The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens by L. Sprague de Camp Read Free Book Online

claimed any of these items as stolen property.
    “You see,” said Chapman. “Nobody’s tried to break into his trunk.”
    “I see,” said Captain Almeida. He slammed the trunk closed, spun the knob, and turned on Bergerat. “You, amigo, are under arrest for assault, burglary, theft, and any others I think up later. You will remain in Compartment K until we arrive, when formal charges will be preferred. Take him away.”
    Anya Savinkov protested: “But—but that is wrong—you should at least put them both in the cell. What will become of me? I am desolated—”
    Chapman patted her arm. “That’s all right, little one. I’ll take care of you.”
    “Huh?” said Celia Zorn. “Watch out for him, Anya, when he starts talking that way . . .”
    Chapman laughed at them and went back to his cabin, where he swabbed out the inside of his trunk. At the next sleeping period, he made sure Mpande was engrossed in a game in the saloon, dug his lock pickers out of their hiding place, and entered the baggage-compartment again. Captain Almeida, not knowing the peculiarity of the Kleinwasser lock, had simply given the knob a twirl, so that Bergerat’s trunk was not really locked at all.
    Half an hour later, all Miss Greenfarb’s ruined summer wear had been transferred to Bergerat’s trunk, while Monsieur Tomaselli’s assortment of similar garments reposed snugly in Chapman’s trunk in Chapman’s cabin.
    Then he relaxed in the saloon by dragging Fiasakhe away from his sentimental novels for a bout of checkers.

    ###

    After the Camões had landed and all the passengers had been through passport, health, and customs inspection, Chapman said: “Come along, girls. I think those birds in the waiting room are our Osirian capitalists.”
    “What good will it do?” wailed Celia. “We haven’t got any stock and we can’t make any . . .”
    “Leave it to me,” said Chapman. “Oh, Fiasakhe!”
    “Yess?”
    “Will you act as interpreter for me for a few minutes? I don’t know much of your language yet.”
    “Klatly.”
    They went up to the little herd of dinosaurs and Chapman told Fiasakhe: “Ask them if one of them is Thafahiya the curtain-maker.”
    After some hissing in the Sha’akhfi tongue, Fiasakhe reported: “That bik one is he.” He indicated a tall Osirian whose scales were decorated with a peculiarly gorgeous pattern of blue-and-gold paint. “Say he get Miss Greenfarb’s letter. Think it is a fine idea. You sell them the designs, they make the clothes. Naturally their answer will not haff reached Earth for many yearss yet. Will you come with them to their office to arranche the showink?”
    “Come, girls,” said Chapman, starting to follow his new associates. Through the glass doors he could see an Osirian automobile—a wheeled platform with handrails but no seats. With those tails a sedan body wouldn’t be practical . . .
    “Senhor Chapman!” It was one of the Viagens officials. “Just a minute, por favor !”
    “What is it?” said Chapman in some annoyance.
    “You must sign the complaint against the Senhor Bergerat. Otherwise we cannot try him.”
    “Don’t want to press that complaint,” said Chapman, feeling magnanimous. “Four months in Compartment K was enough punishment.”
    “But then we must let him go!”
    “Okay, let him go.”

    ###

    The assembled Osirians hissed like a leaky boiler as Celia and Anya paraded in front of them in one outfit after another. Chapman, whose command of Sha’akhfi was yet meager, read his patter from a script in phonetic symbols: “. . . here, ladies and gentlemen, is an outfit for window shopping on the boulevard. Notice the flare of the skirt . . .” He knew his accent was terrible, since some Sha’akhfi sounds simply could not be made by human vocal organs and vice versa. Naturally he did not tell them they were looking at the line of Tomaselli of Paris.
    The female Osirians, he was gratified to see, were putting pressure on their males to buy