Trader's World (32 page)

The fat youth had stopped playing with the plastic balls and was staring around him. The face was dull and doughy, with deep-set eyes under a beetling brow. After a few more seconds he reached out his left hand and took one of the big cardboard sheets off the pile. He peered at it for a long time, rubbing the side of his nose with his fingers.

"Patience," Max Dalzell said softly. "We're nearly there now."

The youth bent his head down to an inch or two from the sheet. Then he grunted and took a fat pencil from the pocket of his white smock. He began to mark the surface of the cardboard. The field of view zoomed in to show that the original white board was covered with a complicated network of crossing and intersecting lines. The pencil was being used to mark in changes to the pattern. Mike could hear the grunts and mutters of satisfaction as the work went on. Finally, the field of view moved back, and after another few seconds the image blinked out of existence.

"Mysterious enough, I imagine," Dalzell said as the lights of the room came back to full strength. "It was to me, until I was given the explanation. Seth Paramine is one of that rare group of people, the idiot savants. And he is a
spectacular
example. Those cardboard sheets are electronic schematics—circuit diagrams, blown up thousands of times over their original dimensions. They came from Chill microcircuits, and they're the most advanced gadgets on the market. What you saw there was Seth Paramine studying the designs—and
improving
them. He can't write his name. He wears diapers. In every area of the world except one, he's a complete idiot. But he has an intuitive grasp of microcircuit functional design that no one else can understand or equal. In the area of electronic analysis, he's a genius."

Mike remembered the squat figure and the inert, lifeless face. "That's ridiculous!"

"It is—but it's true." Max Dalzell slid a thin wafer across the top of the desk. "Take a look at some of the data on that. People like Paramine are rare, but they crop up now and again in a lot of different fields. Daddy-O pulled together a whole batch of information about other cases scattered over the past few centuries, just to give us background. Some of them are damned near unbelievable, but they're all authentic. The most common cases seem to be in mathematics and music. Play through the data and I guarantee you'll be surprised. So far as Daddy-O knows, Paramine is the first in his particular field. But the field didn't
exist
a century ago, so that's not too surprising."

Mike picked up the wafer and slipped it into his pocket. "I'll listen to it. But I'm confused. Paramine lives up in the northern part of the Great Republic, and I'm going to the South Pole. What's it have to do with my mission? What's the connection?"

"A strong one." Dalzell was enjoying himself. "You see, Mike, Seth Paramine isn't up in Yankeeland any more. He's down on the ice cap. The Chills are the world experts on microcircuit design, and so when they somehow heard about him, they wanted him. They took him. Four days ago, Seth Paramine disappeared from the institution in the Great Republic. He hasn't been heard from since—but all the evidence suggests a Chill smash operation. They're damn near as good at a rapid, quiet pickup as we are."

"What do they want him for? They have genius designers of their own."

"But none with such strange design logic. According to the Yankees, the Chills don't want Paramine to
design
for them—they just want to poke around inside his head, to know
how he does it
."

"Do we have proof that the Chills are holding Paramine?"

"Not
proof
—and the Chills aren't going to admit a thing—but there's some pretty good indirect evidence. The Yankees suspected the Chills as soon as Paramine was kidnapped and disappeared. Old-Billy Waters acted fast, and signed with the Chipponese to buy high-resolution surveillance from polar orbit. A couple of the frames that came back showed somebody a lot like Paramine in transit from Cap City to an isolated station. He's seen climbing into an aircar, and then getting out at Mundsen Labs. That would be the logical place for him, along with the rest of their hotshot hardware architects."

"Is Old-Billy likely to try a rescue?"

"No way. He knows he'd fail for sure. You know the Chill defense system. So Old-Billy is angry as hell, but he's not ready to break off dealing with the Chills. He needs 'em too much. And Paramine really isn't much use to the Republic—they don't have the right technology base. I think they'd have sold him to the Chills for any decent offer. But Old-Billy would like to have absolute proof that Paramine was kidnapped, then he'll really stick that in the Chills' ear on the next big negotiation. Which is where we—or rather you—come in. Still interested in the assignment?"

Mike started to give an upward wriggling shrug of his shoulders. He stopped when he realized that it was a gesture he had picked up as a trainee, from pictures of Maxwell Dalzell. "It means I have to find a way to get myself inside Mundsen Labs and make recordings of Paramine."

"That's the bottom line. We'll help. But there are lots of details to worry about. I'm going to bring Daddy-O into the loop—that's the sort of thing a computer does better than we'd ever do it. But let me mention one other thing before we open the circuit. You'll be absolutely on your own once you reach the ice cap. No Mentor, no partner."

"Good." Mike spoke almost under his breath. "I've had all I can take with team missions."

"I understand. We'll put in the new fingertip recorder. It's a mile ahead of the old recording disk, but it won't help anyone unless you get back here. When we throw in those factors, Daddy-O doesn't put your chances very high—in fact, all the outputs set the probability level of your success between one and two percent. I'm willing to back you, even with those odds—if you are game."

Mike took a deep breath. Now or never. I have to prove to myself that I'm out of the slump, even if it kills me. "I want it. I want the job."

"Great." Dalzell leaned forward to grasp Mike's hand in his. Mike felt as though an electric discharge had crackled across between them. "I was sure you would. It's going to be a mission in a million. Damn it, I just wish I could go with you."

"So do I." There was real feeling in Mike's voice.

"But it's impossible. They tell me I've got too many Trader secrets inside my head."

Mike nodded. He would have given a lot to have Big Max there to prompt him. He licked his lips nervously, something he could not imagine Max Dalzell doing, ever, and felt a first tremble of nervous anticipation.

"I'm ready." He stood up. "And thanks for the chance. When do I leave?"

CHAPTER 15

Idiot savant.
Daddy-O had given Mike all he could handle about that subject on the Trader flight down to F'waygo. Waiting for the Chill connection that would take him to Cap City, Mike thought again about Seth Paramine. The Yankee youth was merely the most recent in a long and curious line.

Two hundred years before, there had been Blind Tom Bethune, a sightless, half-witted Negro slave. Born in 1849, he was scarcely able to speak, and he had to be coaxed into playing the piano by gifts of cakes and candy from his owner. But he had absolute pitch and a phenomenal memory. He could imitate any sound he heard, and he rattled off any piece of piano music, no matter how complicated, after one hearing.

Tom Fuller was another Negro slave, from a century earlier. He was illiterate, but he had tremendous calculating powers. He shared those characteristics with Jed Buxton, an Englishman. They could multiply ten digit numbers, extract square and cube roots, and factorize large numbers in their heads, rapidly, without error—and without being able to tell in any way how they did it.

The twentieth-century mathematician Srinivasa Ramanujan was in some ways the most remarkable of all. He was a quiet, superstitious, Indian clerk, with no obvious abilities—until an uninvited letter to Hardy at Cambridge University revealed that Ramanujan had made important mathematical discoveries without help from colleagues, training, or books. He had an amazing memory and an uncanny familiarity with the properties of numbers, but he was unable to explain the mental processes that led to his results.

And now there was Seth Paramine. The films made at the Yankee institution showed his physical appearance and actions, but they gave no clue as to the mental processes inside that deformed skull. Paramine spent most of his days sitting on the floor, playing with children's toys. But now and again, according to a schedule that no one had been able to fathom, there was a burst of activity. He would feverishly work on circuit analysis and design, rearranging whole blocks of elements. The Yankee tests suggested that his approach was not analytical. He seemed to grasp the whole circuit at once, in one swoop, and sometimes he would begin to make his changes only a few seconds after the enlarged board diagram was given to him.

Only two other things aroused any animation in him at all. He dreaded pins, needles, and scissors, and he had an absolute terror of fire and flames. Attempts to track down a cause for his phobias had all failed.

And what are my own phobias? Mike wondered. Are they any less than his?

As he watched the Chill transfer craft feather to a landing on the F'waygo field, he worried again about the mission. Had he been thinking too much about Paramine, and not enough about the primary negotiation for gaming-table robots? Could he handle
that
, even without the other agenda?

Negotiation with the Chills was supposed to be particularly hard. Mike recalled Max Dalzell's final warning:

"Most Trainees believe the Chipponese are the most alien of the groups, simply because they live off-Earth. But for my money the Chills make 'em look like our brothers and sisters. Don't forget how the Chills got their start. Talk about evolution the hard way! Four thousand scientists in a research facility, invaded by a million refugees. No food supplies and no energy—in a place where plants don't grow and solar power is useless. That's something to remember in your discussions with them. When the people you'll be negotiating with were children they were half-starved, every one of 'em. They had vitamin deficiencies, and they were dirty—no spare energy for luxuries like hot water. The Chills are
different
." He had rolled one of his sleeves all the way up the shoulder to reveal a long, deep scar. "Here's an example of what can happen when a Chill negotiation goes wrong. It took me totally by surprise. Until one of the Chills put a dart through my arm, I thought I had everything under perfect control. But I made a joke about a penguin not being sure if it was a bird or a fish. And I got this. The others took her away after she did it, and I never saw her again. I'll give you a Trader's Rule that you'll not see in the formal or the informal rule books: Never try to joke with a Chill." He had laughed and squeezed Mike's shoulder. "Well, now I've got you nice and relaxed, I'll say so long—and good luck."

And I'm going to need it, Mike thought, watching the Chill flight crew file into the transfer lobby. There were two men and four women, all deeply suntanned and dressed in skintight light garments that left their arms and legs bare. Their style of dress confirmed the skimpy outfit that Daddy-O had provided. As a fledging trainee, Mike had been ready for warm swaddling clothes, all the way up to his eyes. Instead he had learned that the Chills preferred sunsuits that looked just right for a vacation in Ree-o-dee.

Most of the Chill crew continued through to the port clearance area, but one of the women peeled off from the others and walked directly across to where Mike was sitting. She came to stand in front of him and stared for a few seconds without speaking. Then she shook her head and looked totally disgusted.

"I'm Mikal Asparian." Mike did not stand, or reach out a hand, but he made his expression friendly.

She was a tall brunette, with a spare, angular figure and a thin-nosed, handsome face. She nodded, unsmiling. "I am Kristen Waldemar, assigned to this negotiation. We wondered about your name." Her voice was soft and puzzled. "Sweet Scott. It is true, then—you are a man."

What did you expect—a kangaroo? Mike nodded and tucked her name away into his memory.
Get everything else wrong if you have to, but get their names right.
"I look forward to working with you."

She averted her eyes as he stood up to look at her. "Follow me. We will be on our way in a few minutes."

She turned and walked off toward port clearance, not looking back to see if he was following. Mike trailed along five paces behind. He felt very much alone. Kristen Waldemar had looked annoyed and said just enough to make him feel unwelcome. Chill negotiation technique? Too soon to tell.

The whole Chill group was standing, ready to leave. Whether or not Mike was welcome, there was one formality of greeting that would not be neglected. He was prepared for it.

"To fruitful discussions!" Kristen Waldemar said curtly. She handed everyone a small metal cup and lifted her own in salutation. Mike drained his along with the rest of them and managed to smack his lips in the required gesture of appreciation. It was liquid seal fat, warmed to a few degrees short of blood heat. That would give his gall bladder a workout. He handed back the cup and prayed there would be no more toasts.

Three minutes later they were airborne. The Chill aircraft never rose above three thousand feet in its slow flight from F'waygo to Cap City. The southern continent ahead of them was a long time appearing. The first signs came far out to sea, when Mike saw beneath him the wandering icebergs, like glittering castles in the pale afternoon light of an Antarctic April. Soon after that they reached the island chain and finally began to cruise south along the curving spine of the long Antarctic Peninsula. The gigantic krill farms were offshore to the left in the Weddell Sea. Their retaining barriers lay like patterns of golden lacework on the black surface of the water.

The plane flew steadily on, overland into cold and darkness, threading its way between tall mountain peaks in its progress to the deep southern spur of the Ross ice shelf.