Psylla jumped from the outback of deep space across the last frontier of the Fingalnan gravisphere. From being a nameless speck in an infinite nowhere, she was an entry on a traffic controller's log and a faint blip on the great domed planetarium of Argentus space port.
Using speech tones, the lingua franca of the galaxy, a Fingalnan voice spoke into the quiet command cabin of the hurrying spacer, going by the book, asking all the routine questions. What ship? What authorization? What freight? What estimate could the commander give of his length of stay in Argentus?
Adam Dalton, owner and commander of the converted sloop Psylla, gave his answers in a growl which was at odds with the urbane and mannered voice of the questioner. In all the time he had traded in and out of Argentus, he had never got to trim his persona to the prevailing style on the silvery planet. He was tolerated, because he was useful; but even through a thick skin, he knew for a truth, that he was nobody's friend on the official side.
Psylla was over another check line and the face of the controller, shimmering a little at the edges, came up life size on the main scanner. With the city of Argentus as a backdrop, it could have appeared on a book sleeve as the ultimate symbol for an elegant fairy tale. The face was a perfect oval. Skin was smooth and silver-grey, eyes were large, dark and luminous with slanted brows, hair was bright silver, straight to the shoulders like a metal helm; everted lips were painted cerulean blue. Small, even, white teeth appeared in a set smile of welcome. Behind her, a long panel showed Argentus, principal city and space port for the planet Fingalna. Spidery walkways crossed its fantastic skyline like loops of paper chain. Onion domes jostled with spear-like minarets. It was the unbelievable made stone.
Still trying, she said with muted, bell-like clarity, "You are welcome to Argentus, Commander Dalton. Please receive these co-ordinates and allow ground control the oversight of your navigation computer.
"And if I refuse?"
The eyes had a startled look. It was all an exercise in courteous double talk and no one was supposed to challenge it.
"Your pardon? I do not understand you."
Dalton relented. Every so often, the surface patter grated on his living wick, but he had to concede that the small Fingalnan women looked magnificent and deserved all the co-operation they could get.
"Scrub round it love, I shall be open to you as some flower. Take my starship and put it where you will."
He had overdone it, the other way. She was a confused woman. But the pictographic legend running on the main scanner told her that the navigation console had been switched to remote and ground control could take the incoming craft. Eyes wide, she made the connection and Psylla veered off on a new tack.
Once he had committed his craft to the ground operator, Dalton lost interest. Given some space ports of the Rim powers and he would have kept his hands hovering over the desk, ready to whip her back to manual control, if the operator cocked it up. But with the Fingalnans, there was never any doubt. Neat, precise and efficient they were justly famed in all quarters for running a taut ship. He relaxed in his harness and stared over the bent heads of his crew at the direct vision port set in the waist.
The star map wheeled through one eighty degrees as Psylla responded to distant signals and turned ass over tip. Retros fired and checked her headlong thrust for the planet surface. She drifted down, checked and double-checked with every metre of the approach, until she was flexing easily on her hydraulic rams on the designated pad.
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