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  While he was in the midst of a declension which applied only to inanimate objects, the voice of the Rector—and what a mellow voice it was!—floated through the secretary’s intercom.

  “Admit the novice, Alen,” said the Master Herald.

  A final settling of his robes and the youth walked into the Rector’s huge office, with the seal of the Order blazing in diamonds above his desk. There was a stranger present; presumably the trader—a black-bearded fellow whose rugged frame didn’t carry his Vegan cloak with ease.

  Said the Rector: “Novice, this is to be the crown of your toil if you are acceptable to—?” He courteously turned to the trader, who shrugged irritably.

  “It’s all one to me,” growled the blackbeard. “Somebody cheap, somebody who knows the cant of the thievish Lyran gem peddlers, above all, somebody at once. Overhead is devouring my flesh day by day as the ship waits at the field. And when we are space-borne, my imbecile crew will doubtless waste liter after priceless liter of my fuel. And when we land the swindling Lyrans will without doubt make my ruin complete by tricking me even out of the minute profit I hope to realize. Good Master Herald, let me have the infant cheap and I’ll bid you good day.”

  The Rector’s shaggy eyebrows drew down in a frown. “Trader,” he said sonorously, “our mission of galactic utilitarian culture is not concerned with your margin of profit. I ask you to test this youth and, if you find him able, to take him as your Herald on your voyage. He will serve you well, for he has been taught that commerce and words, its medium, are the unifying bonds which will one day unite the cosmos into a single humankind. Do not conceive that the College and Order of Heralds is a mere aid to you in your commercial adventure.”

  “Very well,” growled the trader. He addressed Alen in broken Lyran: “Boy, how you make up Vegan stones of three fires so Lyran women like, come buy, buy again?”

  Alen smoothly replied: “The Vegan triple-fire gem finds most favor on Lyran and especially among its women when set in a wide glass anklet if large, and when arranged in the Lyran ‘lucky five’ pattern in a glass thumb-ring if small.” He was glad, very glad, he had come across—and as a matter of course memorized, in the relentless fashion of the Order—a novel which touched briefly on the Lyran jewel trade.

  The trader glowered and switched to Cephean—apparently his native tongue. “That was well enough said, Herald. Now tell me whether you’ve got guts to man a squirt in case we’re intercepted by the thieving so-called Customs collectors of Eyolf’s Realm between here and Lyra?”

  Alen knew the Rector’s eyes were on him. “The noble mission of our Order,” he said, “forbids me to use any weapon but the truth in furthering cosmic utilitarian civilization. No, master trader, I shall not man one of your weapons.”

  The trader shrugged. “So I must take what I get. Good Master Herald, make me a price.”

  The Rector said casually: “I regard this chiefly as a training mission for our novice; the fee will be nominal. Let us say twenty-five per cent of your net as of blastoff from Lyra, to be audited by Journeyman-Herald Alen.”

  The trader’s howl of rage echoed in the dome of the huge room. “It’s not fair!” he roared. “Who but you thievish villains with your Order and your catch-‘em-young and your years of training can learn the tongues of the galaxy? What chance has a decent merchant busy with profit and loss got to learn the cant of every race between Sirius and the Coalsack? It’s not fair! It’s not fair and I’ll say so until my dying breath!”

  “Die outside if you find our terms unacceptable, then,” said the Rector. “The Order does not haggle.”

  “Well I know it,” sighed the trader brokenly. “I should have stuck to my own system and my good father’s pump-flange factory. But no! I had to pick up a bargain in gems on Vega! Enough of this—bring me your contract and I’ll sign it.”

  The Rector’s shaggy eyebrows went up. “There is no contract,” he said. “A mutual trust between Herald and trader is the cornerstone upon which cosmos-wide amity and understanding will be built.”

  “At twenty-five per cent of an unlicked pup,” muttered blackbeard to himself in Cephean.

  None of his instructors had played Polonius as Alen, with the seal of the Journeyman-Herald on his brow, packed for blastoff and vacated his cell. He supposed they knew that twenty years of training either had done their work or had not.

  The trader taking Alen to the field where his ship waited, was less wise. “The secret of successful negotiation,” he weightily told his Herald, “is to yield willingly. This may strike you as a paradox, but it is the veritable key to my success in maintaining the profits of my good father’s pump-flange trade. The secret is to yield with rueful admiration of your opponent—but only in unimportant details. Put up a little battle about delivery date or about terms of credit and then let him have his way. But you never give way a hair’s breadth on your asking price unless—”

  Alen let him drivel on as they drove through the outer works of the College. He was glad the car was open. For the first time he was being accorded the doffed hat that is the due of Heralds from their inferiors in the Order, and the grave nod of salutation from equals. Five-year-old postulants seeing his brow-seal tugged off their headgear with comical celerity; fellow-novices, equals a few hours before, uncovered as though he were the Rector himself.

  The ceremonial began to reach the trader. When, with a final salutation, a lay warder let them through the great gate of the curtain wall, he said with some irritation: “They appear to hold you in high regard, boy.”

  “I am better addressed as ‘Herald,’ ” said Alen composedly.

  “A plague descend on the College and Order! Do you think I don’t know my manners? Of course, I call a Herald ‘Herald,’ but we’re going to be cooped up together and you’ll be working for me. What’ll happen to ship’s discipline if I have to kowtow to you?”

  “There will be no problem,” said Alen.

  Blackbeard grunted and trod fiercely on the accelerator.

  “That’s my ship,” he said at length. “Starsong. Vegan registry—it may help passing through Eyolf’s Realm, though it cost me overmuch in bribes. A crew of eight, lazy, good-for-nothing wastrels—Agh! Can I believe my eyes?” The car jammed to a halt before the looming ship and blackbeard was up the ladder and through the port in a second. Settling his robes, Alen followed.

  He found the trader fiercely denouncing his chief engineer for using space drive to heat the ship; he had seen the faint haze of a minimum exhaust from the stern tubes.

  “For that, dolt,” screamed blackbeard, “we have a thing known as electricity. Have you by chance ever heard of it? Are you aware that a chief engineer’s responsibility is the efficient and economical operation of his ship’s drive mechanism?”

  The chief, a cowed-looking Cephean, saw Alen with relief and swept off his battered cap. The Herald nodded gravely and the trader broke off in irritation. “We need none of that bowing and scraping for the rest of the voyage,” he declared.

  “Of course not, sir,” said the chief. “O’course not. I was just welcoming the Herald aboard. Welcome aboard, Herald. I’m Chief Elwon, Herald. And I’m glad to have a Herald with us.” A covert glance at the trader. “I’ve voyaged with Heralds and without, and I don’t mind saying I feel safer indeed with you aboard.”

  “May I be taken to my quarters?” asked Alen.

  “Your—?” began the trader, stupefied.

  The chief broke in: “I’ll fix you a cabin, Herald. We’ve got some bulkheads I can rig aft for a snug little space, not roomy, but the best a little ship like this can afford.”

  The trader collapsed into a bucket seat as the chief bustled aft and Alen followed.

  “Herald,” the chief said with some embarrassment after he had collared two crewmen and set them to work, “you’ll have to excuse our good master trader. He’s new to the interstar lanes and he doesn’t exactly know the jets yet. Between us we’ll get him squared away.”
r />   Alen inspected the cubicle run up for him—a satisfactory enclosure affording him the decent privacy he rated. He dismissed the chief and the crewmen with a nod and settled himself on the cot.

  Beneath the iron composure in which he had been trained, he felt scared and alone. Not even old Machiavelli seemed to offer comfort or council: “There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things,” said Chapter Six.

  But what said Chapter Twenty-Six? “Where the willingness is great, the difficulties cannot be great.”

  Starsong was not a happy ship. Blackbeard’s nagging stinginess hung over the crew like a thundercloud, but Alen professed not to notice. He walked regularly fore and aft for two hours a day greeting the crew members in their various native tongues and then wrapping himself in the reserve the Order demanded—though he longed to salute them man-to-man, eat with them, gossip about their native planets, the past misdeeds that had brought them to their berths aboard the miserly Starsong and their hopes for the future. The Rule of the College and Order of Heralds decreed otherwise. He accepted the uncoverings of the crew with a nod and tried to be pleased because they stood in growing awe of him that ranged from Chief Elwon’s lively appreciation of a Herald’s skill to Wiper

  Jukkl’s superstitious reverence. Jukkl was a low-browed specimen from a planet of the decadent Sirius system. He outdid the normal slovenliness of an all-male crew on a freighter—a slovenliness in which Alen could not share. Many of his waking hours were spent in his locked cubicle burnishing his metal and cleaning and pressing his robes. A Herald was never supposed to suggest by his appearance that he shared mortal frailties.

  Blackbeard himself yielded a little, to the point of touching his cap sullenly. This probably was not so much awe at Alen’s studied manner as respect for the incisive, lightning-fast job of auditing the Herald did on the books of the trading venture—absurdly complicated books with scores of accounts to record a simple matter of buying gems cheap on Vega and chartering a ship in the hope of selling them dearly on Lyra. The complicated books and overlapping accounts did tell the story, but they made it very easy for an auditor to erroneously read a number of costs as far higher than they actually were. Alen did not fall into the trap.

  On the fifth day after blastoff, Chief Elwon rapped, respectfully but urgently, on the door of Alen’s cubicle.

  “If you please, Herald,” he urged, “could you come to the bridge?”

  Alen’s heart bounded in his chest, but he gravely said: “My meditation must not be interrupted. I shall join you on the bridge in ten minutes.” And for ten minutes he methodically polished a murky link in the massive gold chain that fastened his boat-cloak—the “meditation.” He donned the cloak before stepping out; the summons sounded like a full-dress affair in the offing.

  The trader was stamping and fuming. Chief Elwon was riffling through his spec book unhappily. Astrogator Hufner was at the plot computer running up trajectories and knocking them down again. A quick glance showed Alen that they were all high-speed trajectories in the “evasive action” class.

  “Herald,” said the trader grimly, “we have broken somebody’s detector bubble.” He jerked his thumb at a red-lit signal. “I expect we’ll be overhauled shortly. Are you ready to earn your twenty-five per cent of the net?”

  Alen overlooked the crudity. “Are you rigged for color video, merchant?” he asked.

  “We are.”

  “Then I am ready to do what I can for my client.”

  He took the communicator’s seat, stealing a glance in the still-blank screen. The reflection of his face was reassuring, though he wished he had thought to comb his small beard.

  Another light flashed on, and Hufner quit the operator to study the detector board. “Big, powerful and getting closer,” he said tersely. “Scanning for us with directionals now. Putting out plenty of energy—”

  The loud-speaker of the ship-to-ship audio came to life.

  “What ship are you?” it demanded in Vegan. “We are a Customs cruiser of the Realm of Eyolf. What ship are you?”

  “Have the crew man the squirts,” said the trader softly to the chief.

  Elwon looked at Alen, who shook his head. “Sorry, sir,” said the engineer apologetically. “The Herald—”

  “We are the freighter Starsong, Vegan registry,” said Alen into the audio mike as the trader choked. “We are carrying Vegan gems to Lyra.”

  “They’re on us,” said the astrogator despairingly, reading his instruments. The ship-to-ship video flashed on, showing an arrogant, square-jawed face topped by a battered naval cap.

  “Lyra indeed! We have plans of our own for Lyra. You will heave to—” began the officer in the screen, before he noted Alen. “My pardon, Herald,” he said sardonically. “Herald, will you please request the ship’s master to heave to for boarding and search? We wish to assess and collect Customs duties. You are aware, of course, that your vessel is passing through the Realm.”

  The man’s accented Vegan reeked of Algol IV. Alen switched to that obscure language to say: “We were not aware of that. Are you aware that there is a reciprocal trade treaty in effect between the Vegan system and the Realm which specifies that freight in Vegan bottoms is dutiable only when consigned to ports in the Realm?”

  “You speak Algolian, do you? You Heralds have not been underrated, but don’t plan to lie your way out of this. Yes, I am aware of some such agreement as you mentioned. We shall board you, as I said, and assess and collect duty in kind. If, regrettably, there has been any mistake you are, of course, free to apply to the Realm for reimbursement. Now, heave to!”

  “I have no intentions of lying. I speak the solemn truth when I say that we shall fight to the last man any attempt of yours to board and loot us.”

  Alen’s mind was racing furiously through the catalogue of planetary folkways the Rule had decreed that he master. Algol IV—some ancestor-worship; veneration of mother; hand-to-hand combat with knives; complimentary greeting, “May you never strike down a weaker foe”; folk-hero Gaarek unjustly accused of slaying a cripple and exiled but it was an enemy’s plot—

  A disconcerted shadow was crossing the face of the officer as Alen improvised: “You will, of course, kill us all. But before this happens I shall have messaged back to the College and Order of Heralds the facts in the case, with a particular request that your family be informed. Your name, I think, will be remembered as long as Gaarek’s—though not in the same way, of course; the Algolian whose hundred-man battle cruiser wiped out a virtually unarmed freighter with a crew of eight.”

  The officer’s face was dark with rage. “You devil!” he snarled. “Leave my family out of this! I’ll come aboard and fight you man-to-man if you have the stomach for it!”

  Alen shook his head regretfully. “The Rule of my Order forbids recourse to violence,” he said. “Our only permissible weapon is the truth.”

  “We’re coming aboard,” said the officer grimly. “I’ll order my men not to harm your people. We’ll just be collecting customs. If your people shoot first, my men will be under orders to do nothing more than disable them.”

  Alen smiled and uttered a sentence or two in Algolian.

  The officer’s jaw dropped and he croaked, after a pause: “I’ll cut you to ribbons. You can’t say that about my mother, you—” and he spewed back some of the words Alen had spoken.

  “Calm yourself,” said the Herald gravely. “I apologize for my disgusting and unheraldic remarks. But I wished to prove a point. You would have killed me if you could; I touched off a reaction which had been planted in you by your culture. I will be able to do the same with the men of yours who come aboard. For every race of man there is the intolerable insult that must be avenged in blood.

  “Send your men aboard under orders not to kill if you wish; I shall goad them into a killing rage. We shall be massacred, yours will be the blame and
you will be disgraced and disowned by your entire planet.” Alen hoped desperately that the naval crews of the Realm were, as reputed, a barbarous and undisciplined lot—

  Evidently they were, and the proud Algolian dared not risk it. In his native language he spat again: “You devil!” and switched back into Vegan. “Freighter Starsong,” he said bleakly, “I find that my space fix was in error and that you are not in Realm territory. You may proceed.”

  The astrogator said from the detector board, incredulously: “He’s disengaging. He’s off us. He’s accelerating. Herald, what did you say to him?”

  But the reaction from blackbeard was more gratifying. Speechless, the trader took off his cap. Alen acknowledged the salute with a grave nod before he started back to his cubicle. It was just as well, he reflected, that the trader didn’t know his life and his ship had been unconditionally pledged in a finish fight against a hundred-man battle cruiser.

  Lyra’s principal spaceport was pocked and broken, but they made a fair enough landing. Alen, in full heraldic robes, descended from Starsong to greet a handful of port officials.

  “Any metals aboard?” demanded one of them.

  “None for sale,” said the Herald. “We have Vegan gems, chiefly triple-fire.” He knew that the dull little planet was short of metals and, having made a virtue of necessity, was somehow prejudiced against their import.

  “Have your crew transfer the cargo to the Customs shed,” said the port official studying Starsong’s papers. “And all of you wait there.”

  All of them—except Alen—lugged numbered sacks and boxes of gems to the low brick building designated. The trader was allowed to pocket a handful for samples before the shed was sealed—a complicated business. A brick was mortared over the simple ironwood latch that closed the ironwood door, a pat of clay was slapped over the brick and the port seal stamped in it. A mechanic with what looked like a pottery blowtorch fed by powdered coal played a flame on the clay seal until it glowed orange-red and that was that.