost negligently. As they flew, they issued a succession of discordant calls—the loudest sounds to be heard across Loorie.

From the Peurifoy garden, Maihac and Gaing could look across the street and through a large window into the front office of the Lorquin Shipping Agency. In the shaded gloom of the interior a large woman with broad shoulders and an extraordinary bust marched back and forth, waving her arms as if addressing someone who could not be seen. “That must be Dame Waldop,” said Maihac.

“She is formidable, without a doubt!” said Gaing.

“She seems excited, or even in a state of outrage,” said Maihac. “Perhaps she has caught Aubert Yamb out in a breach of company protocol, and he is now learning of his mistake.” Maihac finished the beer. “Are you ready to make ourselves known?”

Gaing drained the heavy earthenware pot. “Now is as good a time as any.”

The two crossed the street and entered the premises of the Lorquin Shipping Agency. In the center of the room Dame Waldop halted in mid-stride, swung about to face her visitors, head thrown back, magnificent bust thrust forward. Aubert Yamb crouched over a desk at the back of the room, making notes in a ledger. He glanced furtively at the two spacemen, then returned to his work. Dame Waldop raked her visitors with glinting eyes set beside a long thin nose. She asked, “Well then, gentlemen? What do you wish?”

Maihac explained the business which had brought them to the Lorquin Agency. Dame Waldop listened a moment, then cut him off with a quick hacking gesture.

“We have no need for such gimcracks. We are not hucksters here at Lorquin; we are brokers and shippers of important merchandise only.”

From the shadows came Yamb’s voice. “Dame Waldop, recollect, if you please! The director has mentioned a need for outbound cargoes.”

“That is quite enough,” snapped Dame Waldop. “Your advice is not to the point.” She turned back to Maihac and Gaing. “Where are your samples?”

“We have brought only this.” Gaing displayed a small device. “It is a hole-driver. You touch this sleeve to a hard surface, stone, wood, metal or synthesite, press this button and a hole of exact dimension and depth is driven into the material. Next, if you choose, you dip a stud into adhesive, tap it into the hole, the stud is permanently bonded; or it might be an eye-bolt or hook. With a special kit you can affix half of a door hinge permanently to a wall. It is simple, foolproof and efficient.”

“What price do you expect for this shipment?”

“There are forty-five hundred items. They retail at about eight to ten sols apiece. Our price is fifteen thousand sols for the lot.”

“Ha hah! Absurd!” She beckoned to Yamb: “Go with these men to their vessel and make a careful invoice of what is being offered, with all pertinent information.”

“To prevent a waste of time,” said Maihac, “what is likely to be your offer, assuming all to be in order?”

Dame Waldop shrugged. “I might go as high as two or three thousand sols. Out here, at the end of everything, and no other market near, that is a fair price.”

“There is always Fader,” Maihac suggested.

Dame Waldop reared her head even farther back than before.

She rasped, “Who mentioned Fader to you?”

“There was talk at the spaceport.”

“Such talk is sheer bosh! They should know that the Lorquin Agency serves as the sole commercial conduit to any other transport or shipping service, and I suggest that you avoid intrusion into a settled line of business.”

“If three thousand sols is to be your top offer, we will waste no more of your time.”

Maihac and Gaing departed Lorquin Shipping, and continued along the street to Primrose Consolidators. Pushing open a punkwood door, they stepped into a long narrow room, dim and shadowy, smelling sour-sweet of unfamiliar spice, aromatic woods and leathers, and the moldering dust of ages. To the left, behind a counter, a plump young woman worked sorting dry beans into appropriate basins. Her blond hair was tied into a bun; her face was heavy, with a lumpy nose and a small pink mouth.

Nearby on the counter a placard read:

The young woman was out of sorts and ignored her visitors until Maihac asked, “Are you the manager?”

The woman looked up with a scowl and pointed to the placard. “Can’t you read? Ebbie is manager. I am Twee Pidy, Superintendent of Research and Off-world Operations.”

“Excuse me,” said Maihac. “Where is the manager?”

Across the room, half-concealed in the shadows, sat an older woman, with wide cheekbones and graying hair hanging to each side of her face, like that of Aubert Yamb. She rose to her feet and came forward. “I am Estebel Pidy; I manage what needs to be managed, which is little enough.”

Once again Maihac explained their business. As before, he evoked no positive reaction in his audience. Estebel Pidy lacked all interest in serious dealing. “We act for the local merchants, importing their needs and exporting whatever comes in from the back country. It is a small-scale business, barely enough to keep us afloat. We can’t compete with Lorquin; they work off-world altogether, where the wealth can be had for the asking.”

“Or taking,” sniffed Twee Pidy. “That is, if Aubert can be believed.”

“Then you should play the same game.”

“That is not so easy,” said Estebel Pidy. “The Lorquins own two ships, the
Liliom
and the
Audrey-Anthey
; they shuttle these ships back and forth to Fader, carrying cargo in both directions. We have not so much as a crank-leg flitter.”

“I told Dame Waldop that we would take our goods to Fader, and she became perturbed. Why is that?”