smolder and reek for days or longer. Ricimer, his face screened by the rosy filter which pivoted down from inside the brim of his cap, shook his head in disgust at the Dove 's awkwardness.
The strange vessel was about the 150 tonnes of the Dove. The hull was more smoothly curved than that of a Venerian ship, but there were a dozen or more blisters marring the general lines. Some of the blisters were obviously weapons installations.
Metal was easier to form into complex shapes than mold-cast ceramics. It was also easier to tack this or that extra installation onto a metal hull later, instead of getting the design right the first time.
The Preakness had started her landing approach. Radio was useless when a starship's thrusters were swamping the RF spectrum with ions. Gregg didn't expect to learn anything until all the vessels were down.
A personnel hatch on the newcomer's belly curve opened. The rock beneath still glowed white from the landing, distorting the vessel's appearance with heat waves.
A man—a very big man—wearing a silver hard suit jumped out of the ship and ran heavily toward the Sultan. He must have heard the Preakness coming in, but he ignored the chance that the Venerian ship would crush his plasma-fried ashes to the rock.
Gregg's lips pursed. He risked raising his visor for a moment to be sure. The stranger carried a repeating rifle, as ornately splendid as his metal hard suit. The suit, at least, was functional. It had just protected its wearer across a stretch of stone so hot it was tacky.
Gregg knew better than most what it took out of you to run in a hard suit, and how easy it was to trip with your helmet visor down. He strode down to the bottom of the ramp and offered the stranger a hand—a delicate way of warning the fellow of the raised lip.
The stranger caught his bootheel anyway and shouted curses in German loud enough to be heard above the Preakness' approach. With his left gauntlet in Gregg's right hand, they clomped into Cargo Three. It wasn't often Gregg met somebody bigger than he himself was.
Molts packed themselves tighter against the bulkheads to keep clear. The aliens understood human orders, even without the kicks that normally accompanied the words. Supposedly their mouth parts permitted them to use human speech, but Gregg hadn't heard one do so yet.
The ramp/hatchcover began to rise before Gregg and the stranger were fully clear of it, lowering the noise level abruptly. Piet Ricimer was at the control box.
The stranger opened his helmet. "So!" he said in Trade English. "I am Kapitän, that is Captain Schremp of Drillinghausen. My Adler has been here in orbit for a week, but the Federation bastards, they even shot at us when we tried to land. And you are?"
"The Sultan out of Betaport, Captain Choransky commanding," Ricimer said easily. "I think the captain—"
United Europe had not been involved in reopening the stars. Even now, the North American Federation and the Southern Cross were the only regions of Earth which showed a governmental interest in interstellar trade. Private ventures from the Rhine Basin were not uncommon, though.
From the rumors, the Germans' approach to trade was rough-and-ready, even by the standards Captain Choransky applied.
Choransky appeared at the ladder from the mid-deck. "What in God's name do you think you're playing at, landing at the same time as my Dove, you poxy bastard?" he roared at Schremp.
"I thought it was better to stay close to one of your ships until I had time to explain," Schremp said without embarrassment. His full beard was blacker than seemed natural for a man whose appearance otherwise was that of a fifty-year-old. "Explain that we are to be allies, yes? If we stay together, the pussies will be glad to deal with us, I'm sure!"
He smiled. The expression made Gregg think of the stories about German "trade."
10
Virginia
The orange berm of stabilized soil protecting the settlement was in sight, half a kilometer away. A
The strange vessel was about the 150 tonnes of the Dove. The hull was more smoothly curved than that of a Venerian ship, but there were a dozen or more blisters marring the general lines. Some of the blisters were obviously weapons installations.
Metal was easier to form into complex shapes than mold-cast ceramics. It was also easier to tack this or that extra installation onto a metal hull later, instead of getting the design right the first time.
The Preakness had started her landing approach. Radio was useless when a starship's thrusters were swamping the RF spectrum with ions. Gregg didn't expect to learn anything until all the vessels were down.
A personnel hatch on the newcomer's belly curve opened. The rock beneath still glowed white from the landing, distorting the vessel's appearance with heat waves.
A man—a very big man—wearing a silver hard suit jumped out of the ship and ran heavily toward the Sultan. He must have heard the Preakness coming in, but he ignored the chance that the Venerian ship would crush his plasma-fried ashes to the rock.
Gregg's lips pursed. He risked raising his visor for a moment to be sure. The stranger carried a repeating rifle, as ornately splendid as his metal hard suit. The suit, at least, was functional. It had just protected its wearer across a stretch of stone so hot it was tacky.
Gregg knew better than most what it took out of you to run in a hard suit, and how easy it was to trip with your helmet visor down. He strode down to the bottom of the ramp and offered the stranger a hand—a delicate way of warning the fellow of the raised lip.
The stranger caught his bootheel anyway and shouted curses in German loud enough to be heard above the Preakness' approach. With his left gauntlet in Gregg's right hand, they clomped into Cargo Three. It wasn't often Gregg met somebody bigger than he himself was.
Molts packed themselves tighter against the bulkheads to keep clear. The aliens understood human orders, even without the kicks that normally accompanied the words. Supposedly their mouth parts permitted them to use human speech, but Gregg hadn't heard one do so yet.
The ramp/hatchcover began to rise before Gregg and the stranger were fully clear of it, lowering the noise level abruptly. Piet Ricimer was at the control box.
The stranger opened his helmet. "So!" he said in Trade English. "I am Kapitän, that is Captain Schremp of Drillinghausen. My Adler has been here in orbit for a week, but the Federation bastards, they even shot at us when we tried to land. And you are?"
"The Sultan out of Betaport, Captain Choransky commanding," Ricimer said easily. "I think the captain—"
United Europe had not been involved in reopening the stars. Even now, the North American Federation and the Southern Cross were the only regions of Earth which showed a governmental interest in interstellar trade. Private ventures from the Rhine Basin were not uncommon, though.
From the rumors, the Germans' approach to trade was rough-and-ready, even by the standards Captain Choransky applied.
Choransky appeared at the ladder from the mid-deck. "What in God's name do you think you're playing at, landing at the same time as my Dove, you poxy bastard?" he roared at Schremp.
"I thought it was better to stay close to one of your ships until I had time to explain," Schremp said without embarrassment. His full beard was blacker than seemed natural for a man whose appearance otherwise was that of a fifty-year-old. "Explain that we are to be allies, yes? If we stay together, the pussies will be glad to deal with us, I'm sure!"
He smiled. The expression made Gregg think of the stories about German "trade."
10
Virginia
The orange berm of stabilized soil protecting the settlement was in sight, half a kilometer away. A
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