Free Trader's World by Charles Sheffield

coronation—and pay to ensure their presence?"
    Mike stared at her. " Did he pay for us to come?"
    "That's what Jake told me. Paid a lot. So there's another mystery. What do we do next?"
    "Rule Eighteen: 'Collect as much data as you can get—' "
    " '—and remember it may not be enough.' All right, Kiri said the cars for us are parked just around the side of the building." Melinda stepped out into the afternoon glare. "Let's see if they'll fall apart under us. That will be a data point of a sort—though it's hard to see what use it might be."
    * * *
    Twenty-four hours later Mike was beginning to wonder how much data was enough. Nothing would form a sensible pattern. It had started with the ground vehicles reserved for use by the Trader trainees. Instead of ancient, fume-belching limousines, he and Melinda had been shown four smart electric runabouts. They were new, expensive, and obviously imported from the Great Republic. With their balloon tires, air/oil suspension, and topside solar panels, they could carry a single passenger a hundred miles at night without recharging, and half again as much in daytime. Mike and Melly had taken a car on a trial run and found it comfortable, silent, and simple to drive.
    Dinner had been another paradox. Traditional Darklands food, side by side with the most modern Chill service robots; flickering rush and palm-oil lamps next to bioluminescent globes straight from the Strine Interior.
    The invited guests offered the same contrast of old and new. The trainees had found their dinner companions to be an average of fifty years older than they were. Mike had been seated next to an oldster from the Chipponese lunar mines, a wizened woman who knew, or admitted to knowing, not a word of Trader or Darklands languages. Jake Kallario was partnered with a graybeard Yankeeland cityboss; Cesar Famares sat with a drooling aristocratic wreck from the Economic Community, who offered him a free sample of a recent—and totally addictive—Greaserland drug.
    Melinda felt she was the lucky one, with a personable companion in her late thirties—until the Strine bigmomma made a hard and open pass at her.
    The four trainees beat a retreat as early as possible, pleading a long day ahead. But as Mike was going into his room, Melinda lingered on the doorstep. She was still quivering. "That woman! Did you see what she did to me?" Her gray eyes were open even wider than usual with the shock.
    Mike shrugged. "I don't know what she did below table level, but above it she whispered in your ear and rubbed your breasts. I'm not well up on the habits of the Strine Interior. For all I know that's a neat social compliment. Better get used to it, Melly, worse things will happen when you get out there in real negotiations."
    "Then I'm not sure I'll ever make Trader. It's easy enough for you, Mike. You're such a cool fish, these things roll right off you. Nothing gets you upset."
    "Sure. Someday let me tell you about my life in a Hive." Mike hesitated, then opened the door to his room. "Come on in for a minute. I have to ask you something."
    "What is it?" Melinda was inside before he had finished speaking.
    Mike made sure the door was firmly closed before he answered. "If you're willing, I want to share a piece of information with you. I asked the Chipponese woman I was sitting next to at dinner if she would be going with us on our sightseeing tour of the area north of here. She looked at me as though the translation unit was making rude noises at her. I wondered if your bigmomma talked at all about her plans, before she decided your body was more interesting."
    "Not really. But she did ask me if we were going to the precoronation Trade Fair. It's in the two-story building, west of where we're staying. Kiri hasn't mentioned any fair, so I assume we're not invited. But why do you care? Surely you'd rather see the Darklands than watch their publicity campaign?"
    "I certainly would. But doesn't it strike you as a little odd that