“That would be proper,” BasTorNok replied.
“My apologies, Trader,” CanVisTal said, “but we do not know of your star. Why is that?”
“Our star is Tanith and our planet, Troje. Our species identifies itself as Trojan. We are a small world in a system with but a single stargate. We do not get many visitors and thus, must seek our fortunes by visiting other systems where value may be found.”
“Where are you located?”
“On the other side of Civilization, obviously, or else we would know of one another. Our world is 1.2 x 12
1
jumps from your system.”
“That is very far. It must be difficult to earn value at such a range.” CanVisTal replied.
“It is very difficult. Which is why we came here looking for delicacies that we might sell at home as a luxury item, perhaps a food product that can be concentrated prior to shipment to keep the bulk down.”
“We will show you all of our flora. Perhaps there is something you will find both tasty and suitable.”
“Perhaps,” Mark agreed.
“It is uncommon for a species not to be in our planetary database. It makes it much easier to accommodate visitors,” BasTorNok said, refusing to be diverted by talk of lucrative trade deals.
“Yes, someone has been lax in their duties,” Mark responded, then quickly added, “Not the Masters, of course. Their servants.”
“Yes, of course,” BasTorNok replied. It is impossible to read the emotions of aliens, Mark knew, but he suspected that the response was more a formality than a heartfelt defense of the Broa.
Mark made the Broan gesture that translates into a shrug and continued. “Civilization is large. Frankly, we have found much about our own database which needs correction. We have brought a scholar along for just that task.”
“What have you discovered?”
“For example, we did not know of your beautiful world until we reached Gasak, save for a symbol in our chart of the stargate network. It was there that we heard of your agricultural products, and so we came here to see for ourselves.
“Your vessel in orbit is not very large. Not only do you have a long journey ahead of you, the quantity of cargo you carry is limited. How do you expect to make a profit?”
“We do not, at least, not on this trip. We are exploring.
New Hope
is my personal vessel. As you note, we can only transport samples of what we find in our travels. If we come to an agreement on an exchange of value, we will send a bulk transport such as the one that exited the Gasak gate as we were preparing to jump here. My world has three such vessels it can devote to the long voyage, and we can arrange for more if your products prove the delicacies we have been told.”
“Do you expect there to be much demand for our foods?” CanVisTal asked.
Mark ‘shrugged’ again. “Who can say until we have seen what you have? I can tell you that my people will pay well for a new delicacy. We have specialists called
cordon’ bleus
who are experts in preparing sustenance from many worlds. Indeed, in our history, before the coming of the Masters, there were ships that sailed around our world for spices and rare delicacies. Many such ships were lost on the voyage, but those that made it back earned their owners large stocks of value.”
“Yes, it was the same with us,” CanVisTal replied. “As you can imagine, a world such as ours does relatively little manufacturing. The Masters have assigned us a different role. Therefore, those are the goods that we value. What do you have to offer?”
“Much. We have Vithian power supplies, Gorthan verifiers, even a few Laca reformers. We also have specialty merchandise from Troje that may interest you.”
“Vith is very far from your home,” BasTorNok responded. “I am surprised that you trade with them.”
“Our master has a relationship with their master. We do not question his reasons for sending us there. We but go at his behest.”
“Of course. Masters have their own reasons for doing the things they do. Welcome, Trader Markel Sinth. We are pleased that you have come. The rest of your crew may debark now.”
“Excellent,” Mark replied. It would be good to get the introductions over with and get in out of the cold. Despite his electric heating, he could still feel the chill wind tugging at him through the fabric of his suit.
#
Two weeks later, Lisa Rykand was royally sick of touring farms and tasting alien foods. So far, she hadn’t poisoned herself, but the tastes had not been to her liking. She was also tired of being perpetually cold, despite the parka she wore over her yellow jumpsuit. Even though Pastol’s gravity was lower than Earth’s, the atmospheric pressure was actually higher than standard by seventeen percent, the result of less planetary boil-off during Pastol’s formative period. This gave the wind a force and a bite that was beyond her experience. It also sucked the heat out of a person.
The purpose of the Ranta’s covering of feathers became immediately obvious the first time they took her on a tour of one of their farms. The wind that day would have put Chicago to shame, although the locals assured her that the velocity was nothing unusual. As she bundled in her cold weather gear, her guides wore little more than the garments she had come to think of as “Greek tunics,” yet they seemed perfectly comfortable. That was when she noticed that their feathers were fluffed up, and not only from the wind. Like the birds at home, the Ranta were able to vary their insulation by ruffling their feathers.
The Ranta farms they visited were all models of agricultural efficiency. Automated machinery tilled the rows and harvested the various species of plants. Harvested foodstuffs were stored in giant silos that were veritable skyscrapers.
Rather than merely bringing them the various products and letting them sample them, the Ranta insisted that they see the source of the products for themselves, which meant touring numerous working farms, each replete with some sort of museum for visitors. Lisa doubted that every farm on Pastol was so equipped, and so recognized a formal sales campaign when she saw one. Her linguistic skills were reduced to praising the farmers’ products, even when she didn’t particularly like what she tasted or smelled.
There was one plant that looked like hay, but smelled like cinnamon, which the Ranta used to feed a domesticated animal that looked like a cow with six legs. Lisa sampled the hay and explained that her species did not possess the proper micro-organisms in their intestines to assimilate the cellulose content. Her particular guide that day had expressed his disappointment, but signaled his understanding. Like his six-legged cow, the farmer was a vegetarian.
She asked him why he was raising the animal if he did not intend to eat it. His explanation made little sense to her. Unfortunately, that was true of a great deal of the explanations the Ranta gave her. It had quickly become obvious that the two species lacked common referents for many of the things they tried to discuss.
One thing that was very clear, however, was that the Ranta seemed squeamish at the thought of eating an animal’s flesh. Their reaction was similar to a human being who has encountered cannibals. The ground party discovered that on their first day when mealtime came around, and they had opened an array of self-heating ration packs for dinner. Three of these contained meat. As cooking aromas filled their assigned quarters, their guides promptly abandoned them, explaining that the smell was making them ill. Since then, they had subsisted on cold rations heavy in fruits and vegetables.
As their tours of the hinterlands continued, Lisa became worried about their mission. They needed to find at least one foodstuff on this world that they could plausibly claim would be a sensation on the fictional Troje. Unfortunately, the Ranta knew enough about their biochemistry that they couldn’t just stuff their mouth full of the local cinnamon hay and pronounce it good.
Finally, when touring a farm that was devoted to the raising of purple cabbage-like growths studded with red berries, she found something that was not only palatable, but which might actually sell in the better restaurants on Earth if they had truly been interested in the interstellar import business.
“What is this?” she asked, holding up the red berry that she had just bitten into. She was surprised to discover that the berry had an intriguing sweet-sour taste.
The farmer who was her guide for the day responded, “We call it
vasa.
It is the reproductive structure of this
setei
plant.”
“We call this sort of thing a fruit. I don’t see any seeds.”
“What are seeds?” the farmer asked.
“The parts of the fruit that bear the plant’s genetic code. The outer part is just to attract animals, who then eat the fruit, and spread the seeds far and wide in their excrement.”
The farmer seemed puzzled by the explanation. “The plants on your world actually attract animals to eat them?”
“Certainly. Is it not the same on your world?”
“No. In time, the
vasa
dries out and spreads its spores to the winds.”
“If you squeeze
vasa
, does it produce a red liquid with the same taste?”
“Yes, although I fail to see why you would do this.”
“We have a process which we call
winemaking
,” she said, using the Standard word, of necessity. “If you squeezed these
vasa
berries into a pulp and drew off the liquid, placing it in containers, I believe that it would be worthwhile to transport it to our home world, where we could sell it for excess value.”
“It seems a great deal of trouble,” the farmer answered.
“Perhaps, but it concentrates the essence which my species finds palatable. I must speak to the Master trader of this.”
It was thus that the ground party decided that they would go into the
vasa
wine business, especially after the puzzled Ranta squeezed out a bottle of juice as a sample of the concentrated product.
#
“It will be expensive to build the necessary machinery to squeeze the quantities of
vasa
you request into this juice you prize,” CanVisTal protested.
Mark Rykand smiled inwardly. If there was one universal constant, it was the art of the deal. Serious negotiations had begun two days previous and they had been at it from Etnarii-rise to Etnarii-set.
To his surprise, Mark found the negotiating exciting. It was the thrill of the hunt, the chase after the elusive animal that would put food on the family table. Even the fact that the whole negotiation was a sham did little to dampen his enthusiasm. To disguise his true interests, Mark had spent as much time plugging his ersatz alien merchandise as in negotiating for the fruit juice. In exchange for lodging and technical assistance, he had already presented CanVisTal with a Vithian power unit. Like the Voldar’ik of Klys’kra’t, that particular device seemed the most attractive. It was a shame Sar-Say’s ship hadn’t carried more of them.
“I am sure that you will build the price of the machinery into the cost of the wine,” he responded to CanVisTal’s objection. “Also, strictly speaking, what we have in these containers is merely the juice of the
vasa
berry. We will have to try fermenting it into true wine. We will also do distillation experiments on the journey home, to see if we can make a more concentrated liquor from it.”
“Distillation? I know the word, but I do not understand the context with respect to
vasa
.”
“It is a way to concentrate the juice and to give it a stimulative effect on my species. While the juice will sell well on Troje, if the concentrated form is the same as our other wines, my people will pay a great deal more for it. You will also earn more value. It makes more sense to distill the
vasa
juice here than to ship it to Troje to concentrate it.”
“Anything that adds value is to be pursued,” CanVisTal replied.
“Yes, our masters will be pleased,” Mark agreed.
All of this talk of processing, pressing, encapsulating, and distilling
vasa
juice was so much camouflage for the real task of the expedition, which was the acquisition of a planetary database and its maps of the stargate network. The penultimate act of that particular play was about to begin. Mark pretended surprise when Seiichi Takamatsu burst in and interrupted the negotiation.
“What may I do for you, Schlar?” he said in his most stern tone. The nuance was lost on the alien, but it was necessary that he stay in character.
“I need to speak to you, Trader,” Takamatsu said, also playing his part.
“Can’t you see that we are in the middle of negotiations here?”
“Sorry, but it can’t wait.”
“What can’t wait?”
“The task you have assigned me, Trader, is impossible. I need more access to the Pastol database if you expect me to bring our own data up to date.”
Mark shook his head vigorously. “The access we have bought you is already more expensive than we had budgeted. Perhaps you can wait until our next star system to complete your work.”
“It isn’t likely to be any less expensive on our next stop. Besides, I have finally learned to find information in the Pastol data. In another system, I would just have to start all over again.”
CanVisTal listened impassively to this byplay, which had taken place in Trade Talk for his benefit. When both Trojans seemed unwilling to carry on the conversation, he made the gesture of obeisance and asked, “What is the problem? May I help solve it?”
Mark turned to the Ranta with an exasperated look. “We are a trading planet and we have specialists in the ways of other species in order that we may better anticipate their needs.”
“That is wise,” CanVisTal replied.
“Scholar Tama here is learning the art,” he said. “That is the reason he is along on this voyage. When he returns home, he will be allowed to join the Guild of Scholars and to begin his profession.
“We have had him looking up matters in your planetary database that seem to be missing in ours, both to fill the gaps and to judge how badly we need an update.”
“We could give him increased access,” the Ranta trade representative said.
“There isn’t enough time. Now that we have discovered your wonderful
vasa
juice, we must proceed to the next world on our list so that we may speedily complete our voyage and return home. The sooner we bring this to the attention of our Master, the sooner we will come back so that you can begin full scale production.”