George R. R. Martin -- Second Helpings

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Second Helpings

Analog

November, 1985

It was more habit than hobby, and it was certainly not anything acquired deliberately, with malice

aforethought; nonetheless, it had undoubtedly been acquired. Haviland Tuf collected spacecraft.

Perhaps it is more accurate to say he accumulated spacecraft. He certainly had the room for them. When

Tuf had first set foot upon the Ark, he had found there five black, rakish, delta-winged shuttles, the

gutted hull of a big-bellied Rhiannese merchant, and three alien starships: a heavily-armed Hruun fighter

and two much stranger craft whose histories and builders remained an enigma. To that ragtag fleet was

added Tuf’s own damaged trading vessel, the Cornucopia of Excellent Goods at Low Prices.

That was only the beginning. In his travels, Tuf found other ships gathering on his landing deck much as

dust balls gather under a computer console and papers gather on a bureaucrat’s desk.

On Freehaven, the negotiator’s one-man driveshift courier had been so badly scored by enemy fire while

running the blockade that Tuf had been obliged to provide return passage in the shuttle Manticore—after

a contract had been arrived at, of course. Thus he had acquired one driveshift courier.

On Gonesh, the elephant priests had never actually seen an elephant. Tuf had cloned them a few herds,

and for variety had thrown in a brace of mastodon, a wooly mammoth, and a green Trygian

trumpet-tusker. The Goneshi, who wished no commerce with the rest of humanity, had paid his fee with

the fleet of decrepit starships their colonizing ancestors had arrived in. Tuf had been able to sell two of

the ships to museums and the rest of the fleet to a scrapyard, but he had kept one ship on a whim.

On Karaleo, he had bested the Lord of the Burnished Golden Pride in a drinking contest, and had won a

luxurious lionboat for his troubles, although the loser had ingraciously removed most of the ornate

solid-gold trim before handing it over.

The Artificers of Mhure, who were inordinately proud of their craftmanship, had been so pleased by the

clever dragonettes Tuf had provided to check their plague of wing-rats that they had given him an

iron-and-silver dragon-shuttle with huge bat-wings.

The knights of St. Christopher, whose resort world had been robbed of much of its charm by the

depredations of huge flying saurians they called dragons (partly for effect and partly due to a lack of

imagination), had been similarly pleased when Tuf had provided them with georges, tiny hairless simians

who loved nothing better than to feast on dragon eggs. So the knights had given him a ship as well. It

looked like an egg—an egg built of stone and wood. Inside the yolk were deep padded seats of oiled

dragon leather, a hundred fantastical brass levers, and a stained-glass mosaic where a viewscreen ought

to be. The wooden walls were hung with rich hand-woven tapestries portraying great feats of chivalry.

The ship didn’t work, of course—the viewscreen didn’t view, the brass levers did nothing, and the life

support systems couldn’t support life. Tuf accepted it nonetheless.

And so it had gone, a ship here and a ship there, until his landing deck looked like an interstellar

junkyard. Thus it was, when Haviland Tuf determined to make his return to S’uthlam, that he had a wide

variety of starships at his disposal.

He had long ago reached the conclusion that returning in the Ark itself would be unwise. After all, when

he had left the S’uthlamese system, the Planetary Defense Flotilla had been in hot pursuit, determined to

confiscate the seedship. The S’uthlamese were a highly advanced and technologically sophisticated

people who would undoubtedly have made their warships faster and more dangerous in the five standard

years since Tuf had last gone among them. Therefore, a scouting sortie was imperative. Fortunately,

Haviland Tuf considered himself a master of disguise.

He took the Ark out of drive in the cold, empty darkness of interstellar space a light-year from S’ulstar,

and rode down to his landing deck to inspect his fleet. At length he decided upon the lionboat. It was

large and swift, its star-drive and life-support systems were functional, and Karaleo was far enough

removed from S’uthlam so that commerce between the two worlds was unlikely. Therefore any flaws in

his imposture would most likely go unnoticed. Before he made his departure, Haviland Tuf dyed his

milk-white skin a deep bronze color, covered his long hairless features with a wig that gave him a

formidable red-gold beard and a wild mane, glued on fierce eyebrows, and draped his massive, paunchy

frame in all manner of brightly colored furs (synthetic) and golden chains (quasigilt, actually) until he

looked the very part of a Karaleo noble. Most of his cats remained safely behind upon the Ark, but Dax,

the black telepathic kitten with the lambent golden eyes, rode with him, snug in one cavernous pocket.

He gave his ship a likely and appropriate name, stocked it with freeze-dried mushroom stew and two

kegs of thick brown St. Christopher Malt, programmed its computer with several of his favorite games,

and set out.

When he emerged from drive into normal space near the globe of S’uthlam and its expansive orbital

docks, Tuf was hailed at once. Upon the control chamber’s huge telescreen—shaped like a large eye,

another interesting affectation of the Leonese—appeared the features of a small, spare man with tired

eyes. “This is Spiderhome Control, Port of S’uthlam,” he identified himself. “We have you, fly. ID,

please.”

Haviland Tuf reached out and activated his comm unit. “This is Ferocious Veldt Roarer,” he said in an

even, dispassionate voice. “I wish to secure docking permission.”

“What a surprise,” the controller said, with bored sarcasm. “Dock four-thirty-seven. Out.” His face was

replaced by a schematic showing the location of the designated berth relative to the rest of the station.

Then the transmission cut off.

A customs team came aboard after docking. One woman inspected his empty holds, ran a swift and

cursory safety check to make sure this odd and unlikely craft was not going to explode or melt down or

otherwise damage the web, and checked the ship over for vermin, Her companion subjected Tuf to a

lengthy inquiry as to his point of origin, destination, business on S’uthlam, and other particulars of his

voyage, punching his fictitious answers into a hand computer.

They were almost finished when Dax emerged sleepily from Tuf’s pocket and peered at her. “What

the...” she said, startled. She rose so suddenly she almost dropped her computer.

The kitten—well, he was almost a cat now, but still the youngest of Tuf’s pets—had long, silky hair as

black as the depths of space, bright golden eyes, and a curiously indolent manner. Tuf plucked him out,

cradled him with one arm, stroked him with the other. “This is Dax,” he said. The S’uthlamese had a

disconcerting habit of regarding all animals as vermin, and he was anxious to forestall any rash actions on

the part of the customs official. “He is a pet, madam, and quite harmless.”

“I know what he is,” the woman said sharply. “Keep him away from me. If he goes for my throat, you’re

in big trouble, fly.”

“Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf. “I will do my best to control his ferocity.”

She looked relieved. “It’s only a little cat, right? What’s that called, a catling?”

“Your knowledge of zoology is astute,” Tuf replied.

“I don’t know doodles about zoology,” the customs inspector said, settling herself back into her seat.

“But I watch my vidshows from time to time.”

“No doubt you chanced to view an educational documentary, then,” Tuf said.

“Yawn,” the woman said. “Neg on that, fly. I’m more for romance and adventure vids.”

“I see,” said Haviland Tuf. “And one such drama featured a feline, I assume.”

She nodded, and just then her colleague emerged from the hold. “All clean,” the other woman said. She

spotted Dax, cradled in Tuf’s arms, and smiled. “A cat vermin,” she said happily. “Sort of cute, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be fooled,” the first inspector warned. “They’re soft and cuddly but they can rip your lungs out in

the blink of an eye.”

“He looks a little small for that,” her partner said.

“Ha! Remember the one in Tuf and Mune.”

“Tuf and Mune,” Haviland Tuf repeated, his voice without expression.

The second inspector sat down next to the first. “The Pirate and the Portmaster,” she said.

“He was the ruthless lord of life and death, in a ship as large as the sun. She was the spider queen, torn

between love and loyalty. Together they changed the world,” the first said.

“You can rent it in Spiderhome if you like that sort of thing,” the second told him. “It’s got a cat in it.”

“Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf, blinking. Dax began to purr.

His berth was five kilometers out along the web, so Haviland Tuf caught a pneumatic tubetrain into port

center.

He was jostled on every side. On the train there were no seats. He was forced to stand with a stranger’s

rude elbow thrust into his ribs, the cold plasteel mask of a cybertech mere millimeters from face, and the

slick carapace of some alien rubbing up against his back whenever the train slowed. When he

disembarked, it was as if the car had decided to vomit out the overabundance of humanity it had

ingested. The platform was swarming chaos, noise, and confusion, with passers-by milling all about him.

A short young woman with features as sharp as the blade of a stiletto laid an unwelcome hand on his furs

and invited him to join her at a sex parlor. No sooner had Tuf disengaged himself than he faced a

newsfeed reporter, equipped with third-eye camera and ingratiating smile, who said he was doing a

feature on strange flies and wanted an interview.

Tuf pushed past him to a vending booth, purchased a privacy shield, and clipped it on his belt. That

provided a certain minimal help. When they saw it, the S’uthlamese politely averted their eyes, in keeping

with his wishes, and he was free to proceed through the throngs more or less unmolested.

His first stop was a vidplex. He engaged a private room with couch, ordered up a bulb of watery

S’uthlamese beer, and rented a copy of Tuf and Mune.

His second stop was the Portmaster’s office. ’“Sir,” he said to the man behind the reception console, “a

query, if you will. Does Tolly Mune yet serve as Portmaster of S’uthlam?”

The secretary looked him up and down and sighed. “Flies,” he said, sighing. “Of course. Who else?”

“Who else indeed,” said Haviland Tuf. “It is imperative that I meet with her at once.”

“Is it now? You and a thousand others. Name?”

“I am named Weemowet, a traveller out of Karaleo, master of the Ferocious Veldt Roarer.”

The secretary grimaced and entered that into the console, then slouched back on his floater chair,

waiting. Finally he shook his head. “Sorry, Weemowet,” he said. “Ma’s busy and her computer’s never

heard of you, your ship, or your planet. I can get you an appointment in about a week, if you’ll state your

business.”

“This is unsatisfactory. My business is of a personal nature, and I would prefer to see the Portmaster

immediately.”

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