Un-Man and Other Novellas by Poul Anderson

Author:Poul Anderson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-06-11T04:00:00+00:00

MARGIN OF PROFIT

by Poul Anderson

IT WAS an anachronism to have a human receptionist in this hall of lucent plastic, among the machines that winked and talked between jade columns soaring up into vaulted dimness—but a remarkably pleasant one when she was as long-legged and red-headed a stun-blast as the girl behind the desk. Captain Torres drew to a crisp halt, and a gauntleted hand went to his gilt helmet. Traveling down sumptuous curves, his eye was jarred by the small needier at her waist.

“Good day, sir,” she smiled. “One moment, please, I’ll see if Freeman van Rijn is ready for you.” She switched on the intercom and a three-megavolt oath bounced out. “No, he’s still conferring on the vid. Won’t you be seated?”

Before she turned it off, Torres caught a few words: "... By damn, he’ll give us the exclusive franchise or do without our business. Who do these little emperors think they are? All right, so he has a million soldiers under arms. You can tell him to take those soldiers, with field artillery and hobnailed boots, by damn, and—” Click.

Torres wrapped his cape about the deep-blue tunic and sat down, laying one polished boot across the other knee of his white culottes. He felt out of his depth, simultaneously overdressed and naked. The regalia of a Lodgemaster in the Federated Brotherhood of Spacemen was stiff with gold braid, medals, and jewelry, far removed from the gray coverall he wore on deck or the loungers of planet leave. Worse, the guards in the tower entrance, a kilometer below, had not only checked his credentials and retinal patterns, but had unloaded his sidearm.

Blast Nicholas van Rijn and the whole Polesotechnic League! Good saints, drop him on Pluto without his under-wearl

Of course, a merchant prince did have to be wary of assassins—and most of them went to great lengths to avoid formal duels, though Van Rijn himself was supposed to be murderously fast with a handgun. Nevertheless, arming your receptionist was not a high-bom thing to do—

Torres wondered, rather wistfully, if she was one of the old devil’s mistresses. Perhaps not; but with the trouble between the Company—no, the whole League—and the Brotherhood, she’d have no time for him, being doubtless bound by a contract of personal fealty. His gaze went to the League emblem on the wall, a golden sunburst afire with opals, surrounding an ancient-style rocketship of the Caravel model, and the motto: All the traffic will bear. That could be taken two ways, he reflected sourly. Beneath it was the trademark of Van Rijn’s own outfit, the Solar Spice & Liquors Company.

The girl turned on the intercom again and heard the vido-phone being switched off; there followed a steady rumble of obscenities. “Go on in now, sir,” she said, and into the speaker: “Captain Rafael Torres, representing the Brotherhood.”

The spaceman straightened himself and went through the inner door. His lean dark face clamped into careful lines. It would be a new experience, meeting his ultimate boss; for ten years, as captain of a ship and Lodgemaster of the union local, he had not called anyone “sir.

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