those attenuated seals on Largess would be crazy for imported
alva
—let alone Replerian
alva.
Granted, though, the stuff was tasty enough. Even if Rodriguez wouldn’t program the stuff for the galley. Mal’s share of the profits would be, well, healthy. Might even be enough to refinish that verdammt upper right quarter of the
Umbra’s
KK drive projector screen. Not that it was an essential job . . . not yet. But it would boost her favorable energy conversion ratio by a good thirty percent. That would convert to a savings of, oh, so and so much in ignition radioactives. Not to mention reducing wear and increasing efficiency in the engine systems.
He’d been told, often, that his habit of making a personal, solitary survey of ship’s cargo the night after it had been shuttled down was just a little peculiar. The excuse he offered in return was that he wanted to be certain of the cargo’s proper alignment for redistribution, etc., etc., right up to the moment of transfer.
In actuality, the fascination of standing alone with tons and tons of goods from the far reaches of the galaxy, piled high in rainbow-hued plastic and metal containers, was one he had carried from childhood. Then he used to wander through similar warehouses (which towered so much greater in his childhood memories) and dream of the days he might visit planets with magic names like Terra, Hivehom, Almaggee, Long Tunnel, Horseye and Entebbe.
He’d had little idea that one day he’d be transporting similar goods himself. Too often the planets had proven dull and unattractive. But there was enough spice in the life to make things interesting. (Besides, you crazy hypocrite, you hated pro ball. Being the best goalie who ever maintained parallax with a ball was hardly fit epitaph for a man.)
Anyhow, it was important that the luxury goods be easily accessible for tomorrow, in case that old pirate Chatham and the others wanted an early look.
A good percentage of the cases were emblazoned with the CK crest of arms, customs stamps, impression of destination and planet of origin. A few were consigned to small dealers on Repler, some to members of the crew, and a number were sealed in the crimson of the Commonwealth. There was even one small aquamarine case of holy goods for the Church. Mostly biochemical and oceanographic instrument parts, plus a few specimens of Largessian life.
Another section of the gigantic warehouse was filled with a massive shipment headed off-planet. Idly, he wondered who’d pulled off that job.
Old Chatham’s success had been due in large part to his policy of hiring free-lance cargo vessels or those of small companies to transport his goods, rather than acquiring his own fleet. It was a risky way to do business, since he was entirely dependent on the will of men who were not beholden to anyone. Cargos could disappear with sobering swiftness on short or nonexistent notice. And a merchant or trader who operated in such fashion built nothing in the way of transportation equity.
At the same time, the system offered unequaled flexibility without fear of loss in manpower or ships. Some few men could make a success of the arrangement, while those with a huge investment in ships and men might go broke in spectacularly short periods of time. Chatham was one who’d spent a lifetime mastering the first system.
The huge outgoing shipment sat there, its noble immobility staring back at him. Maybe Scottsdale had landed the job. Or crazy Alapka N’jema. He’d heard rumors that Al’s ship, the
Simba,
had been operating this far out. Although the last he’d seen of her she’d been headed Centerward. There was always the possibility that the merchant or merchants involved hadn’t contracted with anyone yet.
And the possibility that they had their own ship, idiot.
Still, it was an appealing thought. If the cargo were available and he could sign it, maybe they’d give him an advance on estimated profit. That, coupled with what he would
alva
—let alone Replerian
alva.
Granted, though, the stuff was tasty enough. Even if Rodriguez wouldn’t program the stuff for the galley. Mal’s share of the profits would be, well, healthy. Might even be enough to refinish that verdammt upper right quarter of the
Umbra’s
KK drive projector screen. Not that it was an essential job . . . not yet. But it would boost her favorable energy conversion ratio by a good thirty percent. That would convert to a savings of, oh, so and so much in ignition radioactives. Not to mention reducing wear and increasing efficiency in the engine systems.
He’d been told, often, that his habit of making a personal, solitary survey of ship’s cargo the night after it had been shuttled down was just a little peculiar. The excuse he offered in return was that he wanted to be certain of the cargo’s proper alignment for redistribution, etc., etc., right up to the moment of transfer.
In actuality, the fascination of standing alone with tons and tons of goods from the far reaches of the galaxy, piled high in rainbow-hued plastic and metal containers, was one he had carried from childhood. Then he used to wander through similar warehouses (which towered so much greater in his childhood memories) and dream of the days he might visit planets with magic names like Terra, Hivehom, Almaggee, Long Tunnel, Horseye and Entebbe.
He’d had little idea that one day he’d be transporting similar goods himself. Too often the planets had proven dull and unattractive. But there was enough spice in the life to make things interesting. (Besides, you crazy hypocrite, you hated pro ball. Being the best goalie who ever maintained parallax with a ball was hardly fit epitaph for a man.)
Anyhow, it was important that the luxury goods be easily accessible for tomorrow, in case that old pirate Chatham and the others wanted an early look.
A good percentage of the cases were emblazoned with the CK crest of arms, customs stamps, impression of destination and planet of origin. A few were consigned to small dealers on Repler, some to members of the crew, and a number were sealed in the crimson of the Commonwealth. There was even one small aquamarine case of holy goods for the Church. Mostly biochemical and oceanographic instrument parts, plus a few specimens of Largessian life.
Another section of the gigantic warehouse was filled with a massive shipment headed off-planet. Idly, he wondered who’d pulled off that job.
Old Chatham’s success had been due in large part to his policy of hiring free-lance cargo vessels or those of small companies to transport his goods, rather than acquiring his own fleet. It was a risky way to do business, since he was entirely dependent on the will of men who were not beholden to anyone. Cargos could disappear with sobering swiftness on short or nonexistent notice. And a merchant or trader who operated in such fashion built nothing in the way of transportation equity.
At the same time, the system offered unequaled flexibility without fear of loss in manpower or ships. Some few men could make a success of the arrangement, while those with a huge investment in ships and men might go broke in spectacularly short periods of time. Chatham was one who’d spent a lifetime mastering the first system.
The huge outgoing shipment sat there, its noble immobility staring back at him. Maybe Scottsdale had landed the job. Or crazy Alapka N’jema. He’d heard rumors that Al’s ship, the
Simba,
had been operating this far out. Although the last he’d seen of her she’d been headed Centerward. There was always the possibility that the merchant or merchants involved hadn’t contracted with anyone yet.
And the possibility that they had their own ship, idiot.
Still, it was an appealing thought. If the cargo were available and he could sign it, maybe they’d give him an advance on estimated profit. That, coupled with what he would
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