FINDER'S FEE

 

 

By David Alexander and Hayford Peirce

 

 

 

All across Human Occupied Space planets continued to randomly lose congruency with nullspace, thereby isolating billions of human beings forever, but why should I care?

I was in the company of a beautiful woman, and the two of us were soaring on warm thermals high above the New Sonoran desert on the back of the biggest, gaudiest butterfly in the known universe. The problems of interplanetary navigation should have been the farthest thing from my mind.

But I did care about the lost worlds, intensely.

After all, my life depended on it.

Only a few days before, the incomprehensible workings -- or misworkings -- of the currents of nullspace had unexpectedly washed me ashore here on New Sonora, the only habitable planet in the Icarus System, 97 light years from my intended destination.

And that was only the starter.

The logistics of interstellar commerce are stark.  Either you voyage from star to star via nullspace or you don't go at all.  Yes, you can try building yourself a craft capable of attaining a few percent of the speed of light, then spend 80 or 90 years guiding it to the next star system, hoping that something doesn't break down before you die of old age.

To my knowledge it had never been done, and I doubted that it ever would -- and certainly not by me, a former Senior Facilitator and currently a neophyte star-freighter captain with little more to his name than a highly mortgaged spaceship and a cargo of almost certainly worthless crystalline blocks.

And if New Sonora fell out of congruency, as my intended destination of Charon IV apparently had, I wouldn't be able to make my next payment to the banker-surgeons of New Zurich, and they would, in consequence, refuse to transmit the re-activation code for the artificial pancreas installed in me as security for the mortgage on the Venture.

And I, Isaiah Howe, the one-time youngest Senior Facilitator in the history of Human Occupied Space, would be dead at the ripe old age of 34.

Of course, even if New Sonora didn't fall out of congruency, I still needed the money for the payment.  Or I would die.  All of which made it easy to understand why I was a bit distracted.

"Do you like it?" shouted Rebona Myking over her shoulder from the lead saddle, her face lit by a radiant smile.

"It's terrific!" I called back.  "The view is fantastic!"

It was, too.  Not only the panorama of the improbable cactus-town and of the luridly colored mountains on all sides of its desert basin, but also the view of my companion's slim back and long auburn hair streaming almost into my face.

Forcing a smile, I tried and failed to banish all thoughts of just how far I was from being able to meet my upcoming mortgage payment.

"You're still brooding about the aliens and those damned crystals."

"Yes," I admitted, though the demands of the outlandish aliens the New Sonorans called Bagpipes were only making a bad situation worse.  It was the crystals themselves that were at the root of my problems.  I remembered the first time I had seen them in the cavernous warehouse back on the rain-drenched planet of Bountiful....

 

*     *     *

 

My third trip as the master of my own ship had begun with reasonable promise.  My cargo of prepaid blank data crystals, pharmaceuticals, Sytherian and Terran spices, and the master copy of an entertainment library licensed for duplication and distribution was destined for Bountiful, a planet whose star lay near the Edelweiss Drift.  No system bordering the Drift had slipped away in the more than 600 years we had been using nullspace, so I was reasonably confident I would get to Bountiful and back.

Of equal importance, my consignee, the House of Rallingsback, had paid half the shipping costs in advance.  It was only after I had released the cargo to the Rallingsback warehouse and was awaiting the balance of my money that I was informed that Ryseel Rallingsback, Lord of the House, had died eight days before.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," I murmured politely to the old man's sons.

The heirs to the House of Rallingsback, two pasty-faced sharpies with flaming red hair atop skull-like heads, pursed their lips lugubriously.  Father's estate and all his assets, which now included my cargo, would, they explained, unfortunately be tied up in Probate Court for the next two years.

I was, of course, Reefal and Rastal Rallingsback advised, welcome to file a creditor's claim and wait for justice to take its course.  Or, they smiled into the long, appalled silence, I could accept an extremely valuable consignment of high-grade crystals now lodged in this very warehouse.

Scowling, I let the Brothers Rallingsback lead me deeper into the gloom.

"Look," exclaimed Reefal, the marginally less skeletal of the two, gesturing at a carelessly piled heap of half-meter by half-meter crystalline blocks glimmering in subdued yellows, bright blues, and subtle greens, "one and a half tons of a unique form of gemstone.  It was Father's intention to cut them into sizes suitable for jewelry, electronic circuitry, surgical tools, and other devices.  Unfortunately my brother and I have neither the time nor the experience to manage such a complicated venture."

Human space, of course, is overrun with gems, crystals, and gemstones from hundreds of planets.  As far as jewelry is concerned, artificial diamonds and rubies indistinguishable from the real article are produced on a dozen worlds.  And current manufacturing techniques have long since made obsolete most industrial uses for even the finest gemstones, synthetic substrates being far more efficient, uniform, and reliable.

I eyed the Rallingsbacks bleakly as I tried to keep from screaming aloud -- more at my own stupidity than at their childish larceny.  Their father had obviously been crazy to buy the crystals in the first place, and I would be equally crazy in accepting them as payment for the balance of the shipping charges.  But what choice did I have?  A bird in the hand. . . .

It took only a few minutes for the necessary documents to be signed, title transferred, and orders given to move the blocks to my cargo hold.  I stormed out into the rain and had a quick dinner at a cheap portside restaurant.  An hour later, wet and still seething with anger, I stomped across the rain-swept field and back to the Venture. There I found three sour-looking customs officials regarding the ship speculatively.

"Your purchase has been loaded?"

"Presumably.  Why?"

One of them produced a paper.  "Here is the calculation of the transfer taxes on the transaction.  It comes to just under 19,000 credits."

"Very well," I said, knowing only too well that I had no more than six thousand to my name.  "If you'll wait here, I'll get the money.  Ship, lower the ramp."

Before they could object, I hurried inside, slid into my command chair, and snapped a toggle.  The hatch whined shut behind me. 

"Computer, what's the nearest human-occupied planet?" I demanded.

"Charon IV, 14 light years distant, sometimes called Dogwood."

"Then start getting us there in the next two seconds."

"There are three human beings standing by the passenger port."

"They're not human beings, they're tax collectors!  Take us up -- now!"

The liftoff klaxon sounded three thunderous tones. Thirty seconds later, shredding a thousand port regulations to ribbons, we lurched away from the field.  As we tore through the upper atmosphere my hands clamped the arms of my chair in impotent fury.  This whole miserable episode was yet another lesson in the difference between intellectual brilliance and practical knowledge. Any experienced ship's captain of even limited intelligence would have demanded payment in full before releasing his cargo to the consignee's warehouse.

But I, a man whose academic degrees and professional honors had once filled an entire wall of my luxurious office on Westerworld, had stood complacently by while the cargo was unloaded before payment was made.  What was the old wheeze?  A lesson learned is a lesson cherished. . . .

Five days out of Bountiful, somewhere in nullspace with barely enough money to refuel the Venture at her next planetfall, the computer roused me from a fitful sleep.

"I have a report."

I knew this could not be good news.  "Go ahead," I muttered.

"Instead of exiting nullspace at Charon IV, 14 light years from Bountiful, we are about to enter the Icarus System, 97 light years further along the Edelweiss Drift."

"Dogwood has slipped away?" I demanded, my voice tight.  Only nine months earlier the 3,000 imperial grandees from Gaveltry who had incautiously accompanied their Autarch to Lowry's Landfall for his impending nuptials with the daughter of the Most Equal Elder had vanished forever when the Landfall system had slipped from congruency.  If Dogwood was also gone, this would be the first time that two systems had lost congruency in less than a single Terran year.

You didn't have to be a Senior Facilitator with degrees in linguistics, economics, diplomacy, and advanced integration to discern a frightening pattern. Lowry's Landfall had been the 14th system to fall out of nullspace contact in the last 50 years, but it was the ninth to do so in the last 20.  In the previous two centuries we had lost only four.

If Dogwood had slipped away, then we were seeing a pattern that, if continued, would eventually spell the ruin of Human Occupied Space, as well as disaster for the empires of the six alien species with whom we uneasily coexisted.

"Ninety-seven light years off course," I groaned.  If Icarus too were to fall out of access by nullspace, then I would be marooned forever in this cosmic backwater.  "Is Icarus within HOS?  Can we refuel here?"

"Yes.  It has one inhabited world: New Sonora."

Worse and worse: Sonora was the name of a blisteringly hot North American desert.  If the planet's climate was similar to that of its namesake, New Sonora would not be an enticing planet.  With growing concern, I threw myself into the command chair and tried to learn what I could of the approaching world.

 

*     *     *

 

New Sonora turned out to be both better and worse than I had feared. 

Its gravity was a light .63 of the standard Terran norm, which meant that with my first steps down the boarding ramp I instantly felt as frisky as a teenager.  And with a population of less than a quarter of a million human beings, landing formalities were comparatively few, which meant a welcome reduction in the landing fees, inspection charges, and all the other bureaucratic paperwork associated with more densely populated worlds. 

Within a few minutes of establishing a communications link, the Venture had been directed to a barren patch of mountain-rimmed desert 40 miles or so to the northwest of Saguaro, the planet's only metropolitan area.  Half an hour after the ship touched down I was in an aircar moving away from the jagged chain of mountains north of the spacefield.  A harsh white sun blazed out of an intensely blue sky.  The profiles of the distant mountains that defined the great basin in which Saguaro lay were as sharp in the clear desert air as if they were within arm's reach.

As the view of the city grew larger in the bubble canopy, I glumly calculated that the probability would be high that a society with a small population apparently dedicated to living in harmony with nature and adapting local materials to human needs would generate little or no business for a trader such as myself. 

My only realistic hope of finding some commercial opportunity would be to discover a biological agent or cactus by-product that might have a unique value elsewhere in Human Occupied Space. I was not optimistic. On Earth, the only commercial by-products I had ever heard of that derived from the thousand or so varieties of cacti were prickly-pear jelly, tequila, and a variety of skin softener, hardly the foundation for making my fortune, or meeting my next mortgage payment.

As the pale green cluster of succulents that made up the city of Saguaro grew closer, my eye was caught by a flicker of color against the deep blue sky.  Moments later two small specks began to take on bird-like shapes, then suddenly became discernible as the giant butterflies that the ship's computer had informed me were one of the more beguiling aspects of life on New Sonora.

On the back of each scarlet-bodied butterfly sat a human rider as nonchalantly as Lady Godiva steering her horse through the streets of Coventry, though these riders were swathed in white to protect themselves from New Sonora's brilliant sun.  As the aircar flashed past, they waved enormous sunhats.

Grinning, I waved back, my facilitator's mind automatically estimating the surface area of the butterflies' wings and running calculations to determine how such improbable creatures could possibly fly.  When I factored in New Sonora's barely more than half standard gravity coupled with an atmospheric pressure nearly double that of Earth's, as well as the lift generated by the desert's thermals and the fact that this was a planet settled by genetic engineers who could as easily rewire an indigenous life form's DNA as a groundcar mechanic can change a flux coil, I understood how these fairytale creatures could soar so effortlessly through the New Sonoran sky.

I waved once more, then, as the butterflies fell behind, my thoughts again turned somber.

The butterflies were undeniably beautiful, but it seemed unlikely that I would be able to transport any of them alive to some distant zoo.  Still, it was only early afternoon, time enough to check with whatever passed in Saguaro for a shipping agent to see if there was any hope of disposing of my cargo of crystal blocks on this uninviting and under populated world.

 

*     *     *

 

"Isaiah -- what a curious name," Cotita Lazzeri said with mild surprise when I introduced myself.

"It's an old biblical name.  I'm told it means salvation of the Lord."  Cotita Lazzeri pursed her lips and ran gnarled hands through her helmet of matted gray

hair. 

"The lord?  Which one?"

"Take your pick.  It doesn't matter.  It's just a name."  I gestured at the small piece of brightly colored crystal that Cotita Lazzeri held in her hands.  "What do you think?"

The New Sonoran factor put my sample down beside the holograms I had shown her of the shipment in the Venture's cargo hold, then chuckled softly and shook her head. 

"I'm afraid you're not going to be able to sell your cargo here, Citizen Howe.  New Sonora is where it came from in the first place.  Didn't you know that?"  She broke off a thick, pulpy-looking piece of orange and white petal from a luxuriant flower growing in a pot on her desk and popped it into her fleshy mouth.  As she chewed, the seams in her leathery face gradually relaxed into a euphoric smile.  "Would you care for a piece?  This is genuine Hillaton's Favorite."

I stared at Cotita Lazzeri in dismay.  We were sitting in her small office high in the interior of one of the town's ubiquitous giant succulents.  The room was dark, moist, and cool, with two small round portholes of triple-paned glass looking out on the Yakabee Mountains to the south.  The floor beneath my feet was a very pale green, firm but faintly yielding.  It was, like the irregularly shaped walls and ceiling, an integral part of the living "saguaro" itself.  The cool air caressing my face carried with it a faint, almost imperceptible odor of exotic spices.  I waved my hand, refusing the fleshy petal in Cotita Lazzeri's outstretched fingers.  Now, if I were willing to transport unregistered euphorics. . . . But no, I was already in enough trouble without getting involved in drug running.

 "Are you certain my crystals are from New Sonora?"

"Oh yes.  If you like, we can run them through a spectroscope, but that will only confirm what I've told you.  The colors and structure are definitely those of

Carson's crystal.  They're unique to this world, and absolutely worthless."

"Doesn't their very uniqueness confer some value?"

"Not when there are hundreds of tons of them available from Xerxes' mine and not when there's nothing they're good for except their pretty colors and any decent fabricator can make you glass baubles that look twice as nice.  You might as well try to peddle our sand and rocks." 

I nodded morosely.  "There's no practical use for them at all?"

"Other than junk jewelry?  Not to my knowledge."  The factor stuffed another petal into her mouth and chewed voluptuously. 

"But I've got a ton and a half of the stuff sitting in my hold.  Certainly there was a reason why it was mined and shipped."

Cotita Lazzeri smiled blissfully and for a moment I caught a tantalizing glimpse of the once-beautiful woman trapped within this leathery-skinned creature of almost indeterminate age and sex.

"Oh, Xavier Xerxes had a reason.  I'm certain your consignee on Beautiful, or wherever, must have gotten it from him. Xerxes the Zany we call him here in Saguaro.  He's a local character, an offworlder from Kingfire who's convinced that there must be something on New Sonora that will make his fortune.  He's the kind of man who believes that someday he'll find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow so long as he just looks hard enough.  He's been looking now for 16 or 17 years with no results, except for this stuff."  The factor shrugged and handed the crystal back to me.  "For the last year or so he's been trying to get people interested in these things.  He's got a mine out in the Hormagaunts. Obviously, he sold your load to some sucker offworld.  God knows what Xerxes told him they were good for.  He'll be using the money, I suppose, for %research.'"

"Research on the crystals?"

Cotita Lazzeri laughed.  "What else?  I've heard that he's managed to talk some Museum of Man scientists into coming here to examine them." She gestured indulgently.  "What a joke!  He's convinced himself that they must have some secret capabilities just waiting to be discovered."  She plucked and ate another petal and her eyes grew even vaguer. 

"What you're telling me is that no one here sees any value in my crystals except Xavier Xerxes and he has no reason to buy them."

"Exactly. He's already got a mountain full of them." The factor's head wobbled uncertainly. 

"Do you think there's any use in talking to him?"

 "He's nothing but a hard-luck prospector looking for a pot of gold he'll never find.  I wouldn't waste my time if I were you."

With no more information to be gained, I bounced to my feet in the light gravity with the appearance of far more exuberance than I actually felt and left Cotita Lazzeri to her flower petals. 

 

*     *     *

 

"Does it take long to learn to ride these 'flies'?" I asked, speaking into Rebona Myking's right ear at our cruising height of about a thousand feet.  I felt detached, isolated from the world below.  Except for the soft hiss of scented wind whispering past my ears the sky was as silent as the noiseless vacuum of space. 

"Only a few hours. This little bar in front of my saddle controls our course.  The biogeneticists who settled the planet modified the 'flies' skeleton to make a bone-like joy-stick growing out of their spine.  When you move it, directional nerve impulses are sent to its brain, not that the flies' brains are very big, but they're large enough to let them take us where we tell them to go."  She tossed her head and laughed gaily.  "Usually, that is.  Sometimes they have a mind of their own."

A few minutes later I saw what she meant.  The butterfly went into a long slow spiral that seemed to be centered on a thick cluster of giant cacti in an otherwise barren stretch of rocky desert. The 'fly's enormous scarlet wings, filigreed with an intricate pattern of green and blue, fluttered once, then became rigid as we drifted lower.  Although I was securely strapped into the leather saddle that sat athwart the bony blue crest running down the middle of the 'fly's back, I involuntarily clenched my knees around the saddle.

"Don't worry," Rebona assured me, "the saddle's bonded to the carapace by a natural resin made from dead 'flies' connective tissue.  It can't fall off, and neither can you."

"Is she going to land on that cactus?"

"The narco-flowers are a treat for the 'flies as well as for humans -- it's no use trying to steer her away.  We're just going to have to be patient until she's drunk her fill."

I sat back and tried to enjoy the view as we glided down to the spine-studded plant.  The genetic tinkering with the local cacti by the planet's first settlers had borne spectacular fruit.

There were two kinds of giant cacti on New Sonora. One was what our butterfly was now homing in on, the Demon Lover, a huge cone-shaped plant on which grew the prized narco-flowers.  The other was what the natives perversely called "saguaros," although the local variety bore as much resemblance to the Terran cactus as a goldfish does to a great white shark. 

I had gotten a good look at the so-called saguaros on my aircar ride in from the landing field.  Except for a few industrial buildings for such things as generating power and processing toxic materials, the city of Saguaro was almost entirely composed of the plants. All of the region's inhabitants lived in the barrel-shaped succulents, although calling them "pumpkins" would have made far more sense than "saguaros."

If you took a giant green pumpkin, hollowed it out, put the top back on, and then carved away at its sides until you had eight widely spaced staves curving up to fuse together into a single massive green capstone, you'd have a New Sonoran  saguaro, except that in this case the capstone was broad enough, and thick enough, to host a game of tennis.

While awesome, their gigantic size was easily understandable.  Even in the far heavier gravity of Earth there were giant redwoods and eucalypti well over 300 feet in height.  And the ship's database told me that each of the saguaro's eight staves was anchored to the desert floor by massive networks of giant roots.  In New Sonora's lighter gravity, creating these cacti would have been child's play for the two or three generations of eccentric genetic engineers who had amused themselves by growing 20-foot butterflies.  And as a final refinement, they had induced titanium-precipitating microbes to live in a symbiotic relationship within the cactus staves.  Not only did this help support the gigantic plants, it also enabled the locals to smelt the plant for profit when it died.  True ingenuity!

Now practically the entire population lived inside plants that even in the blast-furnace atmosphere of New Sonora were cool and moist and that, except for the cost of installing utility runs, elevators, and ventilation systems, were essentially free.

The Demon Lover cacti were just as tall as the great saguaros but were shaped like knobby green cones.  Growing from bases a hundred feet in diameter, their bodies tapered to a blunt, rounded summit almost hidden beneath a dense crown of yellow and orange blossoms.

The nearer we drew to the monstrous Demon Lover plant, the more impressive it became.  In addition to having ordinary needles like Terrestrial cacti, this succulent's tough, fibrous surface also sported a veritable forest of fronds, limbs, and branches, as well as a host of parasitic vines and plants.

I grew increasingly uneasy as the flowers drifted closer.  Was the 'fly going to land directly on one of the enormous blossoms or merely hover above it?  Either seemed equally dangerous.  An unexpected thermal could easily smash us against a foot-long needle.  And if the 'fly tumbled into the plant, the spines would rip us to shreds.

Rebona Myking didn't seem to be worried by the prospect.  She merely gestured at the huge yellow flower upon which the butterfly was now slowly settling.

"The Demon Lover's narco-flower contains a powerful aphrodisiac and euphoric, at least for human beings.  At wedding ceremonies the bride and groom wrap themselves in sheets of petals and are carried by their guests to the nuptial banquet. Later, after ceremonial toasts with petal nectar, they're led to the honeymoon suite where the bed sheets are mats made from the petals.  It's a very powerful experience," she added in surprisingly harsh tone.  "Even the Bagpipes seem to be affected by the damned flowers. Frankly, I'm surprised they live in a narco-flower the way they do."

"You seem to know a lot about these things," I ventured cautiously.  "Have you tried them?"

Rebona Myking was silent so long that I was certain I had offended her.  Finally she spoke without looking at me. 

"My husband's an ethnologist. One of the reasons we came here was so he could study the courtship and wedding rituals of the New Sonorans.  So, yes, we did try it.  Purely as scientists, he said. Unfortunately Ross is one of those people who overreact to it and he's become an addict. I haven't seen him in over nine months now."

"You mean he's given up a beautiful woman like you for. . . for a flower?"

She nodded curtly.  "So it seems."

"There's no treatment for this addiction?"

"If you want to be treated.  But like most addicts, he doesn't.  I've been waiting for him to admit that he needs help."  She shrugged almost imperceptibly.  "I'm going to give him another three months.  After that. . . . What about you?  Do you have a wife somewhere?"

"No, not anymore."

"Was it terrible, your -- divorce?"

"It's never fun, I guess, is it?  I had some business problems and she couldn't handle my. . . change in circumstances.  It's a long story."

"I shouldn't have asked," Rebona said apologetically.  "Let's forget both of them and just enjoy our ride."

A moment later the 'fly withdrew her proboscis from the flower, revved up the flapping of her wings, and fluttered us back up into the sky.

As I watched the narco-flower dwindle beneath us I wondered gloomily if what had happened to me on my purported way to Charon IV meant that all my future flying would be now confined to the backs of butterflies. . . .

 

*     *     *

 

Rebona Myking had approached me in the best restaurant Saguaro had to offer.  It was called the Belle Vue and it lived up to its name.  It was at the very top of what looked like the tallest living thing in the entire universe.  Seven of the massive staves rising from its geometrically precise circular base held apartments.  In the eighth, in addition to offices and stores, an elevator serviced the thick capstone where the Belle Vue had been hollowed out of the living plant.

Far above the desert, the restaurant-tavern afforded a 360-degree panorama of hundreds of square miles of orange, scarlet, and red sand, expanses of huge cacti, and four ranges of jagged olive- and rust-colored mountains.  In spite of the hellish sun beating down from the cobalt sky, the restaurant itself was dark, cool, and moist, an oasis in the middle of a Dantesque landscape.

As I sat sipping pale blue beer and sampling a tableful of tiny dishes of New Sonoran haute cuisine I reflected glumly that with every passing hour it was becoming more likely that I would have to tap my emergency cache of Universal Credits just to get enough fuel to escape this world.  It was certain that the useless crystals wouldn't power the Venture's engines.

"Excuse me, are you the gentleman with the crystals for sale?"

A pretty girl stood looking down at me, or at least what I thought might be a pretty girl, for her face was half-hidden by the floppy brim of her enormous sunhat.

I rose.  "Yes, I'm Isaiah Howe."  I pointed to the empty chair across from mine.  "Please join me."

She paused, smiled faintly, and removed her hat.  I decided that she was almost certainly not a native of New Sonora.  Her skin was far too fair, almost a milky white, while that of the locals was uniformly tanned a leathery brown.  And her light gray eyes sparkled with a liveliness and intelligence that was noticeably absent from the faces of the petal-chewing New Sonorans.

"I'm sorry," she said in an accent that was pure Standard, "but I can't at the moment.  You see--" she nodded toward the broad expanse of window behind me "--it's actually someone else, outside, who'd like to speak to you about the crystals.  He . . . didn't feel comfortable coming in.  Could you come outside and meet him?  He's just out on the landing deck."

"My pleasure," I said warmly: if someone wanted to buy my cargo I'd walk across the New Sonoran desert at high noon to meet him.  "Lead the way.  Perhaps later you'll join me for a nightcap."

 

*     *     *

 

The alien honked at me, then he burped like a sated tyrannosaurus, and finally he produced a sound that was a passable imitation of a high-speed collision of four or five groundcars. 

"Can you make any sense of that?"

Rebona Myking sighed.  "It's difficult enough to translate even with computer analysis and enhancement, but I try."

"I thought I knew every alien species in Human Occupied Space but I've never seen anything like that.  What is it?"

"Here on New Sonora we call them Bagpipes."

"Because they look like bagpipes or because they sound like them?"

"A little of both."

I turned back to the alien.  It looked like a jury-rigged bundle of hoses, tubes, tentacles, and rubber pipes that were anywhere from a quarter of an inch to two inches in diameter, with lengths as varied as their thickness. The Bagpipe's colors ranged from pewter through a dark silvery charcoal.  Its body was neither vertically nor horizontally symmetrical.  Instead, various hoses appeared at random locations, some undoubtedly serving as fingers, hands, feet, ears, noses, and mouths.  Half a dozen tiny aprons of various gaudy colors were strapped to tentacles in no apparent order and were its only articles of clothing.

When I was finally able to tear my fascinated gaze from the Bagpipe I saw that Rebona was studying the display panel on a small hand-held computer connected to a wire leading to her ear.  She pursed her lips.

"He says he'd like to discuss the crystals with you and requests that the three of us take a short ride to his quarters."

"Fine," I agreed immediately, heedless of the outlandishness of the alien beside me.  "Let's go."  I needed that sale!

We headed for an aircar at the edge of the landing area, the alien moving with surprising grace.  The ten or fifteen hoses that served as its feet shuttled in a complicated rhythm as if the Bagpipe were a strange breed of circular centipede that could move in any direction without having to rotate its body.

The alien fitted his flexible body into one of the seats without apparent discomfort.  "It's actually my aircar," Rebona Myking explained, "but he insists on flying it."  She grinned ruefully.  "Who's going to argue with anyone who looks like that?"

In a swift blur of motion two of the Bagpipe's smaller tubes pecked at the craft's instrument panel and moments later we were cruising 900 feet above New Sonora's desert.  I studied the alien carefully as we flew along but it was impossible to guess which of its appendages might serve as visual receptors.

A few minutes of flight took us southeast across a dozen miles of desert.  None of us spoke as the aircar descended toward a large solitary Demon Lover cactus.  Its crown was studded with enormous orange and yellow blossoms, some of which were four or five yards across. The aircar moved towards a dark opening some 50 feet below the plant's apex and settled to a silky halt on a ledge just outside the mouth of a tunnel.

The light inside the chamber was dim but the Bagpipe seemed to have no problem finding his way as we trotted along behind him across the room's spongy, resilient floor.  One dark tunnel led to another, and eventually we came to a small tubular shaft in the center of the plant.  The Bagpipe pressed a button with one of its trunks and a chain of single-person transport disks slowly moved down inside the tube. One by one we boarded the disks and an eternity later were deposited deep within the huge succulent.

From out of the gloom two more aliens appeared and immediately began honking at their comrade.  I turned to Rebona's shadowy silhouette. 

"What're they saying?"

"I can barely figure what they're saying when only one of them's talking -- with two or more it's hopeless.  The meaning of their communication units is contained as much in which tube emits the sound and in the accompanying gestures as it is by the sound itself.  My computer pack has a neural-net visual system that I focus on the Bagpipe who's talking.  The AI uses a preloaded vocabulary to determine which of the tubes is generating the noise and making the gestures, and then it gives me a rough translation with a choice of vocabulary options."

"Options?"

"Almost nothing but options.  Most of my job consists of studying the possible alternative meanings based on the context of the conversation, then I assemble a coherent, meaningful exchange as a gestalt.  There's almost no word-for-word equivalency between the Bagpipes' language and human speech.  For now we'll just have to wait until they decide which one's going to speak to us before I can tell you anything about what they're saying."

We waited more or less patiently until one of the aliens moved forward, apparently their spokesman.  Rebona activated her computer and again inserted the plug into her ear.  The alien, whom I dubbed Tall And Thin because he was both taller and thinner than either of his companions, began another of his hooting, honking monologues.  When he come to a gurgling conclusion, Rebona turned to me and hesitantly began her translation.

"They seem to be . . . agitated by your cargo of crystals.  They've learned about it, apparently over the net, and they say that it's urgent, or important, or vital, something like that, that you give them up."

"Give them up?  To whom?  To them?  Do you mean they want to buy them?"

"I'm not really sure.  It may be they want actual physical possession of them, or it may be they want the crystals put back where they originally came from."  She grimaced.  "I'm afraid it's not very clear."

"Can't you ask them for clarification?"

"Communicating with the Bagpipes is almost entirely a one-way process.  I simply don't have the right equipment to speak their language beyond getting across a few pidgin phrases.  It's the equivalent of trying to learn something technical from a human nullspace engineer if you limit yourself to only a vocabulary of a hundred words like %yes', %no', %stop',%go', %good', and %bad'." She turned back to Tall And Thin.  "I have a basic phrase for %I don't understand.' I'll try that."

Rebona pressed keys on her computer and its speaker issued a brief series of hoots and honks. The Bagpipes remained motionless for several seconds, then engaged in another three-way dialog.  Finally Tall And Thin spoke again.

"Well?"

"I'm still not sure," she said, shaking her head.  "What I think I'm getting is something about it being forbidden or taboo or an insult or wrong or dangerous for you to have the crystals or for the crystals to be taken off-planet or for the crystals to be used or modified or sold, and that the crystals must be released by you, probably into their custody, to be properly disposed of or transferred or worshipped or venerated or protected."

I glared at the Bagpipes.  "Why are they so concerned by my crystals?  Are they religious artifacts, or necessary for a mating ritual, or used for medical purposes, or what?"

"I don't know. I simply don't have enough vocabulary to ask that kind of question.  I'll tell them again that you don't understand, but I think they'll just repeat what they said before."

"Can you tell them I'll consider their request?"

"Yes, there's a phrase that's roughly equivalent to %I need time to think.'"

Rebona tapped more keys, her computer emitted a desultory hoot, and then we turned and headed back to the transport tube.  Neither Tall And Thin nor the others made a move to follow us.  Once we were in Rebona's aircar and on our way back to the restaurant I tried to elicit any additional information that might help make sense of all this. 

"You seem to be the local expert on the Bagpipes.  Where did they come from?  What are they doing here?"

"I'm really not that much of an expert, I'm afraid.  I'm actually an eco-biologist from the university on Granger IV.  My department had heard about this planet's genetically modified cacti and wanted to see if we could create similar biological housing units for other ecological systems. My husband wanted to do his own research, so it seemed the perfect trip to take together. I've been here about a year and a half now.  About six months ago the Bagpipes showed up and I seemed to be the only person on the planet who took any interest in them."

"A new alien species?  And no one's interested?"

"Well, for a while they were a minor curiosity, but when communication with them proved so difficult everyone else lost interest.  You've got to remember that this is still pretty much a frontier world and any field of study without a practical application is discouraged or ignored.  And, of course," she added with a bitter edge to her voice, "it's a planet almost entirely populated by petalheads.  Most of the time everyone here's too bent to see beyond the end of their nose."

"They do seem a trifle . . . relaxed," I agreed.  "But you . . . ?"

"Because of my husband, I also have something of an ethnological background.  I managed to modify some of the equipment we'd brought for research and eventually I was able to communicate with the Bagpipes after a fashion.  By now a professional xenologist with the right equipment would be projecting a holographic simulacrum of a Bagpipe waving precisely the right tubes in the right order as part of the translation process.  But without the equipment or training, I just have to fumble along."

"Don't be so apologetic!  I'm astonished you've accomplished as much as you have -- communication with any other species is always extremely difficult. How many of them are there?"

"You mean here?  Oh, half a dozen or so that I know of.  They came in a single small ship."

"Where do they come from?  And why did they come here?"

"More mysteries.  All I can gather is that they're from somewhere way beyond HOS and that they may or may not be part of an empire.  And I think they have their own way of getting around nullspace, one that's a lot more certain than ours."

"Really?"  More and more interesting.  Nullspace is peculiar.  Sometimes you can go from A to C, but not from A to B, even though it lies directly between the two.  To get there, you first have to go to D, then backtrack.  If the Bagpipes had a new and better way of navigating nullspace . . . .

"What do they want here on New Sonora?"

"It definitely has something to do with those crystals, but I'm not sure exactly what.  They told Xavier Xerxes pretty much what they just told you, that he should leave the crystals alone, that the sale of the crystals was forbidden."

"Sale?  Did they really use that word?"

"Well, no.  Distribution, sale, dispersion, dissemination -- it might be any one of them."

"Do you think Xerxes understood what the Bagpipes meant any more than I do?"

"I don't think he cared what they meant.  But I'm only guessing.  You could always ask him yourself."

"I think I will.  Will you be my guide?  How about tomorrow morning?"

"I'll pick you up at nine," she said, nodding vigorously, as if she were glad to have something to do, just as we dropped down to the deck of the cactus/restaurant where I had just met my first Bagpipe.

 

*     *     *

 

Xavier Xerxes was clearly a man with an obsession. It was equally clear why the locals called him Xerxes the Zany.  He was tall and gaunt, with a long, lustrous, milky beard. Enormous glittering green eyes smoldered beneath almost non-existent eyebrows.  In the middle of his flowing white beard was a large red circle, as carefully crafted as if it had been laser-printed there earlier that day.  What purpose it served was not immediately obvious. All in all, he looked like a particularly mad biblical prophet.

"So you're interested in my crystals, are you?" Xerxes muttered suspiciously, his glittering eyes fixed intently on one of my old business cards. "What exactly do you want with them?"

Xerxes, Rebona Myking, and I were in a hideous dank chamber hollowed out of the Hormagaunt Hills just north of the spaceport.  It hadn't been cleaned since the day it was dug and we were perched on makeshift pieces of furniture that hadn't been dusted since the turn of the century.  The walls exuded a stench powerful enough to be used as insect repellent against the man-eating triple-teeth on Think Again.

"I've got a shipload of crystal, so I thought it might be a good idea to find out what it's good for."

"You admit it, then? You want to find out what I've discovered about my crystals so you can make your own fortune from them."

"I've only got the one shipload.  Certainly not enough to threaten your position with a whole mountain at your disposal.  After all, you control the source of supply.  Still, I'd definitely like to find some way to sell them.  What have you learned, if I'm not asking you to reveal trade secrets."

Xerxes's incandescent gaze moved me to Rebona Myking, who squirmed uncomfortably beneath it, then back to me.

"All right.  It's no secret, I suppose.  At least most of it isn't.  Here, follow me."

We trailed Xerxes through the back of the cave into a narrow passageway hewn from the mountain's interior.  "The main diggings are up this way."  A hundred yards into the mountain the tunnel widened into a good-sized chamber with a ceiling at least twenty feet above our heads.  "Here," said Xerxes, gesturing at a glittering rock face of yellow, green, and azure crystal identical to that in my cargo hold.

I tried to stifle my disappointment.  "This is where you've been doing your research?"

"Yes.  Anyone on the planet will tell you the crystals have got some damned unusual properties. I've bombarded them with magnetic fields and high voltage electron beams with amazing results.  In fact--" Xerxes' mouth snapped shut and he glared at me defiantly, as if I had almost tricked him into revealing too much.

"What sort of results?" I prompted.

"Well . . . hallucinations, I guess you'd say, astral displacements, far visions, OBE's, Dunesian epiphanies, stuff like that.

"No teleportation or spontaneous human combustion?" Rebona asked sarcastically.

"I don't understand how nullspace generators work either, lady, but they do, don't they?"  Xerxes jabbed a long, bony finger painfully into my chest.  "They're real, all right, I just don't have the quantitative data yet.  And the results vary from time to time.  You'd have to see them for yourself to understand why they're so remarkable."

I pursed my lips as I considered his words.  "If you pass a laser beam through a crystal impressed with a holographic etching you'll see a three-dimensional image in front of you.  It's totally illusory -- but you still see it. "

Xerxes shrugged.  "Explain it however you like.  All I know is that it works."

"But you can't make the effects reliably repeatable?"

"Not yet.  It's all hit or miss -- so far."  Once again his mad eyes glared at me.  "But I'll get it, sooner or later I'm going to get it.  And when I do, I'll be the richest man in the sector!"

"Who else knows the crystals have these properties?"

Xavier Xerxes uttered a harsh bark of bitter disdain. 

"You think the petalheads care?  They're all so stupefied from chewing on those damned flowers they wouldn't notice if my crystals picked them up and threw them over the tops of their Demon Lovers!"

"Some of them notice," Rebona interrupted.  "Everyone in Saguaro says you're bringing in experts from the Museum of Man to help you."

"The petalheads are saying that?"  The mad green eyes grew crafty and Xerxes lowered his voice to a pensive whisper. "Well, maybe for once they're right about something."

"You think they can help you turn the crystals into some sort of entertainment device?" I asked.

"I didn't say that!"  Xerxes glared suspiciously.

I shrugged.  "It seems obvious.  What else could you use them for?"

"I guess you'll just have to wait and see, won't you?"

I nodded.  "But remember," I reminded him, "I have a load of the crystals, too.  I want to see you succeed as much as you do." I turned towards the tunnel,  then paused.  "I understand you were approached by the Bagpipes," I added as if it were an unimportant afterthought.  "What did they want?"

"The Bagpipes?  More damned nonsense!"

"What do you mean?"

Xerxes laughed.  "They want me to give up my project -- if I'm understanding them right."  He gave me a hard stare.  "If you've got hold of my shipload of crystals why don't you go talk to the Bagpipes?  Maybe you can get them to tell you why they're so interested in them."

"As a matter of fact, they've already contacted me but they didn't seem to make much sense -- something about disturbing the crystals being forbidden.  Do you think we should take them seriously?"

Xerxes twitched his lips contemptuously.  "This is a human planet, Mr. Senior Facilitator Howe, run by our laws, not theirs. The crystals are legally ours. I don't care what they want."

"Reasonable enough, but we don't have any idea of what the Bagpipes can do."

"Here on New Sonora there are a dozen of them and a quarter million of us."  He hefted his beard's luxuriant length and waved its bright red circle at me.  "I'm from Kingfire, a Dominie Second Class from the Seventeenth Cube Removed.  I would have thought a big-brain ex-facilitator like you would have known that.  Which means I'm not afraid of a collection of half-sentient garden hoses.  Nobody's taking my crystals away from me!"

 

*     *     *

 

Half-blinded by the late-morning sun, Rebona and I stood blinking beside the adit that led to Xerxes' mine. The prospector's battered aircar lay in the wind-swept dust not far from Rebona's.

"Would you like to go butterfly riding?" she asked hesitantly.

In the full glory of New Sonora's blazing sun, Rebona was more than just pretty -- she was beautiful.  And until I came up with some other idea I certainly had nothing better to do.

"Absolutely," I said.

The butterfly stable was tucked away in the circular space inside the base of a medium-sized saguaro on the city's outskirts.  Beneath a huge gauzy awning seven or eight of the enormous butterfly-like creatures lay torpidly in the inky shadows, their blue and green wings wrapped around scarlet and blue bodies so that only the tips of their torpedo-like heads were visible.  From each of the motionless beasts a dull red tube protruded into a stainless steel cask.  Their huge yellow and black eyes seemed as inanimate as dinner plates.

"Sugar syrup," explained Rebona.  "As long as it's supplied, the 'flies won't move an inch."

A leathery-skinned New Sonoran who seemed nearly as torpid as his colorful charges reluctantly emerged from a leg of the cactus and lackadaisically manhandled the nearest butterfly away from its feeding station. As its long proboscis slowly withdrew into its head, the 'fly's wings began to unfold.  Tapping it on the side of the head with a heavy orange prod, the butterfly handler maneuvered the creature away from its companions and through an opening in its huge mesh cage.  Rebona Myking took me by the hand and led me up onto the butterfly's surprisingly sturdy back.

 

*     *     *

 

When we returned to the stables several hours later I watched appreciatively as Rebona climbed gracefully down from our mount, her long slim legs filling her trousers to perfection.  The air was almost too dry to feel myself sweating, but I knew that in this terrible heat we must have been rapidly evaporating our liquid reserves.

I waggled a finger in the general direction of the spaceport.  "Rather than offering you a glass of the terrible local beer, if you'll fly me back to my ship I think my galley can dispense something more civilized."

A few minutes later we entered the Venture's tiny salon and Rebona sank into my comfortable old red leather chair. The galley produced tall glasses of lemonade for each of us. 

"I like your ship," she said warmly.  "It's very . . . homey.  But don't you get lonely out in space all by yourself?  What if something broke down?"

"That's something spacers don't think about, let alone say aloud.  And in theory the ship's smart enough to repair almost anything that goes wrong, as long as the problem is with the equipment."

"What else could it be?"

"The problem could be nullspace itself."

"You mean planets slipping away?"

I nodded.  "If entire systems can fall out of congruency, why not spaceships?  I personally think there's now enough statistical evidence about missing ships to indicate that sometimes that actually happens."

Rebona frowned into her lemonade.  "That's why I don't like traveling very much.  Suppose you got stuck on some really terrible planet like Piggoty's Place or Sandalstone III?  That would be awful!"

"Yes," I agreed, perching myself carefully on the arm of her chair.  "It's a sobering thought.  But what about your own profession?  I'd bet that in every system that's ever slipped away there's been at least one or two visiting scholars who've been trapped there forever."

Rebona uttered a little sigh.  "There's actually a marble plaque at the Peabody Museum at Harvard with a whole list of them.  They update it regularly."

"I know -- I've seen it. And, unfortunately, that's the least part of the problem."

"How do you mean?"

"Unless you live within a planetary system that you never, ever intend to leave, there isn't an investment or bank account anywhere in HOS that's completely safe."

"There are the UC's.  They're guaranteed safe."

It was true.  Universal Credits were guaranteed to hold their value no matter how many systems fell out of nullspace.  Centuries before, when the first systems began to slip away, the central banks of Earth, Telos, and New Zurich had agreed to jointly issue a currency called Universal Credits.  All three planets would have to fall out of congruency simultaneously for the credits to be rendered worthless.  Like everyone with any sense, I kept my own modest supply of emergency funds in UC's.

"Small change," I pointed out.  "That guarantee is limited to a maximum of a million credits per customer.  Fine for individuals, but worthless for real business.  The effect on commerce of planets slipping away is already massive, and it's getting worse."

"Well, you're a facilitator.  I suppose you ought to know."

"Ex-facilitator -- there's a considerable difference between the two."

"Why are you an ex, if I'm not being nosy?"

"I don't mind, but it's a long story."

Nineteen months earlier I had been on Mathison's World on the opposite side of Human Occupied Space, about to conclude the most important transaction of my career.  Senior Facilitators are basically polymaths trained to recognize and correlate obscure relationships between vastly disparate types of information.  We can discern, extrapolate from, and, of equal importance, articulate, apparently non-existent relationships. 

In consideration of a suitable fee, we can reconcile seemingly irreconcilable pieces of data to often arrive at solutions for everything from quarreling spouses to warring planets.  For certain types of adjudicating and expediting within specifically defined parameters, only licensed facilitators can legally charge a fee.  And, of course, only licensed facilitators are given any credence in the first place by the major businesses and governments with which Human Occupied Space's several hundred Senior Facilitators normally deal.

Purely by chance, I had been gifted at birth with certain talents that years of training had eventually brought to fruition as a Senior Facilitator.  And as befit my biblical name of Isaiah, the motto on my letterhead and business cards read: Come Now, and Let Us Reason Together . . . .

But reasoning together on Mathison's World had led to a tangled nightmare of a disaster for which an arbitrator on Westerworld had designated me as the official scapegoat.  When all was said and done, my license had been suspended for five years, just at the time that all my savings and investments vanished when the financial haven of New Gibraltar fell out of congruency. 

I had a choice: I could take every last penny I could scrape up and appeal the Arbitrator's decision knowing that the chances of overturning the judgment were slim at best, or I could take my few remaining assets and put my skills to use in the interstellar shipping business.

Eventually, by leaving my pancreas as collateral with the flint-hearted bankers of New Zurich and having it replaced with an artificial one programmed to require servicing within two months of every annual payment date, I was able to purchase a mortgaged spaceship in reasonable working order.

Meeting my mortgage payments subsequently took on an urgency that the average borrower seldom experiences . . . .

Rebona Myking smiled encouragingly.  "That doesn't seem--" but she was cut off by two loud clangs from the Venture's hull.

"Ship, what's that?"

"Someone has just pounded on the hull with a metal implement."

"Thanks for being so informative," I grumped, and strode to the main hatch.  Looking up at the monitor I saw three Bagpipes standing before the lock. 

One was Tall And Thin. The other two were strangers. The lighter colored one I dubbed Almost Gray. The third had a peculiar tube in the middle of his body that was thicker and more muscular than those of the others.  He became Trunk Like An Elephant.

"Look who's here," I called to Rebona, opening the hatch for the aliens.

The Bagpipes brushed past me like visions from a nightmare and headed for the control room.  After a moment's hesitation they shuffled to the main computer's I/O ports, pulled lumpy crystalline devices from their aprons, and, using seven or eight of their manipulators with blinding speed, began to plug hair-thin filaments from their contrivances into the computer's access ports.

"What are they doing?" I asked Rebona, but she was as confused as I was and only shook her head.  "Ship, defend your integrity by whatever means necessary if it looks like you're being endangered."

"Noted."

Rebona tapped at her computer's keyboard, then stood scowling at Tall And Thin's reply. 

"He says they're preparing to talk to us.  They evidently think they can set up a better translator by connecting their equipment to your ship's computer."

"If they don't destroy the Matrix in the process," I muttered uneasily, inching forward to get a better look at what the Bagpipes were up to.  A few minutes later Almost Gray held out two circular bands of a milky crystalline substance that were wired into the Venture's I/O ports through a web of dozens of tiny tendrils.  Tall And Thin hooted at Rebona and appeared to be motioning for us to approach.

"He says they're ready or done or that we should proceed, something like that."

"I'll go first," I said with no great enthusiasm. "If my head blows up . . . ." I shrugged, unable to think of appropriate instructions.

I pulled the band over my head.  The material softened and adjusted itself to my cranial contours and shortly my eyes and ears were completely covered.  An instant later I found myself floating in the vastness of space, adrift in the middle of a grayish cosmos dimly lighted by a billion distant suns.

Slowly, more details began to take shape.  Far below I saw a river winding across plains and through canyons until it disappeared into the misty distance.  Just above the far horizon were two larger stars; stretching between them I could discern a tiny silver thread.

I had just formed the thought of wanting to examine the river more closely when my point of view zoomed downwards until I was floating barely a few feet above its swirling, quicksilver surface.  Then, with only the slightest mental flicker, I was able to move along the river at dizzying speed.

Rapids, waterfalls, whirlpools, dams, lakes, reefs, rocks, cliffs, and canyons flashed past until the river finally emptied into a broad, placid sea.  I paused for a moment, then began to rise.  The ocean dwindled beneath me, the horizon grew curved, and within seconds I was far above what was now a planet hanging in space.

Turning my attention to the millions of distant suns, I realized that if I concentrated on any particular pair of them I could see a tiny silver thread running between them.  Was this some sort of psychological visualization of routes through nullspace?  I peered in all directions until I found a thread that seemed wider and thicker than the rest, then soared over to examine it.

Once again I found myself hovering above a river.

If the first had been a wild, barely tamed torrent, this one was a placid, heavily traveled, commercial artery.  On the river were . . . things.  They were, in a sense, ships, a weird cross between houseboats, ocean liners, and Tom Sawyer's raft.  That's not, of course, very descriptive, but what I was seeing was not the factual image of a real object but only my poor human brain's attempt to make sense of the alien signals being pumped through my optic and auditory nerves.

In addition to the boat-like objects there were other things -- presences? animals? something -- in the water around the ships -- silvery-gray, rounded, oval blobs.  While unable to determine exactly what they were, my intuition told me that these were living creatures in some sort of symbiosis with the ships, guiding or pulling them down the river, perhaps in a larger sense actually moving the ships through nullspace between the stars.

Was all this a representation of how the Bagpipes navigated their interstellar craft, how they avoided the nullspace dangers that had plagued humanity? I felt myself growing excited.  If I could learn how to utilize the Bagpipes' technique, I could make myself the richest man in HOS.

The distant stars and the threads between them began to fade, to be replaced by a vague, shimmering image of a single Bagpipe.  Deep within my head it began to speak, though not in words or phrases.  There was no real syntax.  It was a gestalt, a succession of pictures overlaid with something like intuition that let me detect, feel, but not necessarily fully comprehend, the whole of the idea the Bagpipe was trying to convey.

I now realized that the blob-like creatures in the rivers were my brain's visual depiction of crystalline intelligences whose physical presence was forever locked within the veins of crystal deposits like that which Xerxes was excavating -- but whose minds were free to roam the uncharted domains of nullspace.

The Bagpipe flashed me glimpses of world after world, all of them far outside Human Occupied Space and each of them containing deposits of Carson's crystals.  Each deposit comprised a living entity, or perhaps a tribe, or a group, or even a nation of these entities.

In our own three-dimensional world the crystals seemed dead and inert, mere hunks of rock, for we humans perceived only organic life.  But the lattices that formed their structure had, over millions of years, evolved to form an intelligence that, though lacking physical senses in our Newtonian universe, manifested themselves in the domain of nullspace.

For a fleeting instant, I wondered how many other supposedly inanimate objects might have attained some kind of life in the realms of nullspace.  Had some of our supercomputers, which themselves were based on crystalline technology, also become sentient dwellers there?

By mining the deposits on New Sonora, the Bagpipe told me, Xavier Xerxes would not only destroy an entire collective of these creatures, he was also potentially injuring the entire Bagpipe species, for the Bagpipes depended upon the nullspace-expressed consciousness rooted in these crystals to guide/propel their ships from world to world.  Without them, their ability to cross space would disappear.

I conjured up an image of the crystals in the Venture's hold.  "What about these?"

The response was instantaneous.  It was imperative that my crystals be returned from where they had been mined.  There, over an unspecified period of time, the crystalline structure would repair itself and grow again into a unified whole.  But time was rapidly slipping away -- the damage had to be repaired soon.

"Very well," I temporized.  "But I'll have to figure out a way to actually do this.  You don't understand human laws and customs.  You'll have to give me time to figure out how to accomplish what you want."

"Why?  Why?  Why?" the Bagpipe seemed to wail.  Then I got something like: "Short time.  Soon."  Was that a few days?  Then, "No longer.  We will take action."  He projected an image of me trying to leave the planet and of their ship tracking me down, taking the crystals by force and destroying the Venture.

My vision blurred to a uniform gray and I found myself back in the Venture with my fingers fumbling to pull the Bagpipes' device from my head.  Beside me

Rebona Myking was tugging at her own band.  She looked at me wide-eyed, her face filled with awe.  "Did you see what I saw?"

"I suppose so."  I glanced at the three aliens and heaved an irritated sigh.  "At least now we know what they want and why."

 

*     *     *

 

"It's a nice ethical problem," I mused after the Bagpipes had left.

"I can see a number of them," snapped Rebona tartly.  "Which particular one are you talking about?"

"My personal one.  If I return the crystals I'll be left with an empty ship, no prospects, just enough emergency money to fuel up one more time and get off-planet, and absolutely nowhere to go."

"If you don't give them up the Bagpipes will chase you down and take them.  What's the ethical problem?"

"Now we know what my crystals can be used for.  It's obvious that I am sitting on Xavier Xerxes' fortune."