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"No, and no beer either. It has mostly been in timber, some furs and in a few cases, fish from the lake. What beer we do get is made right here and is of very poor quality. It's hard to tell if food is going to Castell City, for the Harmies appear to be living on lake-fish and the . . . paste from the synthetic-food plant, like the rest of us."
"So no real food is coming into Docktown?" Jomo frowned, remembering the taste of paste and baked lake-fish. "Not from inland or along the rivers?"
"No boats from anywhere up or downriver have come here for three turns." The accountant sighed. "In short, nothing coming in from out of town. The entire trade has dried up. I have not seen anything like this since I got here, and that was on the second ship."
". . . Then this is not the result of poor harvest." Jomo tapped his fingers on the table again. "I believe we are victims of a boycott."
"That is my impression also, Master Jomo."
"If the supplies do not come to us, then we must go to them." Jomo set both palms flat on the table. "Send me DeCastro on your way out."
After the man left, Jomo glanced down at the desk where his second-best treasure lay: a recent satellite-map of the entire Shangri-La Valley. With it he could find any structure or farm in the valley, and then no one could hide from him. With the stu
Leo Makhno considered that of all the ways of wasting time on Haven, trying to make the Harmonies understand a problem was his least favorite. They simply didn't comprehend that some problems could not be sung away and that others must be dealt with immediately.
He had been trying for the last two hours to convince Charles Castell that Jomo was a threat to the Harmonies and their way of life, and had gotten nowhere.
"You are not in tune Captain Makhno. This Jomo person only affects Docktown, not us. We have complied with your request not to trade farm goods to Docktown because that is harmonious with our beliefs, but to use violence against him, or to even support violence is discordant with our way."
Makhno sighed. "Then you will not help us against him?"
"No, Captain, there is nothing we can do. Even if there was, we would not. Each must find their own way in the Grand Tapestry of the Universal Song."
Leo could hear the capitals and knew that further talk was useless.
"Good-bye then, Mr. Castell. I hope you survive what is coming."
"We will, Captain. Go in peace."
Leo figured it was time to see if he could find at least one of the Military types he had seen earlier.
If a deal to at least train the women at Janesfort could be struck, some progress would be made.
Owen Van Damm was hunting. It was his profession to hunt on occasions, and he took pride in his ability at it. Right now he was approaching the "lair" when he saw his quarry leaving. He followed unobtrusively down the street.
This quarry was difficult in that he didn't walk very fast, perhaps slowed by his lame leg, and was quite aware of his surroundings. Van Damm stayed about ten meters back and ambled slowly.
The quarry turned a comer at one of the newer buildings in Castell City (it had an entire floor aboveground and was made out of wood), and Van Damm followed. He made the turn-
– and stopped right there, nose to nose with his Target standing and confronting him.
"Are you following me?" came the question. The voice was polite but the body language said: I am armed and dangerous and you seem to he a threat.
Van Damm sighed, and answered. "Yes, I am."
"Why?" The man smiled, but his keen blue eyes never wavered.
Well, in such situations, the best defense was the truth.
"Someone has been asking questions about you and I, looking for us. I do not know who is asking, nor what co
"Agreed." The man relaxed slightly, and leaned on his cane. "What do you think we have in common?"
"Your name is Nicholas Brodski. True?"
"Yes." No surprise, nothing else given away.
"You have the carriage of a military man, perhaps senior enlisted, likely of the Fleet Marines."
"Right again, laughing boy."
"I would also guess that you were retired for wounds?" Van Damm said, looking at the "penalty weight" the man was carrying, his gray hair and the cane loosely ready at his side.
"Right again. What's all this about? You ex-Fleet?" Brodski's blue eyes turned hard. ". . . or still working?"
"I am . . . retired from the Fleet, also. My name is Owen Van Damm." Truth enough.
"Okay, Owen. Let's get off the street and discuss this in more civilized surroundings."
"I agree." Van Damm allowed himself a quick smile. "If you know of some place where the food is not synthetic slop and the beer is better than the horse urine that seems to be all they serve now in Docktown, I will buy the first round."
"I've found a 'speak' that has some decent brew. Their sandwiches are pretty good too. Just let Ol' Nick Brodski show you where."
The speakeasy proved to be not far away, and co
"Another old Marine, Charlie. Let us in; he's got cash to spend."
A Chinese of indeterminate age opened the door and let them in. Van Damm wondered, as he scraped goat manure off his boot soles, where the observation port was. He hadn't spotted it from the outside.
The room was lit by lamps that burned a sweet-smelling oil, one of the few places that still had lamp oil, and was warm, and-despite the crowding-quiet.
After the beer (a pitcher containing a liter and a half, for two tenths of a CoDo trade-credit) came the sandwiches: fresh meat and Earth condiments, all good.
"So," said Brodski, around a mouthful of meat, "tell me more."
Van Damm finished a swig of very good beer. "There is not much to tell. As far as I know, there is this man named Makhno, some sort of boat captain, who has been asking questions about us for the last six hours, at least. I thought that I would look you up and we could compare notes, so as to know more about what he wants."
Brodski turned a look toward Charlie who beckoned from behind the bar. Brodski said, "Excuse me," and went over to him.
Van Damm shrugged and went back to his sandwich and beer, which were better than in any other place Owen had tried in the last couple of turns.
Brodski came back with a fu
"A coincidence, that. I came ashore on the zodiac, and since I don't think that there would be two of them on this planet . . ."
"Right you are. So let's add things up. Point one: We are both ex-Fleet. Point two: We are newly arrived on Haven . . . . I got here on the ship before this one."
"Point three," added Van Damm. "I understand that the flow of food and beer in Docktown has slowed to a trickle in the last few days. Who better than a cargo-boat captain to know why?"
Good point," said Brodski. "You're not as dumb as you look . . . . Which brings us to point four. This shortage started shortly after one Jomo came up with a big batch of CoDo stun-rifles and began consolidating Docktown. Hmm, and have you noticed there's almost no off-world money around? Interesting."
"That means somebody-perhaps several somebodies-don't want to work for Mister Jomo, and they are not sending food into Docktown." Van Damm actually smiled as he let the idea expand.
"A . . . strike? Of the 'union' kind?"