While Pham had been away with Ravna, Saint Rihndell had come up with a plan. Applying the regrowth agent would be too obvious in the same harbor with the Aprahanti ships. Besides, the chief Butterfly had demanded the OOB move out. Saint Rihndell had a small harbor about sixteen million klicks around the RIP system. The move was even plausible, for it happened that there was a Skroderider terrane in the Harmonious Repose system — and currently it was just a few hundred kilometers from Rihndell's second harbor. They would rendezvous with the tusk-legs, exchanging repairs for two hundred seventeen flamed trellises. And if the trellises were perfectly matched, Rihndell promised to throw in an agrav refit. After the Fall of Relay, that would be very welcome… Hunh. Ol' Blueshell just never stopped wheeling and dealing.
The OOB slipped free of its moorings and carefully drifted up from the ring plane. Tiptoe-ing out. Pham kept a close watch on the EM and ultrawave windows. But there were no target-locking emanations from the Aprahanti vessels, nothing more than casual radar contact. No one followed. Little OOB and its "potted plants" were beneath the notice of the great warriors.
One thousand meters above the ring plane. Three. The Skroderiders' chatter — both with Pham and between themselves — dwindled to naught. Their stalks and fronds angled so the sensing surfaces looked out in all directions. The sun and its power cloud was a blaze of light on one side of the deck. They were above the rings, but still so close… It was like standing at sunset on a beach of colored sands… that stretched to an infinite horizon. The Skroderiders stared into it, their fronds gently swaying.
Twenty kilometers above the rings. One thousand. They lit the OOB's main torch and accelerated across the system. The Skroderiders came slowly out of their trance. Once they arrived at the second harbor, the regrowth would take about five hours — assuming Rihndell's agent had not deteriorated; the Saint claimed it was recently imported from the Top, and undiluted.
"Okay, so when do we deliver the trellises?"
"On completion of the repairs. We can't depart until Saint Rihndell -or his customers — are satisfied that all the pieces are genuine."
Pham drummed his fingers on the comm console. This operation brought back a lot of memories, some of them hair-raising. "So they get the goods while we're still in the middle of RIP. I don't like it."
"See here, Sir Pham. Your experience with star trading was in the Slow Zone, where exchanges were separated by decades or centuries of travel time. I admire you for that, more than I can say — but it gives you a twisted view of things. Up here in the Beyond, the notion of return business is important. We know very little of Saint Rihndell's inner motivation, but we do know his repair business has existed for at least forty years. Sharp dealing we can expect from him, but if he robbed or murdered very many, trader groups would know, and his little business would starve."
"Hmf." No point in arguing it right now, but Pham guessed that this situation was special. Rihndell — and the RIPers in general — had Death to Vermin sitting on their doorstep, and stories of major chaos coming from the direction of Sjandra Kei. With that background they might just lose their courage once they had the trellises. Some precautions were in order. He drifted off to the ship's machine shop.
Ravna came to the cargo deck as Blueshell and Greenstalk were preparing the trellises for delivery. She moved hesitantly, pushing awkwardly from point to point. There were dark rings, almost bruises, beneath her eyes. She returned Pham's hug almost tentatively, but didn't let go. "I want to help. Is there anything I can do to help?"
The Skroderiders left their trellises and rolled over. Blueshell ran a frond gently across Ravna's arm, "Nothing for you to do now, my lady Ravna. We have everything well, ah, in hand. We'll be back in less than an hour, and then we can be rid of here."
But they let her check their cameras and the cargo strap-downs. Pham drifted close by her as she inspected the trellises. The twisted carbon blocks looked stranger than the one alone had. Properly stacked, they fit perfectly. More than a meter across, the stack looked like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle carved from coal. Counting a separate bag of loose spares, they totaled less than half a kilogram. Huh. Damn things should be flammable as hell. Pham resolved to play with the remaining hundred odd trellises after they were safely back in deep space.
Then the Skroderiders were through the cargo lock with their delivery, and they could only follow along on their cameras.
