Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664137012

Table of Contents

       Chapter I

       PERFUMED PLANET

       Chapter II

       RIVALS

       Chapter III

       CONTACT AT LAST

       Chapter IV

       GORP HUNT

       Chapter V

       THE PERILOUS SEAS

       Chapter VI

       DUELIST'S CHALLENGE

       Chapter VII

       BARRING ACCIDENT

       Chapter VIII

       HEADACHES

       Chapter IX

       PLAGUE!

       Chapter X

       E-STAT LANDING

       Chapter XI

       DESPERATE MEASURES

       Chapter XII

       STRANGE BEHAVIOR OF A HOOBAT

       Chapter XIII

       OFF THE MAP

       Chapter XIV

       SPECIAL MISSION

       Chapter XV

       MEDIC HOVAN REPORTS

       Chapter XVI

       THE BATTLE OF THE VIDEO

       Chapter XVII

       IN CUSTODY

       Chapter XVIII

       BARGAIN CONCLUDED

Chapter I

       Table of Contents

PERFUMED PLANET

       Table of Contents

      Dane Thorson, Cargo-master-apprentice of the Solar Queen, Galactic Free Trader spacer, Terra registry, stood in the middle of the ship's cramped bather while Rip Shannon, assistant Astrogator and his senior in the Service of Trade by some four years, applied gobs of highly scented paste to the skin between Dane's rather prominent shoulder blades. The small cabin was thickly redolent with spicy odors and Rip sniffed appreciatively.

      "You're sure going to be about the best smelling Terran who ever set boot on Sargol's soil," his soft slur of speech ended in a rich chuckle.

      Dane snorted and tried to estimate progress over one shoulder.

      "The things we have to do for Trade!" his comment carried a hint of present embarrassment. "Get it well in—this stuff's supposed to hold for hours. It'd better. According to Van those Salariki can talk your ears right off your head and say nothing worth hearing. And we have to sit and listen until we get a straight answer out of them. Phew!" He shook his head. In such close quarters the scent, pleasing as it was, was also overpowering. "We would have to pick a world such as this—"

      Rip's dark fingers halted their circular motion. "Dane," he warned, "don't you go talking against this venture. We got it soft and we're going to be credit-happy—if it works out—"

      But, perversely, Dane held to a gloomier view of the immediate future. "If," he repeated. "There's a galaxy of 'ifs' in this Sargol proposition. All very well for you to rest easy on your fins—you don't have to run about smelling like a spice works before you can get the time of day from one of the natives!"

      Rip put down the jar of cream. "Different worlds, different customs," he iterated the old tag of the Service. "Be glad this one is so easy to conform to. There are some I can think of—There," he ended his massage with a stinging slap. "You're all evenly greased. Good thing you don't have Van's bulk to cover. It takes him a good hour to get his cream on—even with Frank helping to spread. Your clothes ought to be steamed up and ready, too, by now—"

      He opened a tight wall cabinet, originally intended to sterilize clothing which might be contaminated by contact with organisms inimical to Terrans. A cloud of steam fragrant with the same spicy scent poured out.

      Dane gingerly