"Rasool Ilunga participates in the Chess Network. My assessment is that he occupies fourth place among Earth's human players, just above Max Dalzell."
"So we can assume his actions won't always have their face value. Very good. Everything we saw in the Darklands, and everything that happened to us there, makes sense if it is regarded as
preliminaries to a negotiation between the Ten Tribes and the Chipponese.
Ilunga was maneuvering for an opening position, and he wanted us as some of his pawns."
Mike was leaning forward, talking fast. His head was reeling. He had to get it all out quickly, before he collapsed. "Here's another Traders' Rule: 'Never show that you need what is being offered.' Ilunga wants a treaty with the Chipponese desperately. But he pretends he has no need for one. He wants us to tell the Chipponese that he has been developing a big space program of his own—we saw it with our own eyes. If Traders say something is so, other groups usually believe it. And the Chipponese representatives at Coronation City will support the idea. They saw artifacts—the gemstones—that required either an unmatched Earth-based technology, or a space manufacturing capability. Of course, Ilunga couldn't let the Chipponese visit his 'space test center' for themselves—they would see through it in a picosecond. But four gullible Trader trainees, who could be steered where he wanted them, like little children, and be made to watch things from a suitable distance . . ."
Mike shivered and swayed on his chair. Lyle Connery reached out and took his arm, supporting him. "Steady now. God help us, you're burning up again. You should be back in the hospital. Why didn't you tell me you were feeling so bad? Kallario, give me a hand."
Mike allowed himself to be lifted from the chair. "I'm all right. I had to come here and explain why I did what I did."
"Well, you're leaving now."
"I can walk."
"I'll help you." Kallario's face had mirrored his feelings while Mike was talking. He had been incredulous, uneasy, and finally resentful. "But if you're right about all this, the rest of us are idiots." His voice was bitter as he helped Mike to stand up. "That's the hardest thing for me to accept. Come on. I'll take you back to the hospital."
With Mike's arm across his shoulders, they headed out of the room. At the doorway Jake paused. "Wait a minute. Maybe they were faking the rocket test. But what about the synthetic gemstones? Everyone agrees they couldn't be fabricated without hi-tech programs and space operations. Isn't that true, Daddy-O?"
"Quite true. I know of no technique for such synthesis without a space environment."
Everyone looked at Mike.
He nodded. "That worried me. And then I realized that we had also been given the answer to that in our original briefing. But I couldn't confirm it until I saw the actual coronation ceremony. There was something in the briefing material about the fabulous jewels that Rasool Ilunga would be wearing—can you quote it for us?"
" '. . . He plans an elaborate coronation,' "
Daddy-O's voice began with no perceptible delay,
" 'putting on display the wealth of the Darklands. And to observe those ceremonies, with their jewel-encrusted robes and jeweled and priceless emblems of office, and also to be witness to his imperial greatness, Ilunga has invited representatives from every region.' Is that the statement to which you are referring?"
"Exactly. I watched closely. At the ceremony there were miles of gold cloth, and a solid gold crown. Everyone else must have seen what I did. But apparently no one else wondered,
where were the jewels
?"
Connery looked at Jake, who thought for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "He's right. I saw no jewels."
"So where were they?" Mike drooped against Kallario. "I'll tell you. They were in the Trade Fair. We were
told
'synthetics'—the sign said as much—so we
thought
synthetics. It never occurred to anyone that what we might be seeing were
natural gems
, the finest in the Darklands—and that means the finest in the world. Rasool Ilunga stole from his own coronation to bamboozle his visitors. It was his most delicate touch. And it worked."
"Not quite,"
Daddy-O said.
"But it came close. Go now, and rest."
Supported on Jake Kallario's shoulder, Mike tottered out. Lyle Connery watched until they were out of sight, then turned back to the terminal.
"Those two seem friendly now,"
Daddy-O said.
"Do you think that is the case?"
Connery shook his head. "Jake Kallario will be a good Trader. He did well on this mission, and he's already learned how to hide his feelings. But it's my guess that he hates Mike Asparian more than he ever hated him."
"Unfortunately, that is my perception also. It is a problem that must be addressed at some time, but not now. For the moment, this mission confirms my earlier suspicion. The quartet is ready to be disbanded. They should move to solo missions."
"So soon? Are you saying that you believe Mike Asparian's analysis?"
"Of course. "
If an electronic voice could sound surprised, this one did.
" No other interpretation of the events at Coronation City is remotely plausible. The amazing thing is only that Asparian reached it. It was not a task for a trainee."
"You said he was lacking confidence. Do you think he has it now?"
"In an acceptable amount."
"Then he's going to be one hell of a Trader. He has it all."
"No. One day he may, but I am able to identify in him nine critical areas that still need development."
"I can't imagine what they are."
"Then we must discuss them, and plan the future. They are as follows."
Daddy-O produced a near-human sigh as he initiated a data transfer to Connery's display screen and closed the mission file.
"It was a near-perfect result, from a long-shot mission."
"You're too critical. I would have said, quite perfect. What was wrong with it?"
Daddy-O paused.
"Nothing that affects these Trader trainees. But old computers are allowed their dreams. I cannot help wondering: what could we not do if we had Rasool Ilunga working for us? A perfect mission would somehow have achieved that result . . ."
Nine critical areas of Asparian that need development; and a tenth that cannot be mentioned. Daddy-O did not transmit that thought. At the same time as the computer was talking to Lyle Connery, a second transfer was taking place to an internal data file. It had no outside pointers, and access came only through Daddy-O's own operating systems.
By its nature, the computer had near-infinite speed and infinite patience. For two human generations, Daddy-O had waited. Now the hidden file snowed that a far-off and ancient objective had moved one step closer.
CHAPTER 6
Rule 20: Hang in there; help is on the way.
And if a Trader trainee didn't believe it, Daddy-O would cite me case of Jack "Lover-boy" Lester. He had caused the Strines some minor annoyance and, worse than that, he wouldn't tell them the nature of his secret mission.
They had showed their irritation in a practical way. When a Trader Smash finally rescued him, he was not in good shape. He was armless and legless. The Strines had removed his penis and his scrotum, then carved out his eyes. When he still would not reveal his mission, they had become quite annoyed. They had flayed him, cut off his lips, burst his eardrums, pulled all his teeth, and cut out his tongue. They had of course done this slowly, a little at a time to cause maximum anguish, with full use of their life prolongation techniques to make sure he did not die before his time. Finally they had removed his heart, liver, lungs, and kidneys, and put him in a tank. This was sheer bitchiness, of course, since those operations were not even painful.
The Smash unit had rescued Lover-boy Lester, flown him back to the Azores camp, and hooked his brain in to Daddy-O. His first words were, "What kept you?"
Trader trainees inclined to be skeptical of the story were given one inarguable proof: they could go and see him. Jack Lester was still alive, in the training camp hospital.
He was tremendously cheerful. He had frequent visitors. And he told all of them that the only thing that had kept him going in the Strine Interior was the knowledge that help was on the way.
"What can we do for you?" asked the more caring—or the less sensitive—visitors.
"Maybe a pepperoni pizza?"
Jack said.
"Or if you're feeling super-energetic, there used to be an enormous big Greaser whore down in Punta Arenas. I bet she's still there. Her name is Little Suzie. I always wondered what it would feel like to jump on top of her. 'Course, she has sixteen sorts of pox, but if you'll go there and take a wallow, then come back here and tell me all about it, I'll pay you out of my pension."
Of course, Jack Lester, what was left of him, was clinically insane. His conversation proved it. But he was still the Traders' best proof that help was always on the way.
* * *
Lover-boy Lester was far from Mike Asparian's thoughts as he sat in Lyle Connery's office. He had more immediate things to worry about. This was going to be the big one, the ultimate test that decided whether or not he would become a full-fledged Trader.
"Final Trial, so of course you're entitled to help from a Mentor," Lyle Connery was saying. "But I'm afraid we're having Mentor communication problems in Strine territory. Probably a Chill jammer in there. If you lose contact, you'll have to use the old-fashioned back-up system. This is a Trader recording disk. We used them as standard operating procedure before we had the Mentors. This one replaces your top shirt button."
Mike looked dubiously at the training director, then at the tiny disk on the table in front of them. It was about a quarter inch across and made of a white pearly material.
"Don't worry, it's unobtrusive and it works." Connery reached out a muscular bare arm and held the disk on edge between thumb and forefinger. "Audio and visuals. Not as good as a Mentor, but pretty good quality. All you have to do is make sure you give it a clear field of view. Just be sure you bring it back—swallow it, if you have to."
"But suppose it's—what if I—"
"Excrete it?"
"Yes."
"You won't. When the disk senses the composition of digestive juices, it extrudes hook attachments and stays put. It will be in your stomach until we take it out."
Mike looked again at Lyle Connery's expressionless face. This was the final test. According to camp rumors, any trick in the book could be thrown at a trainee. But surely there were limits. "Suppose the Strines take it out first?"
"That's a danger. But you can decrease the chances of that. Tell them you're part black. That way they'll be less likely to do any fancy cutting up on you. They save their most elaborate interrogations for white people. Illogical, but it's built into their prejudices."
"According to the gene codings, I
am
partly black."
Connery consulted the screen in front of him. "So you are. Then you ought to be convincing." The disk came rolling on its edge across the table toward Mike. "One other thing: has anyone talked to you about your Mentor assignment?"
"No. The Medlab people said they were waiting for Daddy-O's assignment of somebody with the right Strineland experience."
Connery frowned. "That should be easy enough. Let me find out what Daddy-O has been up to. You'll need a day or two to adjust to the presence of the Mentor, and your flight to Orklan is scheduled forty-eight hours from now. We don't have much time. You need to go and get an equipment check, and then you'll need a time-zone and a seasickness shot. You can get all those at the clinic. Might as well do it now."
Mike was dismissed. Lyle Connery waited until he was gone, then shook his head in perplexity. He called for a Daddy-O voice and video connection.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he said as soon as the connect light came on. "I have to believe you know what you are doing—but in five years as an instructor, I've never seen a trainee treated this way."
"State your objections."
"You're not being fair to Asparian. This is his first solo mission. We usually pick out something simple as the entry test for full Trader status. But this mission profile would scare a Trader with twenty years' experience. It's too tough for him."
"Need I remind you that you are the one who has constantly lauded Asparian's superior talents and potential?"
"I believe he has them. But he's still only a trainee, for Crock's sake. Do you
want
him to fail?"
"I certainly do not."
Daddy-O's voice sounded cold and casual.
"But my analyses convince me that a traditional Trader approach to the Strines would be useless for this problem. And you know that I, too, am interested in testing Asparian's potential. A conventional mission would fail to do that."
"Fine, test him by all means—but give him some help! It would be a real shame to lose him. I hope that you've at least picked out a first-rate Mentor."
"The best there is."
"Good. That's something. Then I'd better help Asparian get ready." Lyle Connery had cut the circuit when he had second thoughts. The best Mentor—for the Strine Interior? He reconnected to Daddy-O. "Toto Larsen is on other assignment. Who will Asparian's Mentor be?"
"Who else?"
The voice circuit sounded weary.
"Jack Lester knows more about the Strine psychology than Toto Larsen or any three other Traders."
"Lover-boy! How are you going to explain
that
choice to Mike Asparian?"
"I'm not."
There was a slight pause while Daddy-O diverted part of his network to handle conversion of a large incoming database.
"You are."
CHAPTER 7
An experienced Trader had three ways to reach the Strine mainland. If he had been there before and been well-received, he could go direct by air to Swales and BigSyd. Or he could go by sea, to one of the trading ports around the Strine south coast. And "he" meant
he
: the Strine mommas would not accept female Traders on the mainland.