The Lost Goats, 21

It would be futile to deny that our heroes approached their next assignment in a sobered, not to say shaken, frame of mind. Adding to their concern was the fact that they had now to deal with a pair of Nyronds. Arioch and Voltimand were, indeed, regarded by many among the younger generation on the homeship as the next Zander and Soren; they were practically inseparable, one was vathatched and the other halfkind, and their success rates had been phenomenal among their peer group. In fact, it was a mystery why they had chosen to leave.

The planet Otslag, the homeship computers' best guess as to their ultimate destination, had been colonised early in the Second Spacing by a motley group of artists, bohemians, dilettanti and other ne'er-do-wells, among whose number had been, entirely by chance, the great Fettorini, perhaps the finest exponent of the art of terraforming of his day. All his skills had been required; the world had been named for its principal feature, the boiling lava that had issued daily from its numerous active volcanoes, and had the colony ship been capable of further flight its crew would scarcely have chosen to commit to such an inhospitable place for their new home. Now, it boasted luxuriant wetlands, forests and plains, the volcanic activity was confined to a narrow strip around the equator, and wildlife had been imported from neighbouring worlds and taken to its new habitat like several million ducks to water.

The colony was run as an anarchist commune, with few laws and fewer moral strictures. Psychoactive substances were openly traded in its market that would have attracted swingeing fines on any other UnAffiliated world in the sector. Esoteric religions abounded, as did superstition of all kinds, and technology was discouraged outside the single spaceport. The annual music festival brought in considerable tourist revenue, and Zander's friends Gestalt had played there on two memorable occasions.

At first sight, indeed, it was hard to see what about Otslag could entice one Nyrond to visit, let alone two...

The Lost Goats, 22

"Well, you'll fit in," Zander said, eyeing Soren's headgear censoriously.

"I would remind my Captain," Soren said, "that the fabricators have been under a certain amount of strain of late, possibly due to a certain person playing with the one in his room the whole time we were away."

"If you had returned me to the homeship as I requested--" Adhemar began, with a prodigious sniff.

"That being so," Soren overrode him, "I thought it best to go for something with a loose weave."

"Not sure if it's a hat or a hair net," Zander said.

"It can be a--a pervilious snood for all I care," Soren said, and checked, startled. "I just want something on my bonce."

"Bald spot feeling the draught again?"

Soren bridled, but forbore to comment. His hair was a sore point, especially in view of Zander's luxuriant mop. Besides, the words that had popped out of his mouth had given him unexpected pause.

"Beats me why the Empire never flattened this lot," Zander said as they descended the ramp, Adhemar having been persuaded to remain behind and not to overstrain the fabricators. Clouds swathed the sky over the depressing huddle of shacks that formed the port simple (it hardly merited the name of complex). Beyond the fence could be seen more of the same. Off in the distance, a ramshackle tower surmounted a hill.

"Too useful to them," Soren said. "Remember your elementary poli sci, my Captain. The bigger a government gets--"

"The more it feels entitled to break its own laws, and the more stringently it enforces them on everyone else."

"This place was a hotbed of corruption back in the day. Money laundering, prostitution of all kinds, and of course every variety of whoopee juice known to humankind."

"Not much change there then," Zander said, sniffing the air, practising his Adhemar impression. "I smell rapple, wooze, kevelioc, mamandarol, and sprout soup with butternut squash."

"No you don't." Zander's inability to smell was a byword. Soren sniffed. "But you're about right. Healthy food and brain-melting drugs. Give me the homeship any day."

"What can they possibly want here? I mean, there's no challenge at all."

"And precious little cash, in the off season."

"Guess we'll find out when we see them." The spotty youth on gate duty waved them limply through without speaking.

"Assuming we do."

"Love the hair net," the spotty youth called after them.

"Oh, shut up," Soren said to Zander, who hadn't spoken.

The Lost Goats, 23

A shadowy figure watched as Zander and Soren strolled around the dilapidated stalls of Otslag's permanent floating market. This was an unexpected development.

"Is this kumquat organic?" Soren inquired.

The stallholder peered at it myopically, picked it up and squashed it between his fingers. "Yeah, man," he said, licking the aforementioned (and none too clean) digits enthusiastically. "See, like, if it was inorganic it wouldn't have gone squish like that."

"It's all organic," another stallholder called. "No pesticides or chemicals on the planet, man."

"What you come here for if you didn't know that?" came from yet another stall.

"Tourists," muttered a passer-by. All the inhabitants of Otslag seemed to dress alike, in roughly knitted or woven shifts and breeches dyed in a variety of natural-looking hues that all blended into a general impression of brown, enlivened with accessories in striking rainbow hues, presumably of off-world manufacture. They wore shoes or sandals of similar styles, and hair was being worn either long or not at all. Piercings were much in evidence, of the sort which no blood-crazed cannibal psychopath would ever dare to wear in any kind of combat, as well as tattoos in a bewildering variety of designs.

"Anaxagoras got a tattoo once," Zander remarked.

"Oh yes?"

"Yes. Trouble was, he could get rid of it all right, but every time he had to adjust his appearance, back it came. Eventually he had to regrow the whole limb."

"Never again, I bet."

"Last time I saw him he was trying to work out how to have six interchangeable ones, triggered on command."

"Weirdo," Soren muttered, eyeing some roughly-wrapped bars of allegedly home-made sugar-free chocolate.

"Where do two Nyronds fit in to a set-up like this?"

"We don't."

The shadowy figure slipped away, Maybe it would be all right and they'd leave.

"Which is why," Soren continued, "it seems odd that I've been dalling someone nearby for the last five minutes."

"Wait a minute," Zander said, stopped suddenly at a stall containing a selection of tools and ironmongery. "Look at that."

"Shovel," Soren said succinctly. "I'm sure on a world like this they have all kinds of--"

"Look at it." Zander indicated a small mark cut into the gleaming steel of the blade. "That's a Hamilcar Steelworkers Guild mark. And the shovel's never been used. And that lamp is Ornatic make, still with the seal on the box."

"Yes?" Soren was fogged.

"Hamilcar and Ornat are Affiliated worlds. Have been for decades."

"I know. We don't go near them."

"And we're taught to spot their merchandise because..."

"Affilated don't trade with UnAffiliated."

"It's the whole point of Affiliation." Zander was visibly boggling. "There's more stuff here. Those scarves we've been seeing--they're Endelli."

"Pirates?" Soren suggested.

"Too much stuff, and not the really profitable stuff either. Nobody loots a cargo of shovels and scarves. These must have been obtained in legitimate trade."

Soren was following. "And that can only mean one thing..."

"Otslag," Zander said, "is Affiliated."

Around him the various stallholders set up a mocking slow handclap.

The Lost Goats, 24

"No, no, be cool, man, be cool," said one, and the clapping died down. "We don't make a big noise about it, look. Take the fun out of coming here for the tourists, that would."

"I don't believe it," Soren said flatly. "This dump?"

"Fair point," admitted the stallholder.

"No, it works, Soren, count it up." Zander ticked off points on his fingers. "No slaves, no outcasts, no chance of this lot ever waging a war. They don't trade in space, so the entire second pentad's irrelevant. Hardly any wealth, no power--"

"Solar and wind only," someone said, to general amusement.

"They satisfy all the Accords," Zander concluded. "No reason not to be Affiliated. All it would need is someone to put them up."

"Congratulations," said a dry voice behind them. Zander and Soren turned, to confront a tall, well-built individual in a long black coat. His hair was short (and seemed to go straight up) and he was clean-shaven, but apart from that--

"Galen," Zander said.

"Now you know," Galen Nyrond said. "Let's go back to my place and we can talk."

*

Galen's place turned out to be a modest dwelling some distance away from the market, in rather better repair (as far as the Nyronds could tell) than most of its neighbours. Inside, it was somewhat spartan, as befitted Galen's ascetic lifestyle, but comfortable nonetheless.

Galen listened to the Nyronds' tale of woe (not to mention hey, good heavens and you-don't-say) in silence, watching them from eyes so used to being keenly narrowed that it seemed they might never un-narrow.

"Arioch and Voltimand," he said. "Yes, they were here. They made the same discovery you did and left in a hurry. If I'd known they had coup files with them I'd have detained them and shipped them back."

"Wait on," Soren said. "What about the ones you've been nicking?"

"I needed..." Galen sought for words. "I've made this planet something of a project," he said at last. "I wanted to see it Affiliate. That way it would be safe from you people and your depredations."

"This place would have been safe anyway," Soren grumbled.

"Yes, well, there were other reasons," Galen said evasively. "Anyway, since they made Affiliation some unsavoury human interests have been trying to undo everything I've done. Apparently Otslag is still of interest to the criminal element, and the monitoring cramps their style. I needed some way to discourage them. I needed some help."

"Shame on you." Zander wagged a finger. "Using the tools of Satan to do your good works."

"I know," Galen said, looking tormented. "I burn for it every night....but there was no other way. I destroyed the files after I used them, anyway, so you don't have to worry about them falling into the wrong--well. Into human hands, let's say."

"And I don't suppose there's much point trying to get you to return to the smallship," Zander said.

"You can try," Galen said, with a small smile. "But I think I can take you both."

"Galen?" came a female voice from the back room. "Have you got company?"

"Through here, Viscera," Galen called. "I'd like you to meet my associate," he said to Zander and Soren. "I rescued her from her wicked ways, and now she helps me to trace wrongdoers and bring them to justice."

A dark-haired woman, carrying a basket of mushrooms, came through the tapestry curtain from the back. Soren emitted a strange gurgle.

"Probity???"

Zander looked at Soren in consternation.

The woman's eyes widened. "That's right. Doctor Probity Morgenstern." She smiled. "He likes to call me Viscera. It's because I'm a pathologist."

Soren turned to Zander. "Get me back to the smallship, my Captain. Little fluffy Soren has had too much."

"If you've ingested an overdose," Probity said earnestly, "you should drink lots of fluid--"

"Any idea where Arioch and Voltimand were heading?" Zander said over his shoulder, following Soren through the door."

"I think the Quastipulon system," Galen said. "Sorry I can't be more help."

Zander and Soren's course back to the smallship was as near a straight line as the haphazard layout of the place would permit, and the liftoff would have violated several safety protocols, if Otslag had had any.

"Are you going to explain to me--?" Zander said.

"Some day, my Captain," Soren said from the controls. "Some day. But not today."