They were clustered about a staff which had been driven into the ground, a staff topped with a white streamer marking a temporary trading ground.  These were Salariki right enough but they did not wear the colorful garb of those about them, instead they were all clad alike in muffling, sleeved robes of a drab green—­the storm priests—­their robes denoting the color of the Sargolian sky just before the onslaught of their worst tempests.  Cam had not left many clues concerning the religion of the Salariki, but the storm priests had, in narrowly defined limits, power, and their recognition of the Terran Traders would add to good feeling.

In the knot of storm priests a Terran stood—­Medic Tau—­and he was talking earnestly with the leader of the religious party.  Dane would have given much to have been free to cross and ask Tau a question or two.  Was all this assembly the result of the discovery in the hydro?  But even as he asked himself that, the trade cloths were shaken from the hands of the bargainers and Van Rycke gave an order over his shoulder.

“Measure out two spoonsful of the dried leaves into a box—­” he pointed to a tiny plastic container.

With painstaking care Dane followed directions.  At the same time a servant of the Salarik chief swept the handful of gems from the other stool and dropped them in a heap before Van Rycke, who transferred them to a strong box resting between his feet.  Paft arose—­but he had hardly quitted the trading seat before one of the lesser clan leaders had taken his place, the bargaining cloth ready looped loosely about his wrist.

It was at that point that the proceedings were interrupted.  A new party came into the open, their utilitarian Trade tunics made a drab blot as they threaded their way in a compact group through the throng of Salariki.  I-S men!  So they had not lifted from Sargol.

They showed no signs of uneasiness—­it was as if their rights were being infringed by the Free Traders.  And Kallee, their Cargo-master, swaggered straight to the bargaining point.  The chatter of Salariki voices was stilled, the Sargolians withdrew a little, letting one party of Terrans face the other, sensing drama to come.  Neither Van Rycke nor Jellico spoke, it was left to Kallee to state his case.

“You’ve crooked your orbit this time, bright boys,” his jeer was a paean of triumph.  “Code Three—­Article six—­or can’t you absorb rules tapes with your thick heads?”

Code Three—­Article six, Dane searched his memory for that law of the Service.  The words flashed into his mind as the auto-learner had planted them during his first year of training back in the Pool.

“To no alien race shall any Trader introduce any drug, food, or drink from off world, until such a substance has been certified as nonharmful to the aliens.”

There it was!  I-S had them and it was all his fault.  But if he had been so wrong, why in the world did Van Rycke sit there trading, condoning the error and making it into a crime for which they could be summoned before the Board and struck off the rolls of the Service?