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“As you wish,” Tzoltzin answered.  “Your position agrees with precedent.  It just makes things slow.”

“To give you news you may find more positive,” Bell said, “you had asked to speak to Victor Chelan. By the time you are finished with your inspection, he will be available for an exchange of opinions.”

“This is indeed good news.”

“And here is the ship dock,” Bell said. She pointed at a bright white dome two hundred yards across.  “For your purposes we would best enter through the side door B.”  She pointed.  The transporter wheeled inside.

Construction Dock 3 was brightly lit, a highly reflective roof removing every shadow.  The air was warm and pleasantly dry.

“As you see,” Bell said, “We’re only assembling ship framing as needed to support modules as they are installed.  From this angle you can see where decking will be inserted.  However,  in the area toward the bottom where there are already deck plates, down and toward the rear, you may be able to make out where several drive and fusactor modules have been inserted.  You asked, so we’ll look at those first.”  The transporter wheeled down a ramp.  “As your inspection probe should show, those are both beta drive cores.  The large object in between is a conventional low-field civilian fusactor.”

Tzoltzin looked at his handcomp.  “Indeed,” he said, “I confirm that these are beta cores, and that the device between them is indeed a high-power low-field fusactor.  None of these would be expected to have IP tags.”

“Now perhaps it is clearer why I meant no offense, when I said you would not be getting the IP codes. There were none for you to receive.  I can also point out where the other fusactors and drive coils will be mounted,” Bell continued. “There’s four of each in a square down there, and another square of four, to be installed near the top of the ship, where the strakes and ribs have yet to be installed.”

“Three fist fights,” Winston answered. “Two domestic disturbances.  Two women, allegedly of negotiable virtue.  New crowd screaming and shouting at the train station.  I had to send everyone I could find to the station, but the crowd calmed down.  No arrests needed.  Oh, I finished my report.  You get to tell me what I left out.”

“Precious little, I expect. ” Radnor asked. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No, and I missed lunch, too.  Though that time with the Mayor was relaxing,” Winston said.

Radnor frowned.  “Eat on time!  Your meals, house special, are covered at Trinity House Cafe.  So let us advance there, though down Flint Street.”

“You’re fond of Flint Street for some reason,” Winston observed.

“Never told you that story, have I?” Radnor smiled.  “Stupid Hollywood types have Main Street at high noon gun fights in every movie.  We actually had one.”

“And you know this because…?”

“I won.”

“What?” Winston exclaimed. “You were actually in a gun fight?  Mom and Dad never told me.”

“It was a good idea at the time.  So we lined up, several blocks apart, started walking toward each other.  There was a big audience.  I looked for people who weren’t there.  They had brains.  I wanted to listen to  them.  Like the attractive young lady visiting from Boston who finally married your dad.  In any event, we were a couple hundred yards apart, and I started my draw.”

“That far? But you outdrew him?”

“Heck, no,” Radnor answered.  “I started to draw, so he drew and started shooting.  I kept walking, finally stopped, held my pistol in both hands, and took careful aim.   By this time, he was out of ammunition, having hit two water troughs and the big glass window on the general store.  I would’ve lost the bet I didn’t make.  I was sure he’d hit someone in the audience.  He didn’t.  On six shots, I hit him twice.  He dropped to the ground, screaming, had the brains to throw his pistol away, so I didn’t pull my other pistol and finish him off.  Doc managed to patch him up.  He spent much time working without pay to repay the general store for its window.”

“Amazing,” Winston said.

“Stupidest thing I ever did in my life,” Radnor said.  “Don’t ever think of doing it yourself.  Mentioning stupid or not, collecting those rocks is what I told you to do,” Radnor said, “but rocks don’t kill people.  They’re yours to keep, souveneirs, whatever, but don’t waste office space or on-duty time on them.”

“Understood.” Bell smiled.  “I’ll try to make sure no strange customs are exposed.”

The Senior Inspector waddled across the tarmac. Bell turned to face him, hands forward, palms up.  That was supposed to be the polite formal greeting for a Creztailian, a greeting he returned.

“Tzoltzin,” He announced.

“Bell,” she responded.

“I expected to meet here Victor Chelan as person in command of this facility,” Tzoltzin announced.  “Where is he?  For that matter, where is my Honor Guard?”

Bell wished matters had started more smoothly.  “I am Boss of the Yard,” she answered.   “I believe that translates as *Master of the Works*, as close as I can pronounce your language.  With respect to an Honor Guard, this is a private not an Anglic Union facility, so we do not indulge in military frippery.” She waited for a response.

“You speak my language well,” Tzoltzin said, “given your vocal apparatus.   I see we already have an agreement on something, namely a dislike of idle ceremony.”

 “it is always good to begin with an agreement,” Bell said.  “You want to discuss manufacturing operations, you need to talk to me, or wait for Victor to ask me what the answers to your questions are. Or perhaps to ask me what your questions mean.”

“Boss of the Yard?” Tzoltzin asked, his voice a deep rumble.  “Perhaps closer as ‘Great Commander of Building Things?”

“A title showing much respect, Senior Inspector, for what is after all a small and limited facility.  You honor me,” Bell acknowledged.  “In that case we should perhaps be getting under way.” She gestured for the passenger transporter.  “We may talk while we are going to the new ship you with to inspect.”

Passengers loaded, the transporter began its slow wheel toward Construction Bay Three.  “I must give a formal statement,” Tzoltzin said.  “It has been brought to the attention of the Stellar Republic that you are constructing a spaceship.  Under our Treaty of Amity, we are entitled to inspect this vessel to ensure that you are respecting our intellectual property rights, primarily with respect to high-density fusactors and alpha cores.  I am therefore here to perform an inspection, the first of several under the voluntary Treaty of Amity.”

Voluntary, Bell thought, my tight and well-shaped backside.  They made clear they’d keep supporting their fake rebel groups unless we agreed to sign. At least they agreed their IP rules would only be enforced in their territory, not ours, but they get to inspect my ship for violations.

“I should then ask for the IP codes for your fusactors and alpha core,” Tzotzin said.  “That way, I can rapidly confirm you are building a spaceship by buying alpha cores and fusactors, not violating our intellectual property rights. I can look at the units, and then be on my way.”

“We are not violating the Treaty of Amity,” Bell said.  “However, there are no codes that you will be given.”

Tzoltzin’s cheek pouches inflated. “You are not entitled to refuse to give me the codes in question,” he said firmly.

Interesting, she thought, his English is almost accent-free.  “I am not refusing,” she said.  “We support amity.  I understand your concern, but matters will be simpler to clarify once you have inspected the ship.  I am absolutely confident that you will find that you have no grounds for complaint.”

He shook his head.  “In that case, I believe that this conversation has advanced to its natural stopping point.”

“Agreed,” Broadbent said.  “I’m always happy to talk with you on issues of mutual interest.  That’s one of the reasons I am here, after all.”

“Thank you for taking my call,” Bronkowski answered.  “It is always very pleasant to talk to you.  Bronkowski out.”

“Broadbent out,” Broadbent echoed while she closed down the call. She inhaled her tea’s aroma.  It was a fine tea for such a dreary day.  She opened a channel on her deskcomp and began to dictate a report on the conversation.  Bronkowski appeared to know something that she didn’t, a position she did not like to be in.

Inspector Tzoltzin

The day was warm and humid, even with the morning sun not that far off the horizon.  Four centuries ago, Elaine Bell thought,  that Pacific current offshore would have been a cold current, so Humbold Bay ran twenty degrees colder than it does now.  The ocean was then cold, not semitropical.  It wasn’t so hot that she was sweating, though she would be happier when she moved to an air-conditioned work space.

*Inspector Tzoltzin’s aircar is entering its final approach.*  The voice in her ear was the only-occasionally-manned Bulger Flight Control Center.  Soon enough, she felt in her bones the hum of a vehicle landing on its alpha drive core.  Showy, she thought.  Emphasizes the Stellar Republic’s superiority over us primitive natives.  They can use alpha cores for air cars.  We can’t even build them.  A large area on one parking lot had been marked off with luminous cones. The air car settled to the ground very close to the center of its landing area.

The hum faded as the aircar’s drives powered down.  As they stopped, she marched across the tarmac toward a remarkably large vehicle, all painted in Republic orange.  More like an armoured combat support vehicle, Bell thought; it would appear to be overkill for transporting a somewhat junior embassy official across a continent at peace. A side hatch opened.  Broad stairs, wide enough for two people to walk abreast, swung down.

A young man, tall, well-muscled, in the dress uniform of the Stellar Republic’s embassy guards,  walked down the stairs and stood to the side.  Long sleeves, Bell thought, really dark grey bottom and top, gold stripes on the trousers,  no hat…this fellow will be uncomfortable if he has to stand in the sun for very long.  And Junior Lieutenant’s stripes.  Someone does not think much of the Senior Inspector.  After a few moments the batrachian visage of Senior Inspector Tzoltzin appeared at the hatch.  The inspector was a Creztailian, very far from home across the galaxy, interacting with space aliens – us, she corrected – with strange customs and habits.  Creztailians were armored mammals, much of their bodies being parked behind bony plates.  He was undoubtedly also staunchly loyal to the Stellar Republic and its interpretation of intellectual property laws.

“Lieutenant,” she said,  nodding politely. “I’m Elaine Bell, here to meet the Senior Inspector.”

“I am Lieutenant Tashiro Junichiro, Junior Lieutenant Tashiro if we are being formal.  I am here as the Senior Inspector’s Adjutant and shield from strange local customs.”

 * * * *

The end of a long walk brought Winston to the Sheriff’s headquarters and city jail.   He barely managed to hang up his hat when his grandfather called from his office. 

“Winston, where were you?  Did you solve the murders yet?”

“No, Gramps,” Winston answered, “in fact, I found four more of them.  One with evidence, three suspicious disappearances. But I brought the mail.  You have four pieces, and a stack of telegrams.”

“Telegrams?”  Grandpa Winston growled.  “And my phone has been ringing off the hook.  The late night passenger train from Albuquerque through Phoenix didn’t get here.  People want to know where it is. I can’t tell people it was wrecked, no sign of survivors.  So I tell them we are investigating.  What’s this about murders?”

Winston pulled a sample bottle from his pocket.  “Rudolph Schudel, jeweler, says that that wedding ring for sure belonged to Susie Jameson.  She and husband owned that ranch along the tracks south of here.   The other ring is missing its gemstone.  Her dentist was William Washington.  He says he’d recently filled her first three cavities.  Three fillings were found on the ground.  Washington said they match, roughly, what he put in.  There was a faint shadow of a skeleton, not even ashes, on the ground where I found these, at what was left of her ranch.  Her husband and two ranchhands are missing, no sign of them.”

“Oh, joy,” Gramps said.  “I can pass off these other things as not in my jurisdiction, but the Jameson Ranch for sure is.  That’s where I buy my horses.  And … was the body hers?  I’ve hanged men on less evidence.  Good work!  But nothing was left of the body?  Just a dusting of ash? Never heard of such a  thing.  Okay, you have the phone.  I get to read these and join the coroner at the train station.”

Winston returned to his desk and began outlining a report.

* * * * *

“Winston?” Radnor Cooper called to his grandson.  “I’m back.  Oh, you were right.  Two dead in the signal tower.  No idea why they died.  That place was locked tighter than a drum.  At the ranch, we found three more skeletons, what was left of them.  They all look to have been running when they fell and died.   Coroner took pictures.  He also recovered a fair amount of ash…need to show it’s human bone remains, not some kid marking chalk on a sidewalk.  What did I miss?”

“Please find her,” Rudolph asked.  “She’s a very good woman, always treats her ranch hands honestly, never hurt a soul who didn’t deserve it in her life.”

“I’ll try,” Winston said.  He touched his brow and went on his way.

Waiting for him at the Post Office were several pieces of mail for the sheriff’s office, a stack of telegrams all waiting for delivery from the Western Union Office next door, a thick envelope for him from the East Coast, and to his surprise a letter from Germany. 

“Fellow with the same name as that Prussian scientist.  You sure you want a piece of mail from Germany?” The clerk stared at him suspiciously and waved the letter from the land of the recent foe.

Winston glanced at the return address.  “Same name because it is that Prussian scientist.  He’s actually Swiss.  Met him in Denmark during the war. Haven’t heard from him since the war ended.”

“You were in Denmark?  Not with our boys over there?” the clerk asked, now even more suspiciously.

“I was staying in Denmark,” Winston said.  “We got into the War.  Embassy warned me:  Germans think I’m a spy, because I keep travelling to Germany on short trips. If I take a ship home from Denmark, I’m apt to be detained by their Navy and shot.  If I stay put, the Germans will wonder what I’m spying on. They had half-a-dozen guys following me around, doing nothing for their war effort. So I stayed put.”

“And I see I have another customer,” the clerk announced as he handed out the envelope.  “Good work taking six men out of the Hun war effort.”`

“Thank you.  Always good to talk,” Winston answered, forcing a smile.  One more stop,  he thought, and I reach the Sheriff’s Office and start writing.

* * * * *

“Precisely,” Bronkowski said.  “While licensing is only mandatory within the Republic, all neighboring states have willingly and voluntarily agreed to impose the same requirement on their naval architects, so don’t think you can hire from some lesser species beyond the pale.”

Willingly and voluntarily, my backside, Broadbent thought.  Those agreements were obtained by bribery or force.  “An interesting point,” she offered. “Of course, it would be illegal for us to hire a naval architect of another species, one who was not an Anglic Union citizen.”  Not my fault, her mind continued, that Republic engineers are all very narrowly trained.

“Said again,” Bronkowski said, “without registration with us, you can’t design a spaceship, you can’t equip it, and it can’t go anywhere.”

“That is an interesting set of rationales,”  Broadbent said.  “From your analysis, it follows that we probably are not building any spaceships.  I’ll tell the managing committee about what you said.. Any further decision is theirs, not mine alone.” She pinched her nose.  “Are there more issues?  Did you have other business?” she asked. 

“As a practical matter, if you recommend to your Board that you should register your spaceship, that would be a very positive outcome.  It would show that you understand the importance of an appropriate relationship between the progressive thinking of the Stellar Republic and the respectful obedience reasonably expected of citizens of insignificant powers.” 

Broadbent wondered if Bronkowski was able to open his mouth without offending people.  The smart money looked to be against. 

“However, “ Bronkowski continued, “after you have done that, especially if you were successful, your usefulness to Bulger Spaceyards might deteriorate.  In that case, there are any number of Republic Starship firms that would be delighted to employ a highly competent attorney such as yourself, especially one who understands Union law so well. I think I could guarantee that your salary would be at least twice what it is now, with guarantee through a bonding service of at least twenty years’ pay at that level.”

“I see,” she said.  “That’s very generous.” Why, she wondered, is he pushing this line, which a cynic would call attempted tortious interference in my contract?  That’s a lot of money, at least in Anglic Union pounds, that he is proposing to put up.  “However, I am entirely happy with my present employer, to whom I always give honest service, so I don’t think I would be able to accept.  I will still call the attention of the Managing Committee, on which I sit, to the issues you raised, which actually are of interest, so someday we might choose to register a ship of ours with you, assuming hypothetically that we want to design and build a spaceship as you suggested.”

“The Stellar Republic Intelligence Services are all-seeing,” Brankowski answered.  “Also, given your circumstances, well, if I were running your operation I would be vigorously planning to build spaceships.  We seem to  have different perspectives on the matter.”

“I welcome you to the club of people who think we have started designing our own starships,” Broadbent said.  “It is already an extremely large and unselective club, of which I am a non-member.”

“You are denying it?  Would you care to hear my reasons?” Brankowski asked.

“Ah,” Broadbent answered, “now we reach serious negotiations. Not, mind you, that I am saying we are planning on building a spaceship, though it is res ipsa that we could. However, you have raised the issue, so I will politely treat it as a hypothesis for the purpose of discussion.”  Her tea brewer beeped.  It had brewed the tea for a large mug of beverage, bringing the water not quite to a boil, steeping for the correct number of minutes, and emptied the tea into a mug.  Peltier-effect cooling blocks had then dropped the tea to a drinkable temperature.  She raised the mug and toasted Brankowski.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Tea,” she answered.  “Keemun, from an Australian estate.  If you were here, you could share it.  Alas, you are not.  Please discuss.”

“Keemun.  Wonderful.  Alas, I am too busy to travel,” he answered.  “However, there are practical consequences.”  She raised her eyebrows.  “Please point them out to your superiors, who will doubtless understand what I am saying, even though you do not.  First, spaceships not registered, meaning registered even before construction started, cannot carry goods to or between Republic starports.  You can build a ship, but it would have next to no use.  Second, owners of unregistered ships cannot buy or license devices protected by Republic patents.  That means no alpha drives.  That means no high-field fusactors.  You may build a hull, but it will have no power or ability to fly.”

“I see,” she said, her tone as bland as warm milk.

“Third,” Bronkowski continued, “your Union has no licensed naval architects, no one authorized or qualified by the Stellar Republic to produce your starship design.  It is illegal for a licensed naval architect to work on the design of an unregistered starship. It is impossible for someone who is not a licensed naval architect even to begin designing  a spaceship, for which you need a large team of designers, each licensed to design in their specialty.  For a typical freighter there are, in round numbers, two hundred specialties, so you need two hundred designers.  You cannot even design this ship, let alone build it, unless you register it with us.”

“What do you mean licensed?” she asked.  “The Anglic Union at the time of its foundation banned occupational licensing.  Or do you mean licensed by the Stellar Republic?”

Winston pulled his pocket notebook, jotted down bead colors and the author of the table.

 “Sorry I wasted your time with an unsolved mystery.”  He recovered the samples.

“No  not a waste,” Karl said, “and I’ll get you some names, people who are experts on naming minerals.  I’m just a well-studied amateur.  If you write them, say I sent you.”

“I’ll certainly do that, sir,” Winston answered.

His next stop was Rudolph Schudel, Swiss Jeweler.  The sign had ‘Swiss’ in particularly large letters, with a painting of the Swiss flag on each side.

Rudolph Schudel was a short, stocky man with a perpetual smile.

“Welcome to my humble establishment,” Schudel said, “what may I do for you?”

“I’m trying to solve a crime case,” Winston explained, “and I don’t even know if I actually have a clue.  However, I have two pieces of jewelry that were found on the ground near what might’ve been a crime scene.  I wonder what you might tell me about them.”

“I’m always happy to help an officer of the law,” Rudolph said. “I’m not what you would call an expert witness, but I can tell you what I see.”

“One might be an engagement ring, but there’s no sign of the stone. The other might be a wedding ring, but I don’t recognize the metal.” 

Winston pass the two items over to the jeweler, who pulled a loupe from one of his drawers and examined carefully the two rings.

“Considering first the engagement ring,” the jeweler finally announced, “Very odd. Appears to have been a theft.  There’s no sign of the gem. But the braces that should’ve been holding it in place look to be in perfect condition.  Possibly they weren’t sized correctly.”

Then he stared at the other ring, his face darkening.  “Where did you get this ring! I know it very well, since I did the sizing! You can see my store’s seal on the ring’s inner surface. The letters next to it are initials. That metal you didn’t recognize is platinum. But it should still be on the finger of Mrs. Jameson! What was done to her?”

“That’s what I’m trying to solve,” Winston said.  “As I said, I found the two rings on the ground, next to each other, but there wasn’t a body there. But if you’re sure that ring is hers, the sheriff’s office will lock it up until we can find her or her heirs.”

* * * * *

The sign next to the door read ‘Honest Ike’s.  Gemstones bought and sold.  Metal ores assayed.  Special offer on quartz geodes.’ Inside, several counters displayed rocks for sale.  A much older man sat at desk writing. A small bell jingled as Winston eased the door open.

“Hello?” Winston called. 

“Good afternoon, Deputy,” the man at the desk said as he stood.   “I’m Karl Eisenhower.  How may I help you?”

“I’m Winston Cooper, Sheriff’s assistant. I’m trying to solve an unfortunate incident, and have a clue I don’t understand.”

“I’m happy to help, but what can an assayer and gemnologist do for you?” Karl asked.

Winston opened his satchel took out a small bottle, and shook out from a single crystal. 

“I was curious if you could tell me what this is?” Winston asked. “It’s a beautiful color, but I don’t recognize it, and it was on the scene of the crime.”

Carl stared at the deep violet stone.  “Never seen the like,” he announced. He stared through magnifier. “Looks to be a nice clean crystal, no flaws or inclusions, more like quality window glass than one of our local gems. I can do two fast tests which might give a clue.  Do you have more?”

“Lots.  Don’t worry about breaking it.”  Winston watched while Karl did a few things with equipment on the shelf behind the counter, then shuffled through line of books.

“Specific gravity is way high,” Karl announced.  “It’s harder than corundum, not as hard as diamond.  My standard handbook doesn’t list anything like that. I’m embarrassed to say, Deputy, that it’s not a standard local mineral. It’s not even a rare local mineral. I’ve never seen it before. To say more, you need someone to crush it up, analyze it, say what it’s made of, but I don’t have the equipment for that, and I’d hate to destroy something this pretty. It’s very pretty, especially for a young woman with eyes close to that shade, so I suspect there’d be a market for it.”

“Well, sir, thank you anyhow,” Winston said, tipping his hat.

“Wait.  One more test,” Karl said.  “Takes a few minutes.  Borax bead analysis.  That sand will be the easier, unless those violet stones gave you some dust.”

“A tiny bit.”  Winston watched while Karl pulled out a bottle, ignited a Bunsen burner, touched something at the ends of two wires to the sand and the dust. Finally he pulled down another book and ran his finger down a long table.

“The colors should tell us which elements are present—yes, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”  Karl turned off the burner.  “Those combinations of bead colors…there’s no such thing, and that table is supposed to be complete, every known element.”