"Them things are a dime a dozen on Taratwo,"Murphy said, as if reading his mind. "It's the diamond, man. The diamond. It's enough for both ofus."
"What would the local law have to say aboutyou visiting me onboard ship?" Pat asked.
"It's legal," Murphy said. "They won't care about me leaving, either. Come and go as you please, butthe trouble is there might not be another ship forfive years."
"Mr. Murphy, I'll keep an open mind," Pat said,thinking of a huge diamond. He didn't know justhow big the Capella Glory had been, but he remembered reading about it, and it was bigger thanany other quality diamond found to date on any planet.
Pat wrote down Murphy's offer. The old mangathered his stones and shuffled away. The othertraders
filed past one by one, displaying their gems,not many of them as fine as Murphy's had been.The traders bartered without hope, fully expectinghim to hand over all his cargo to the smirking O'Shields.
He was tempted to take O'Shields's offer. TheCapcor man opened a fancy velvet-lined case builtto carry uncut gems, displaying them to their bestadvantage. He did, indeed, have some beauties.Pat looked at tray after tray of uncut emeralds andrubies, and there were four small diamonds, allunder one carat.
"Not too many diamonds on Tara?" he asked.Murphy's words were haunting him. Bigger thanthe Capella Glory? Pat's brain dredged back intomemory. The Capella Glory was still uncut. It was on display at the Museum of Galactic Natural History on Old Earth, which was a museum planet initself, what with all the archaeological digs andunderwater searches which went on year after year,century after century, as man tried, mostly in vain,to search for his roots.
"The problem is that this is a very young planet,and still in upheaval," O'Shields said. "You locate a likely diamond pipe, start digging, and there's aquake and you lose all the work you've done. A fewdiamonds have been found near the surface, likethe other stones. If there are any big ones, we'llhave to find a way to dig through earthquakes toget to them."
"Still, you have a few here," Pat said.
"Capcor is the government monopoly," O'Shieldssaid. "We own all the diamondiferous areas onthis planet."
Curious, Pat thought, as he tallied up all theoffers. Either the old man was lying or there was adiamond producing pipe somewhere unknown toCapcor.
Capcor's bid, written in the neat, precise hand ofT. O'Shields, listed sizes and weights, so that itwasn't necessary for Pat to tabulate. He worked onall the other offers and grinned when he saw thatby splitting the cargo into small lots, giving someof the independent traders a share, he'd bestO'Shields offer by a few carats, even if some of thestones were of lesser quality. He wasn't greedy.For some reason emeralds and rubies were common on most UP planets. He wasn't going to be come independently wealthy on this deal. It wouldbe a nice bonus, as he'd hoped, but that was all.Too many rubies and emeralds, beautiful as theywere.
But diamonds. The rarest. The king of stones.
Pat had a sudden flash of insight. T. O'Shieldsreminded him of his department head back atXanthos U. That clinched it for him.
"All right, gentlemen," he called out. "I've accepted the following offers. By lot number here weare. . . ."
Before Pat could finish reading off the names,O'Shields pushed his way through the grinning, back-slapping independents. "Dammit," O'Shieldssputtered. "You can call for a second round ofbidding and I'll top these boonie rats."
"Where I come from," Pat said, meeting O'Shield'sgaze with a smile, "an honest trader makes his top offer first time around." That was an outright lie, for all traders lived to haggle, but he didn't care if O'Shields knew it was a lie.
The knight in shining armor, soaring around the galaxy rooting for the underdog.
Pat accepted John Hook's official-sounding invitation to have lunch. The restaurant windows overlooked the not very scenic space port. The restaurantwas a popular place, crowded with executive types in business dress, a few of the independent traders in their worn outdoor clothing, working-class people in neat blue uniforms.
Taratwo's women seemed to average on theskinny side, with the predominant hair coloringsbeing shades of red and black. The men were alsouniformly spare, solemn, mostly unsmiling, butthen there didn't seem to be much to smile abouton Tara, planet of ashes, smoke, half-light. But thegreen salad was tangy. the dressing good sourcream, the meat slightly tough but well flavored.
Hook's conversation between bites was banal.He hoped that the morning's trading had beenprofitable. Pat assured him that it had been. Hookmentioned that there was no export tax on gem-stones. Pat said that was good news indeed. Without a government bite into his profits he just mightbe able to pay for a complete refitting of theSkimmer,make her more comfortable, put in a new storage capsule in the library, decontaminate thecloud chambers in the cranky computer.
Pat thought only once that afternoon of the oldman. He tended to believe T. O'Shields, especially when he asked Hook about diamonds and was toldthat Taratwo wasn't a good diamond planet. The chances of Murphy's having a king-size diamondseemed slim. Maybe the old man was a victim oftoo many nights alone in Taratwo's dismal outback,a little mixed up in the head.
Pat asked Hook a few questions about local conditions, and as long as his curiosity did not touchon politics, personal freedom, or the quality oflife-style he was answered. Hook's response to asensitive question was to cough, look away, andchange the subject immediately.
Pat had finished his meal and was having a taste of a very good local brandy. "Excellent," he said."Very good."
"Grapes like a volcanic soil," Hook said.
"Make a good export, this."
Hook laughed. "First we have to make enoughfor local consumption."
The buzz of conversation died around them. Thesudden silence was a silence of attention. Pat lookedup, saw that all eyes were directed to the windows. A sleek, modern atmospace yacht was waftingdown onto the largest space-port pad.
"The Man," someone at a nearby table said.
"Not likely," someone else said.
"We'll know soon enough."
"More likely the Man's redheaded friend."
"The Man's whore, you mean."
John Hook shifted nervously. He cast a glaretoward the voice, then looked quickly away. Thevoices died into whispers. Then there was silencethroughout the dining room as the port of thesleek yacht hissed open and a female figure dressedin purple skirts emerged and walked gracefully to a luxurious ground
car. "Definitely not the Man," someone said, andthere was a burst of relieved, nervous laughter. "The Leader's yacht?" Pat asked Hook. "But not Himself. He values his privacy. He's seldom seen in public these days." He pushed himself
away from the table. "My duty calls. I hope that you enjoyed your lunch." "I did," Pat said. "Should you wish to visit our city I have leftword at the terminal to arrange transport for you,"Hook said. "Thanks, but I think I'll go back aboard. I haven'tyet adjusted to Taratwo time." The street outside the restaurant was cordonedoff by lines of neatly uniformed men, tall, strong-looking
men armed with the latest in sidearms. Acaravan of big ground cars came blasting suddenly around the corner of the building, the leadvehicle wailing a warning. A late-model Zede executive limousine was sandwiched in between twoarmored police cars. As it swept past, Pat got justa glimpse of a pale, feminine face framed by fieryred hair. The Man's redheaded friend? The Man'swhore?
It was none of his affair. All he wanted fromTaratwo now was a passenger and a clear blinkroute for
space. Pat wasn't really sleepy, but he had no desire to go into the city. He stretched his legs by walkingtoward the passenger terminal. Inside there was dusty luxury in leather seats and wide spaces, allempty. Only one counter was manned. Pat caughtthe eye of the stiff-faced young man there andnodded.
"May I help you, sir?" the young man asked. "No, no.I'mjust having a bit of a walk." "Not much to see around here, sir. If you'd liketo go into the city, Captain Hook has arranged avehicle
for you."
"Very kind of him," Pat said. "But I think I'lljust have a walk and go back aboard." He turnedaway and started out of the terminal area. "Sir," the man behind the counter said, "it looksas if we're in for an ashfall this afternoon. I seethat you
don't have a breather. If you'll permit me. . ." He came out from behind the counter with alightweight
respirator unit in his hands. "I think I can make it to the ship without that,"Pat said, although the sky had darkened considerably in the short time since he'd left the restaurant.
"If you're not familiar with the effects of anashfall you've got an unpleasant surprise coming." Pat decided to humor the man, stood still whilethe mask was fitted to his face with adjustablestraps. He reached for his pocket. "Oh, no, sir," the young man said. "No charge.All visitors are furnished with breathers throughthe
generosity of Brenden."
Brenden was the Man, the ruler.
"Tell Brenden when you see him that I thank him," Pat said.