Flandry of Terra by Poul Anderson

Author:Poul Anderson [Anderson, Poul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-07-10T16:00:00+00:00

II

The spaceport was built on a hill, a hundred jungled kilometers from the planet’s chief city, for the benefit of the Betelgeuseans. A few ancient Pulaoic ships were also kept at that place, but never used.

“A hermit kingdom,” the bluefaced skipper had growled to Flandry in the tavern on Orma. “We don’t visit them very often. Once or twice a standard year a trading craft of ours stops by.” The Betelgeuseans were ubiquitous throughout this sector of space. Flandry had engaged passage on one of their tramp ships, as the quickest way to get from his completed assignment on Altai to the big Imperial port at Spica VI. There he would catch the Empress Maia, which touched on the homeward leg of her regular cruise. He felt he deserved to ride back to Terra on a luxury liner, and he was an accomplished padder of expense accounts.

“What do you trade for?” he asked. It was idle curiosity, filling in time until the merchant ship departed this planet. They were speaking Alfzarian, which scratched his throat, but the other being had no Anglic.

“Hides, natural fibers, and fruits, mostly. You’ve never eaten modjo fruit? Humans in this sector think it’s quite a delicacy; me, I wouldn’t know. But I guess nobody ever thought to take some as far as Terra. Hm-m-m.” The Betelgeusean went into a commercial reverie.

Flandry sipped raw local brandy and said, “There are still scattered independent colonies left over from the early days. I’ve just come from one, in fact. But I’ve never heard of this Unan Besar.”

“Why should you? Doubtless the astronautical archives at sector HQ, even at Terra, contain mention of it. But it keeps to itself. And it’s of no real importance, even to us. We sell a little machinery and stuff there; we pick up the goods I mentioned; but it amounts to very little. It could amount to more, I think, but whoever controls the planet doesn’t want that.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s obvious. They have one wretched little spaceport for the whole globe. Antiquated facilities, a few warehouses, all stuck way to chaos out in the woods-as if spaceships were still spewing radiation! Traders aren’t permitted to go anywhere else. They aren’t even furnished a bunkhouse. So naturally, they only stay long enough to discharge a consignment and load the exchange cargo. They never meet anyone except a few officials. They’re not supposed to speak with the native longshoremen. Once or twice I’ve tried that, in private, just to see what would happen. Nothing did. The poor devil was so frightened that he ran. He knew the law!”

“Hm.” Flandry rubbed his chin. Its scratchiness reminded him he was due for his bimonthly dose of antibeard enzyme, and he shifted to stroking his mustache. “I wonder they even let you learn their language.”

“That happened several generations ago, when our traders first made contact. Anglic was inconvenient for both parties-Oh, yes, a few of their aristocrats know Anglic. We sell them books, newstapes, anything to keep their ruling class up to date on what’s happening in the rest of the known galaxy.

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