Navy House was crude, a stone building constructed by the locals, and there was no Marine fortress. Whatever defenses the Imperials had installed were not obvious to MacKinnie as his group approached the Imperial headquarters.

Many of the locals were small men, brown and dark, reminding MacKinnie of the officers aboard the trading starship. Their clothing was crude, some of the men wearing trousers, others dressed in long, gownlike robes which hung to their knees. In sharp contrast to the passengers of the starship, everyone seemed to have a beard of some kind, although many of them were not well developed. Their hair was long, and it was obvious at a distance that they did not often practice bathing.

In the hundred yards from the docks to Navy House MacKinnie’s party was approached by at least ten beggars, some of them proudly displaying truly horrible disfigurations. They shouted and pleaded, and

MacKinnie was pleased to see that he was able to understand them reasonably well. The practice aboard the ship had been useful for learning the language, even if he did not care much for his first encounter with it. Stark tossed out a few copper coins, allowing them to escape as the beggars cursed and fought for the money.

They were permitted to stay in Navy House for a few days only, and MacKinnie’s officers eagerly explored the small town, talking to the inhabitants and investigating the possible marketable goods for sale. At the end of the third day on the planet, they assembled in the one large room of the headquarters building. Renaldi, as usual, sat by the fire, a glass in his hand.

“Your Excellency, we have been unable to find a single thing worth transportation to Prince Samual’s World. We are beginning to think there is nothing here,” MacKinnie began. “Where are the spices, and exotic cloth, and the rest that you and your partner described?”

Renaldi laughed. “For all I know,” he said thickly, “there may not be another valuable thing on the planet. Soliman cleans a place out pretty good when he gets the chance.”

“But — but,” stammered MacKinnie, “if there’s nothing here, we’re ruined. You’ve charged us an enormous price for transportation to this place. Surely there’s something worth buying. How are we going to recover our expenses?”

“You probably won’t. We never promised you a profit, Trader.” Renaldi pronounced the title as if it were an insult. “In our business, you have to take chances. Perhaps you took an unwise chance.”

“But we took it on your advice!” MacKinnie snapped, then changed to a pleading tone. “Surely you know of some way we can make this profitable for King David. Surely with your experience you can help us.”

“Unlikely.” Renaldi drank deeply. “But whatever it is you are to do, be quick about it. The ship leaves in three days.”

“Three days! Why, that’s impossible. You promised us sufficient time to arrange for trade, even to organize a permanent company here. We can’t begin to arrange for trade in three days. You knew that before we started.” MacKinnie looked down at the impassive face and had an urge to tear our the small mustache by the roots. He restrained himself and said, “I’m going to complain to the Navy. They’ll make you honor your contract.”

“Our contract, Trader, says that you will be brought here, and returned at a time mutually convenient. The ship leaves in three days. That’s convenient to us. And you’ve nothing to complain about; we’re going to two other star systems before we go back to your miserable planet. You won’t be permitted out of your quarters while we’re there, but think of the broadening travel you’ll experience.”

“It is not mutually convenient if one party does not agree,” Longway said softly. “We may have few rights, Imperial Trader Renaldi, but I suspect Captain Greenaugh will enforce those we have. He did not seem to be overly fond of Imperial Traders, Your Excellency. We will not leave in three days.”

Renaldi shrugged. “Suit yourselves. The next ship we could schedule through this miserable system will arrive at this port in something over a standard year. If you wish to wait for it, I will have the Navy compute the exact number of local days before it arrives. You can wander this poverty-stricken ball until you tire of it.” He got up with an effort and filled his glass from an open bottle on the great table which dominated the room. MacKinnie noted that the bottle was handblown, and crudely at that, but of an interesting color. Renaldi seemed to be fond of the local liquor.

“Three days or over a year,” Nathan observed. “Neither is very convenient.”

“Those are the times convenient to us. Which do you choose?” Renaldi backed away from MacKinnie nervously as the soldier approached him, fingering his belt as if grasping for a weapon which was not there. He managed to get back to his seat, where he regained his composure. “Come, now, we never promised you more. And think of the adventures you can have, wandering about on a planet of swineherds.” He laughed for a moment, saw MacKinnie’s face, and stopped short.

Nathan turned to MacLean and said, “Go get the lieutenant in command of this post. We may as well find out just what else this man can do to us.” The group waited in a strained silence for several minutes before MacLean returned with Midshipman Landry and another officer.

Lieutenant Farr was a short, dark man who resembled the planetary locals. MacKinnie wondered idly if he had been chosen for the post for his ability to blend in with the rest of the population. Nathan explained the situation, and Farr and Renaldi conversed in the Imperial language for several minutes, speaking too rapidly for even Longway to understand. Renaldi became more and more excited, but the lieutenant spoke with a deadly calm. Although he did not have the intense, dedicated look which MacKinnie had noted was common of the Navy men, he never seemed to smile either. Instead, his manner was coldly official with perhaps the merest trace of relief from the boredom of being commanding officer to a post without a mission.

When the conversation was finished, Farr turned to MacKinnie, speaking very slowly. “If he is correct about the details of the contract your king signed, then he can legally do this. We could examine it for you if you’d like, but it might take some time. There are no legal officers on this post.”

MacKinnie canted his head to one side, realized the gesture was meaningless to the lieutenant, and said, “Thank you, no. I’m sure they drafted it carefully enough.” He seized a glass, filled it, and drained it off. “Is there any chance of our finding a decent trading community on this planet, Lieutenant? And will we be allowed to go and search for one?”

“The only place I can suggest is the main city, Batav. It’s said to be wealthy, although what the locals mean by wealth is not likely to impress you. It is all you will find.”

MacKinnie nodded. “Then I suppose we must go there. I can’t return to King David without something to show for his investment.”

“There are difficulties,” Lieutenant Farr said slowly. “The Empire cannot transport you there. The entire countryside is in a state of war, and it is not likely you will survive to reach Batav. We can give you no protection …” The officer paused. “But if you must go, perhaps you will find another party of Imperial citizens who set out for Batav. A group of churchmen defied our advice and departed months ago. We have not heard from them, and His Holiness will insist on knowing what became of his missionaries. If you find what became of them, it will make the job easier.”

MacKinnie looked at the officer, realizing that if the Navy could not send troops to search for missionaries, it would never attempt to protect a group of colonial Traders. Prince Samual’s World seemed far away, lost in the swirl of stars above them, and he knew he would never see it again. One thing, he thought; at least they would have no way of knowing what he intended doing at the old library, if he ever reached it.