Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network by E. Foner (ebook reader with highlight function .TXT) 📕

“Wrude is the name of the Dollnick finish artist I hired. I can’t believe what he did to her eyes,” the Huktra complained.

“Whose eyes? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you recognize my ship? Look at the prow,” the alien said, pointing with a claw.

John had to crane his neck to see the tip of the Huktra freighter, which was four times the size of the standard two-man Sharf trader most humans favored. “That’s some beautiful artwork,” he said. “Somebody you know?”

“My wife, if I can ever get her to engrave her signature in the tablet,” Myort said. “Look what Wrude did to her baby reds.”

“Are you talking about the eyes? They’re green.”

“Now you’re catching on. Wrude!”

Nobody ignores the bellowing of a Huktra for long, and a Dollnick wearing a paint-splattered apron hurried over, looking annoyed.

“What is it now, Myort?” the four-armed alien demanded in an angry whistle that almost overloaded John’s translation implant. “First her teeth were too white, then her claws weren’t long enough, and last time—what was it? Oh yes, the barb on her tail had four spikes instead of five. I’m an artist, not a draftsman.”

“But green eyes,” Myort protested, albeit in a subdued manner. “The eyes of a Huktra female only turn green when they’re carrying a fertilized egg.”

“How was I supposed to know that? Keep your wings folded and I’ll get a floater scaffold and fix them right now.”

“Thanks. I’m taking this Human on board to look over some merchandise.”

“You know the rules, Myort. No trading while the ship is in the shop.”

“It’s only in the shop because you keep getting the details wrong, and this isn’t a trade, it’s a, uh—”

“Showing,” John suggested.

“Right, a showing.”

“Hurry up and don’t let any of the other customers see you,” Wrude grumbled. “You better whistle my praises to your friends for all the grief you’ve put me through.”

The Dollnick stalked off in search of a floater to carry him up to the freighter’s nose, and Myort instructed his ship’s controller to lower the cargo hatch, which doubled as a ramp. It was steeper than the ramp on John’s trader and the helpful claw-holes weren’t useful for humans. Myort let out a sigh of exasperation when he noted his companion’s lack of progress, and extended his tail.

“Grab a hold, but watch the barb, and don’t yank on it or my reflex reaction might throw you across the hold.”

John took a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, and then he grabbed his companion’s tail and let the reptile haul him up the ramp into the cargo hold. As soon as they reached level deck, John let go of the tail and was almost knocked over by a gryphon.

“No, Semmi! Down!” Myort barked, but the winged alien lioness with a head like an eagle already had its front paws on the human’s shoulders and was licking his face energetically.

“Couldn’t you keep a normal cat,” John complained, trying to push the gryphon away. “Her tongue is like sandpaper.”

“Give her a treat,” the Huktra suggested helpfully.

“Yeah, that makes sense, I’ll reinforce her bad behavior,” John said, but he fished another acorn out of his pocket and offered it to the gryphon. She must have found the gift acceptable because she dropped down on all fours and then tried to stick her beak in John’s pocket for more.

“You know what this means,” Myort said sadly. “I’m going to have to run a force field to protect those nuts or she’ll tear through whatever they’re packed in and give herself indigestion.”

“Not my problem,” John pointed out, still trying to shove the gryphon’s head away. “What do you have to show me?”

“So the thing is, I’m heading home from here. My future wife’s family owns a chemical business and I thought I’d get a claw in the door with her parents by bringing industrial samples. Lights, please.”

The ship’s controller brought up the illumination in the hold, and John saw stacks of barrels stenciled with what looked like warnings in more languages than he could count. One yellow drum sported a pictogram of a stick-figure humanoid projectile vomiting, and a black barrel featured a photo-realistic picture of liquid droplets leaving holes in the wings of some flying species.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Myort. It looks like you’re doing a toxic waste run.”

“We have a saying about killing two gryphons with one stone. No, I didn’t mean you,” the Huktra hastened to add, but it was too late because Semmi was already flying up the companionway to the bridge. “Now she’s going to pee on my command chair,” Myort said in a resigned voice. “Hey, how about—”

“I never accept alien life forms in trade,” John cut him off. “Don’t you have anything other than chemicals?”

“I wouldn’t have dragged you out here if I didn’t think I had something you would want. Those bulk carriers are packed with cyanide salts, and I have plenty of hydrochloric acid.”

“You think I want to go into business extracting gold from ore?”

“I heard a rumor you were heading for Borten Four.”

“Where do you get your intelligence?”

The Huktra shrugged, basically raising and lowering the tips of his folded wings.

“So maybe I am,” John allowed, “but I hate carrying bulk. You know my ship has a fraction of your cargo capacity, plus a quarter of the acorns belong to a friend. I’ll need to pay her in cash.”

“So how many nuts are we talking?” Myort asked.

“I’ve got ninety-four standard sacks, the Frunge medium size. I mean, I actually have a hundred and forty-three, but two-thirds of them are half-full.”

“This is why I hate dealing with Humans,” the Huktra complained, and John’s translation implant imparted a long-suffering tone to the alien’s words. “Everything with you is a story-problem. Okay, I’ll bite. Why are