Balance of Trade by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

taboos and ground-hugger religions. Even a master trader might chart a careful course, there. Khat told a story—a true one, he thought—regarding the tradeship Sweet Louise , which had taken aboard an illustrated paper book of great age. The pictures had been pretty, the pages hand-sewn into a real leather cover set with flawed, gaudy stones. The words were in no language that any of Louise's crew could read, but the price had been right; and the trader had a line on a collector of uniquities two planets down on the trade-hop. Everything should have been top-drawer, excepting that the powers of religion on the planet between the collector and the book declared that item "blasphemous," meaning the port police had it off ship in seconds and burned it right there on the dock. Louise lost the investment, the price, the fine—and the right to trade on that port, which was no loss, as far as Jethri could see. . . 

    A light step at the top of the hall pulled him out of his thoughts; a glance and he was on his feet, bowing as low as he could without endangering the tea.

    "Arms Master sig'Kethra."

    The man checked, neither surprise on his face, nor parcels in his hands, and inclined his head. "Apprentice Trader. Well met. A moment, if you please, while I consult with the pilot."

    He moved past, walking into the pilot's office with nary a ring, like he had every right to the place, which, Jethri thought, he very well might. The door slid shut behind him and Jethri resumed his seat, reconciled to another longish wait while business was discussed between pilot and arms master.

    Say that Pen Rel was a man of few words. Or that the pilot was eager for flight. In either case, they were both coming out the door before Jethri had time to start another line of thought.

    "We lift, Jethri Gobelyn," Pen Rel said. "Soon we will be home."

    And that, at least, Jethri thought, rising with alacrity, was a proper spacer's sentiment. Enough of this slogging about in the dust—it was time and past time to return to the light, clean corridors of a ship.

Day 42
Standard Year 1118
Elthoria
Arriving

    "IS THE WHOLE ship heavy, then?" he asked Pen Rel's back.

    The Liaden glanced over his shoulder, then stopped and turned right around in the center of the ridiculously wide hallway, something that might actually have been puzzlement shadowing the edges of his face.

    "Is the gravity worrisome, Jethri Gobelyn? I did note that you disliked the port, but I had assumed an aversion to . . . the noise, perhaps—or the dirt. I regret that it had not occurred to me that the ship of your kin might have run weightless."

    Jethri shook his head. "Not weightless," he panted. "Just—light. The core—admin, you know—was near enough to heavy, but the rest of the ship ran light, and the rim was lightest of all." He drew a deep breath, caught by the sudden and awful realization that no one knew what the normal grav of the Liaden homeworld was. It could be that Ynsolt'i normal was light to them, and if the ship got heavier, the further in they—

    Pen Rel moved his hand like he was smoothing wrinkles out of the air. "Peace, Jethri Gobelyn. Most of Elthoria runs at constant gravity. The areas that do not are unlikely to be of concern to one of your station. You will suffer no more than you do at this moment."

    Jethri gaped at him. "Runs constant ," he repeated, and shook his head. "How big is this ship?"

    The Liaden moved his shoulders. "It is large enough. Doubt not that the master trader will provide a map—and require you to memorize it, as well."

    Where he came from, holding the map of the ship and the location of bolt holes, grabs and emergency suits in your head was only commonsense. He shrugged, no where near as fluid as his companion. "Well sure she will. No problem with that."

    "I am pleased to hear you say so," Pen Rel said, and turned about-face, moving briskly out down the hall. "Let us not keep the master trader waiting."

    In fact,