Plague Ship | Page 2

the plains. From the
Queen's observation ports, one could watch the constant ripple of the grass so that the
planet appeared to be largely clothed in a shimmering, flowing carpet. To the west were
the seas--stretches of shallow water so cut up by strings of islands that they more
resembled a series of salty lakes. And it was what was to be found in those seas which
had lured the Solar Queen to Sargol.
Though, by rights, the discovery was that of another Trader--Traxt Cam--who had bid for
trading rights to Sargol, hoping to make a comfortable fortune--or at least expenses with
a slight profit--in the perfume trade, exporting from the scented planet some of its most
fragrant products. But once on Sargol he had discovered the Koros stones--gems of a new
type--a handful of which offered across the board in one of the inner planet trading marts
had nearly caused a riot among bidding gem merchants. And Cam had been well on the
way to becoming one of the princes of Trade when he had been drawn into the vicious
net of the Limbian pirates and finished off.
Because they, too, had stumbled into the trap which was Limbo, and had had a very
definite part in breaking up that devilish installation, the crew of the Solar Queen had
claimed as their reward the trading rights of Traxt Cam in default of legal heirs. And so
here they were on Sargol with the notes left by Cam as their guide, and as much lore
concerning the Salariki as was known crammed into their minds.
Dane sat down on the end of the ramp, his feet on Sargolian soil, thin, red soil with
glittering bits of gold flake in it. He did not doubt that he was under observation from
hidden eyes, but he tried to show no sign that he guessed it. The adult Salariki maintained
at all times an attitude of aloof and complete indifference toward the Traders, but the
juvenile population were as curious as their elders were contemptuous. Perhaps there was
a method of approach in that. Dane considered the idea.
Van Rycke and Captain Jellico had handled the first negotiations--and the process had
taken most of a day--the result totaling exactly nothing. In their contacts with the off
world men the feline ancestered Salariki were ceremonious, wary, and completely
detached. But Cam had gotten to them somehow--or he would not have returned from his
first trip with that pouch of Koros stones. Only, among his records, salvaged on Limbo,
he had left absolutely no clue as to how he had beaten down native sales resistance. It
was baffling. But patience had to be the middle name of every Trader and Dane had

complete faith in Van. Sooner or later the Cargo-master would find a key to unlock the
Salariki.
As if the thought of Dane's chief had summoned him, Van Rycke, his scented tunic
sealed to his bull's neck in unaccustomed trimness, his cap on his blond head, strode
down the ramp, broadcasting waves of fragrance as he moved. He sniffed vigorously as
he approached his assistant and then nodded in approval.
"So you're all greased and ready--"
"Is the Captain coming too, sir?"
Van Rycke shook his head. "This is our headache. Patience, my boy, patience--" He led
the way through a thin screen of the grass on the other side of the scorched landing field
to a well-packed earth road.
Again Dane felt eyes, knew that they were being watched. But no Salarik stepped out of
concealment. At least they had nothing to fear in the way of attack. Traders were immune,
taboo, and the trading stations were set up under the white diamond shield of peace, a
peace guaranteed on blood oath by every clan chieftain in the district. Even in the midst
of interclan feuding deadly enemies met in amity under that shield and would not turn
claw knife against each other within a two mile radius of its protection.
The grass forests rustled betrayingly, but the Terrans displayed no interest in those who
spied upon them. An insect with wings of brilliant green gauze detached itself from the
stalk of a grass tree and fluttered ahead of the Traders as if it were an official herald.
From the red soil crushed by their boots arose a pungent odor which fought with the scent
they carried with them. Dane swallowed three or four times and hoped that his superior
officer had not noticed that sign of discomfort. Though Van Rycke, in spite of his general
air of sleepy benevolence and careless goodwill, noticed everything, no matter how trivial,
which might have a bearing on the delicate negotiations of Galactic Trade. He had not
climbed to his present status of expert Cargo-master by