“Eysie Captain below, sir.  With his Cargo-master.  They want to see you—­”

Jellico’s mouth was a straight line, his eyes very hard.  By instinct Dane’s hand went to the grip of the sleep rod slung at his belt.  When the Old Man put on his fighting face—­look out!  Here we go again, he told himself, speculating as to just what type of action lay before them now.

“Oh, they do, do they!” Jellico began and then throttled down the temper he could put under iron control when and if it were necessary.  “Very well, tell them to stay where they are.  Van, we’ll go down—­”

For a moment the Cargo-master hesitated, his heavy-lidded eyes looked sleepy, he seemed almost disinterested in the suggestion.  And when he nodded it was with the air of someone about to perform some boring duty.

“Right, sir.”  He wriggled his heavy body from behind the small table, resealed his tunic, and settled his cap with as much precision as if he were about to represent the Queen before the assembled nobility of Sargol.

Dane hurried down the ladders, coming to a halt beside Ali.  It was the turn of the man at the foot of the ramp to bark an impatient demand: 

“Well?” (Was that the theme word of every Captain’s vocabulary?)

“You wait,” Dane replied with no inclination to give the Eysie officer any courtesy address.  Close to a Terran year aboard the Solar Queen had inoculated him with pride in his own section of Service.  A Free Trader was answerable to his own officers and to no one else on earth—­or among the stars—­no matter how much discipline and official etiquette the Companies used to enhance their power.

He half expected the I-S officers to leave after an answer such as that.  For a Company Captain to be forced to wait upon the convenience of a Free Trader must be galling in the extreme.  And the fact that this one was doing just that was an indication that the Queen’s crew did, perhaps, have the edge of advantage in any coming bargain.  In the meantime the Eysie contingent fumed below while Ali lounged whistling against the exit port, playing with his sleep rod and Dane studied the grass forest.  His boot nudged a packet just inside the port casing and he glanced inquiringly from it to Ali.

“Cat ransom,” the other answered his unspoken question.

So that was it—­the fee for Sinbad’s return.  “What is it today?”

“Sugar—­about a tablespoon full,” the Engineer-assistant returned, “and two colored steelos.  So far they haven’t run up the price on us.  I think they’re sharing out the spoil evenly, a new cub brings him back every night.”

As did all Terran ships, the Solar Queen carried a cat as an important member of the regular crew.  And the portly Sinbad, before their landing on Sargol, had never presented any problem.  He had done his duty of ridding the ship of unusual and usual pests and cargo despoilers with dispatch, neatness and energy.  And when in port on alien worlds had never shown any inclination to go a-roving.