Van Rycke and Captain Jellico had handled the first negotiations—­and the process had taken most of a day—­the result totaling exactly nothing.  In their contacts with the off world men the feline ancestered Salariki were ceremonious, wary, and completely detached.  But Cam had gotten to them somehow—­or he would not have returned from his first trip with that pouch of Koros stones.  Only, among his records, salvaged on Limbo, he had left absolutely no clue as to how he had beaten down native sales resistance.  It was baffling.  But patience had to be the middle name of every Trader and Dane had complete faith in Van.  Sooner or later the Cargo-master would find a key to unlock the Salariki.

As if the thought of Dane’s chief had summoned him, Van Rycke, his scented tunic sealed to his bull’s neck in unaccustomed trimness, his cap on his blond head, strode down the ramp, broadcasting waves of fragrance as he moved.  He sniffed vigorously as he approached his assistant and then nodded in approval.

“So you’re all greased and ready—­”

“Is the Captain coming too, sir?”

Van Rycke shook his head.  “This is our headache.  Patience, my boy, patience—­” He led the way through a thin screen of the grass on the other side of the scorched landing field to a well-packed earth road.

Again Dane felt eyes, knew that they were being watched.  But no Salarik stepped out of concealment.  At least they had nothing to fear in the way of attack.  Traders were immune, taboo, and the trading stations were set up under the white diamond shield of peace, a peace guaranteed on blood oath by every clan chieftain in the district.  Even in the midst of interclan feuding deadly enemies met in amity under that shield and would not turn claw knife against each other within a two mile radius of its protection.

The grass forests rustled betrayingly, but the Terrans displayed no interest in those who spied upon them.  An insect with wings of brilliant green gauze detached itself from the stalk of a grass tree and fluttered ahead of the Traders as if it were an official herald.  From the red soil crushed by their boots arose a pungent odor which fought with the scent they carried with them.  Dane swallowed three or four times and hoped that his superior officer had not noticed that sign of discomfort.  Though Van Rycke, in spite of his general air of sleepy benevolence and careless goodwill, noticed everything, no matter how trivial, which might have a bearing on the delicate negotiations of Galactic Trade.  He had not climbed to his present status of expert Cargo-master by overlooking anything at all.  Now he gave an order: 

“Take an equalizer—­”

Dane reached for his belt pouch, flushing, fiercely determined inside himself, that no matter how smells warred about him that day, he was not going to let it bother him.  He swallowed the tiny pellet Medic Tau had prepared for just such trials and tried to occupy his mind with the work to come.  If there would be any work—­or would another long day be wasted in futile speeches of mutual esteem which gave formal lip service to Trade and its manifest benefits?