The Players | Page 2

the tent, taking the sword from the wall. Drawing it from its
scabbard, he pointed to the unusually long, slender blade.
"This comes from Norlar, too. But the smith who made it is still farther
to the east, beyond the Great Sea." He gripped the blade, flexing it.
"Look you," he commanded, "how this blade has life. Here is none of
your soft bronze or rough iron from the northern hills. Here is a living
metal that will sever a hair, yet not shatter on the hardest helm."
Lanko showed interest. "You say this sword was made beyond the
Great Sea? How, then, came it to Norlar and thence here?"
Musa shook his head. "I am not sure," he confessed. "It is rumored that
the priests of the sea god, Kondaro, by praying to their deity, are guided
across the sea to lands unknown."
"Taking traders with them?"
"So I have been told."

"And you plan to journey to Norlar to verify this rumor, and perhaps to
make a sea voyage?"
Musa stroked his beard, wondering if this man could actually read
thoughts.
"Yes," he admitted, "I had that in mind."
"I see." Lanko reached for the sword. As Musa handed it to him, he
extended it toward the rear of the booth, whipping it in an intricate
saber drill. Musa watched, puzzled. An experienced swordsman himself
he had thought he knew all of the sword arts. The sword flexed, singing
as it cut through the air.
"Merchant, I like this sword. What would its price be?"
* * * * *
Musa was disappointed. Here was strange bargaining. People just didn't
walk in and announce their desire for definite articles. They feigned
indifference. They picked over the wares casually, disparagingly. They
looked at many items, asking prices. They bargained a little, perhaps, to
test the merchant. They made comments about robbery, and about the
things they had seen in other merchants' booths which were so much
better and so much cheaper.
Slowly, and with the greatest reluctance, did the normal shopper
approach the object he coveted.
Then, here was this man.
"Well," Musa told himself, "make the most of it." He shrugged.
"Nine hundred balata," he stated definitely, matching the frank
directness of this unusual shopper, and incidentally doubling his price.
Lanko was examining the hilt of the sword. He snapped a fingernail
against its blade. There was a musical ping.

"You must like this bit of metal far better than I," he commented
without looking up. "I only like it two hundred balata worth."
Musa felt relief at this return to familiar procedure. He held up his
hands in a horrified gesture.
"Two hundred!" he cried. "Why, that is for the craftsman's apprentices.
There is yet the master smith, and those who bring the weapon to you.
No, friend, if you want this prince of swords, you must expect to pay
for it. One does not--" He paused. Lanko was sheathing the weapon, his
whole bearing expressing unwilling relinquishment.
Musa slowed his speech. "Still," he said softly, "I am closing out my
eastern stock, after all. Suppose we make it eight hundred fifty?"
"Did you say two hundred fifty?" Lanko held the sheathed sword up,
turning to the light to inspect the leather work.
The bargaining went on. Outside, the crowds in the street thinned, as
the populace started for their evening meals. The sword was inspected
and re-inspected. It slid out of its sheath and back again. Finally, Musa
sighed.
"Well, all right. Make it five hundred, and I'll go to dinner with you."
He shook his head in a nearly perfect imitation of despair. "May the
wineshop do better than I did."
* * * * *
"Housewife, this is Watchdog. Over."
The man at the workbench looked around. Then, he laid his tools aside,
and picked up a small microphone.
"This is Housewife," he announced.
"Coming in."
The worker clipped the microphone to his jacket, and crossed the room

to a small panel. He threw a switch, looked briefly at a viewscreen,
then snapped another switch.
"Screen's down," he reported. "Come on in, Lanko."
An opening appeared in the wall, to show a fleeting view of a bleak
landscape. Bare rocks jutted from the ice, kept clear of snow by the
shrieking wind. Extreme cold crept into the room, then a man swept in
and the wall resumed its solidity behind him.
He stood for an instant, glancing around, then shrugged off a light robe
and started shedding equipment.
"Hi, Pal," he was greeted. "How are things down Karth way?"
"Nothing exceptional." Lanko shrugged. "This area's getting so
peaceful it's monotonous." He unsnapped his accumulator and crossed
to the power generator.
"No wars, or rumors of wars," he continued. "The town's getting
moral--very moral, and it's developing into