Millsapport
I
Millsap was not a beautiful port.
It was understood that not all ports were beautiful, Padi thought. But it might at least have made a push to be interesting.
But, no. Millsapport was merely a semicircular monotone of samples houses along the outer edge, through which the port omnibus moved at a fair speed, slowing somewhat as it entered the second ring—agent offices, each exactly the same as all the others, with only the names—centered precisely over each door—different.
In fairness, the research she and the master trader had hurriedly completed had not promised anything else. Millsapport and its numerous outyards—which had made the Passage’s approach to its docking orbit more of a challenge than it strictly needed to be—Millsapport was about safe storage and the orderly transfer of cargo. The sample houses existed in case there should be a question regarding the quality of the contents of a particular pod awaiting pickup by its contracted ship. The agent offices were there to make certain the paperwork was in order, and that the port received its just and proper fees.
There was no need to catch the eye of newcomers, or entice fresh traders into a deal, and no effort was made to do so.
Millsapport, in a word, was bound, caught tight and trapped by its own system, which functioned well, as it had done for dozens and dozens of years. Padi had wondered aloud to the master trader, during their analysis session, what might happen to the port, to the agents if a new trader arrived, offering a fresh trade.
“Possibly, they would turn it away,” Master Trader yos’Galan said. “After all, they don’t need new custom. What they need most is to not disturb the custom they have.”
The port omnibus paused to take on a passenger—another agent, Padi supposed—dressed in grey business robes that matched the grey facades of the offices.
This one spared them a glance as he passed to a seat in the back. He looked tired, Padi thought, and felt something flicker along a set of nerves she hadn’t known she’d had until this second.
Not just tired, but anxious, even—
“Your pardon, Trader,” Father said from the seat beside her. “I wonder if you would honor me with your opinion of that structure?”
Padi turned toward the window, following the angle of his chin, but truly, the line of offices they were passing, now that the omnibus was moving once more, looked precisely the same as—
She felt her cheeks heat, and looked up to meet Father’s eyes.
“It just…happened,” she said softly.
“One may catch a glimpse,” he replied, “and that is an accident. To continue to stare however…”
“Yes, sir.”
Determinedly, she turned her attention to the window.