Closed System

earthquakes. Population was under half a billion. Chief exportswere heavy metals and gemstones.

'Well, Audrey,' Jeanny had said, 'you havepicked an odd profession. You can expect odd placesand odd people.'

'Don't call me Audrey,' Pat had said.

'You're a mercenary, a gun for hire,' Jeannyhad said. 'Nice citizens and nice planets don'toften need a man with a gun.'

'I think of myself as a knight in shining armor.'he'd said, 'soaring into the nebulous distances of the universe on missions of true and pure good.'

'Batshit,' Jeanny had said. 'It's just a way ofrunning from responsibility.'

He had made the statement with a mock look ofarrogance on his face, eyes idealistically wide, eye­brows raised, for he would never admit to anyonethat he'd been naive enough, in the beginning, tosee it just that way when lucky coincidence ofbirth had made it possible for him to purchase hisfreedom from the halls of learning and from eagerfreshmen with an unexpected legacy from an un­cle who had been forgotten since he boarded acolony ship aimed for a star near the Coal Sack.

'Knight, hell,' Jeanny had said. 'You're a bum in an antique space tug which carries enough ar­mament to take on a destroyer.'

'For defense against pirates,' he'd said, remem­bering as he said it that the Zede 'businessmen' had said much the same thing.

'We blasted the last pirates off the Hogg Moons,'Jeanny had said. 'Why don't you grow up, Audrey Patricia?'

'Don't call me Audrey Patricia,' he'd said, be­fore thanking her for her help.

From Jeanny's office he'd gone directly to UPCentral Control. Although space travel was safe,and ships dependable, anything mechanical or electronic or subatomic would break down sooner or later, usually at the most inopportune time. UPCentral Control's vast array of computers kept trackof every registered ship in UP space, and everyregistered shipalways left a flight plan on file withControl, or one of its many outposts scatteredthroughout populated space. It took two days toget a list of twenty-two ships which had filed flightplans including a stop at Taratwo in the past fiveyears. That was not a lot of traffic, but all theships had returned safely to home ports.

So, he'd gone over all of it in his mind. He'dreread the file on Taratwo. It was time to do some­thing. He punched orders into the computer.

'OK, old man, let's put it in B for boogie,' hesaid, pushing a button. He felt that eerie momentof disorientation which goes with the territory whenpower is discharged in the core of a blink genera­tor and a ship ceases to exist at one point in spaceto exist with an almost immeasurable time lapse at another point.

Upsilon Ophiuchus was a small, yellowish sun glowing weakly at less than one old astronomical unit away from a small, almost barren ball shroud­ed in volcanic smoke and ash. The sun was toosmall, too weak, to ever make that sad, barrenplanet rich and pleasant like the more desirableUP worlds. In fact, when the planet's inner firescooled a bit over the millennia she'd go cold. Mostof her atmosphere would have been bled off intospace by that time, and what remained would be frozen in small caps of polar ice. He, of course, would not be around to see that happen, nor wouldany of the people alive on Taratwo.

He checked the approach instructions for Taratwoand activated the voice communicator. This was a measure of the backwardness of the planet, to have to use audio. At up-to-date facilities, approach was handled efficiently and silently by intercomputer communication.

'Taratwo Space Control, Taratwo Space Con­trol,' he sang out, feeling good to be needed, 'thisis the free traderSkimmer. Come in.'

'Signal Two,Skimmer,' said a voice with anodd and rather interesting accent. For a momenthis old interest in words and their developmentand usage was back with him, but he could notidentify the accent. He gave the computer instruc­tions to send on the proper wavelength and punchedup a cup of coffee with cream and sugar as heheard the only slightly mechanical-sounding voiceof the computer send the ship's ID, hull number,registration, licenses, all the numbers and lettersassigned by a host of red-tape artists on a thou­sand planets.

'Signal Two received,' said Taratwo Space Con­trol. 'Hold one.'

Pat waited. He had the coffee cooled just rightwhen the accented voice came again.'Skimmer,you are number one for Space Port Old Dublin.Landing instructions follow on channel eleven.'

He switched channels, grinning. He was not sur­prised to be number one for the pad.Skimmer'ssensors showed nothing else in near space other than Taratwo's sad excuse for a moon.

Flux thrusters grumbled to breakSkimmer's fallinto atmosphere. There was a high layer of ash,then a band of relatively clear air, high, before theship plunged into the lower smoke and ash. Below,the lights of Old Dublin, Taratwo's principal city,were lit, but they could not dispel the appearanceof gloom over the planet, the result of the sun'sfiltered half-light.

'You see, old man, you're in better conditionthan you thought,' Pat said, asSkimmer settledonto her assigned pad without so much as a clank.

The ship was alone, squarely squat, sturdy. Thepad was at the northern end of the Old DublinSpace Port. Pat had activated the armaments con­sole, sat with the fire director's helmet pushedback loosely on his head. All he had to do was jamthe helmet in place and think and the ports wouldfly open to reveal Skimmer's teeth, instantly readyto defend the ship against unpleasant surprises.

A vehicle separated from a line of one-story build­ings at a distance of approximately a mile andcame toward the ship. Pat kept power in the gen­erator and in the flux drive, for he was, by nature,a cautious man. The oncoming vehicle did notseem to be armed. There was only one occupant,male, in uniform. Pat activated the sound pickupson the hull as the vehicle drew near and stoppedat a respectful distance.

'Captain Audrey Patricia Howe?' The voice wasaccented like the voice of the Taratwo controller.

'Don't call me—' Pat began automatically, thensighed. 'Yes,' he said.

'I am Captain John Hook, of Taratwo Customs,at your service, sir. Will you please open your hatches for inspection.'

Pat kept the ship on alert as he flipped switches.The main entry hatch hissed open, began to ex­change clean ship's air for the murky air of theplanet. He met the customs official in the lock,handed over the ship's papers.

'I think we need not stand too much on theformalities, Captain Howe,' the white-haired, distinguished-looking man said with a smile. 'Isee you carry Class AAA drugs. That's good. There's always a ready market for such cargo. If I may presume, I would suggest that you trade for emer­alds. There's been a new strike, and the price is down, the gems of first quality.'

It was quite unlike a local customs official togive a clue to a favorable trade. 'Thank you,' Patsaid. 'I have the cargo manifest on the bridge. Ican offer you a cup of coffee while you're looking itover.'

'Good, if it's a UP brand,' Hook said. 'I am especially fond of a certain brand from the planetZede II. It is called Zede's Pride.'

Pat took a quick, closer look at the customsman. He had not expected contact so quickly, anddefinitely not with a Taratwo official.

'Yes,' he said. 'I have that brand. It's said thatthe flavor comes from the peculiar quality of thelight of a Zede II sunset, which glows like moltencopper.'

Hook completed the preset identification for­mula. 'Especially at the winter solstice,' he said. 'Welcome to Taratwo, Captain Howe.'

'Are you the passenger?' Pat asked, thinkingthat if he was, he might lift off immediately. He could, after all, trade the drugs, if not as favorablyas on an out-planet, on the way home. There wassomething about the aura of semigloom, whichdeepened as the day died, that made him uneasy.

'No, I am not,' Hook said. 'Control has sent outword that a free trader has arrived. You can com­plete your business tomorrow. The passenger willboard sometime before sunrise on the day after tomorrow.'

Pat felt a little shiver of doubt. If the passengerwas legal, why would he board in the dead ofnight?

'I'd like the passenger to be aboard tomorrowmorning, just in case I finish my trading early.'

'Your passenger will board no later than onehour before sunrise on the day after tomorrow,'Hook said, and