“Why bother?” She smiled bitterly. “We’ve done that already—and it hasn’t improved things back on Terra much.”

“Hasn’t improved!? But your poorest beggar lives like a medieval king!”

“Oh, does she?” Sam’s eyes glittered. “Where’re the servants, the musicians, the courtiers, the knights willing to fight for her smile?”

“Even a Terran reject has three or four servos! They’ll even turn on the audio for him—and there’s your musicians!”

“And the courtiers? The knights?” Sam shook her head. “What made a king royal was being able to command other people—and there’s no coin that’ll buy that!”

Dar could only stare.

Then he gave his head a quick shake, pushing out a whistle. “Boy! That’s sick!”

“Also decadent.” She smiled, with Pyrrhic triumph. “They’re moribund there. What I can’t figure out is how you folks avoid it.”

Dar shrugged. “Because we’re already at the bottom? I mean, once you’ve landed here, there’s no place to go but up!”

“There’s no place to go, period!” Sam’s eyes lit. “Maybe that’s it—because it’s out here in the marches! Out here, on the edge of civilization—because anything you’re going to do, you’re going to have to do for yourselves. Terra’s too far away to send help. And too far away to really be able to run you, either. By the time they can tell you not to do something, you’ve already been doing it for a year! And because …” She clamped her mouth shut.

“Because they really don’t care?” Dar grinned. “Because this place is a hole, and the only people Terra sends out here are the ones they want to forget about? I wouldn’t be surprised if they even wanted to get rid of Shacklar.”

“Of course; he was a threat to the ones with the real power. I mean, after all, he’s capable. He was bound to make waves. Which I’m about to do too.”

“I’m braced.” Dar tried to hide the smile.

“You still haven’t shown me how you’re not really fleecing the natives.”

“No, I haven’t, have I. But it does take showing. We start trading at sundown.”

That’s not the way to make a campfire,” Sam pointed out.

“What would you know about it?” Dar blithely heaped green sticks and leaves onto the flaming kindling. “You’re a city girl.”

“Who says?”

“You. You said you came from Terra, and it’s just one great big city.”

“It is, but we’ve kept a few parks, like the Rockies. I do know you’re supposed to use dry wood.”

“Entirely correct.” Dar smiled up at the roiling column of thick gray smoke turning gold in the sunset.

Sam sighed. “All right, so you’re trying to attract attention. What do we use for cooking?”

“Why bother?” Dar started foraging in the foodbag. “All we’ve got is cheese and crackers. And raisin wine, of course.”

Sam shuddered.

Darkness came down, and company came up—five Wolmen, each with a bale on his shoulder

“Ah! Company for cordials!” Dar rubbed his hands, then reached for the bottle and the glasses.

“Get ‘em drunk before they start bargaining, huh?” Sam snorted.

“That’d take more liquor than I can pack. But they count it friendly.” He stepped toward the arrivals, raising the bottle. “How!”

“You not know, me not tell you,” the first grunted, completing the formula. “Good seeing, Dar Mandra.”

“Good to see you, too, Hirschmeir.” Dar held out a handful of glasses; the Wolman took one, and so did each of his mates as they came up. Dar poured a round and lifted his glass. “To trade!”

“And profit,” Hirschmeir grunted. He drank half his glass. “Ah! Good swill after long hike. And hot day gathering pipeweed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dar sympathized. “And it brings so little, too.”

“Five point three eight kwahers per ounce on Libra exchange,” a second Wolman said promptly.

Dar looked up in surprise. “That’s the fresh quote, right off today’s cargo ship. Where’d you get it?”

“You sell us nice wireless last month,” Hirschmeir reminded. “Tell Sergeant Walstock him run nice music service.”

“Sure will.” Dar pulled out a pad and scribbled a note.

“Little heavy on drums, though,” another Wolman said thoughtfully.

“Gotcha, Slotmeyer.” Dar scribbled again. “More booze, anybody?”

Five glasses jumped out. Dar whistled, walking around with the bottle, then picked up a bale. “Well. Let’s see what we’re talking about.” He plopped the bale onto the front of the grav-sled.

“Twenty-seven point three two kilograms,” the sled reported. “Ninety-seven percent Organum Translucem, with three percent grasses, leaf particles, and sundry detritus.”

“The sundry’s the good part.” Dar hefted the bale back off the sled and set it about halfway between himself and Hirschmeir.

“You sure that thing not living?” one of the Wolmen demanded.

“Sure. But it’s got a ghost in it.”

“No ghost in machine.” The Wolman shook his head emphatically.

Dar looked up sharply, then frowned. “Did I sell you folks that cubook series on the history of philosophy?”

“Last year,” Hirschmeir grunted. “Lousy bargain. Half of tribe quote-um Locke now.”

“Locke?” Dar scowled. “I would’ve thought Berkeley and Sartre would be more your speed.”

“Old concepts,” Slotmeyer snorted. “We learn at mothers’ knees. You forget—our ancestors opposition culture.”

“That does keep slipping my mind,” Dar confessed. “Well! How about two hundred thirty-four for the bale?”

Hirschmeir shook his head. “Too far below Libra quote. Your scrip only worth eighty percent of Libran BTU today.”

“I’m going to have to have a talk with Sergeant Walstock,” Dar growled. “Okay, so my price is twenty percent low. But you forget—we have to pay shipping charges to get this stuff to Libra.”

“And your boss Cholly also gotta pay you, and overhead,” Slotmeyer added. “We not forget anything, Dar Mandra.”

“Except that Cholly’s gotta show some profit, or he can’t stay in business,” Dar amended. “Okay, look—how about two seventy-five?”

“Tenth of a kwaher?” Hirschmeir scoffed. He bent over and picked up his bale. “Nice talking to you, Dar Mandra.”

“Okay, okay! Two eighty!”

“Two ninety,” Slotmeyer said promptly.

“Okay, two eighty-five.” Dar sighed, shaking his head. “The things I do for you guys! Well, it’s not your worry if I don’t come back next month. Hope you like the new man.”

“No worry. We tell Cholly we only deal with soft touch.” Hirschmeir grinned. “Okay. What you got to sell, Dar Mandra?”

“Oh, a little bit of this and a minor chunk of that.” Dar turned to the sled. “Wanna give me a hand?”

Together, all six of them manhandled a huge crate onto the ground. Dar popped the catches and opened the front and the left side. The Wolmen crowded around, fingering the merchandise and muttering in excitement.

“What this red stone?” Slotmeyer demanded, holding up a machined gem. “Ruby for laser?”

Dar nodded. “Synthetically grown, but it works better than the natural ones.”

“Here barrels,” another Wolman pointed out.

“Same model you sold us instruction manual for?” Hirschmeir weighed a power cell in his palm.

Dar nodded. “Double-X 14. Same as the Navy uses.”

“What this?” One of the Wolmen held up a bit of machined steel.

“Part of the template assembly for an automatic lathe,” Dar answered.

Slotmeyer frowned. “What is ‘lathe’?”

Dar grinned. “Instruction manual’s only twenty-five kwahers.”

“Twenty-five?” Hirschmeir bleated.

Dar’s grin widened.

Hirschmeir glowered at him, then grimaced and nodded. “You highway robber, Dar Mandra.”

“No, low-way,” Dar corrected. “Cholly tells me I’m not ready for the highway.”

“Him got high idea of low,” Hirschmeir grunted. “What prices on laser parts?”

Dar slid a printed slip out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Hirschmeir. “ ‘Scuse me while you study that; I’ll finish the weigh-in.” He turned away to start hoisting bales onto the sled’s scale as the Wolmen clustered around Hirschmeir, running through the price list and muttering darkly.