papers ready for inspection.”
He reached for com. “Pell customs, this is Stevens of Lucy. We’ve come in
without cargo due to a scheduling foulup at Viking. You’re welcome to check my
holds. I’m Wyatt’s Star Combine. I’m carrying just ship-consumption goods.
Papers are ready.” He tried to gather his nerves to face official questions,
suddenly recalled the gold stored in a drop panel in the aftmost hold, and his
stomach turned over. He reached and opened the docking access in answer to a
blinking light and a repeated request from dock crews on the shielded-line
channel, and his ears popped from the slight pressure change as the hatch
opened. “Sorry, Pell dock control. Didn’t mean to miss that adjustment. I’m a
little tired.”
A pause. “Lucy, this is Pell Dock Authority. Are you all right aboard? Do you
need medical assistance?”
“Negative, Pell Dock Authority.”
“Query why solo?”
He was too muddled to think. “Just limped in, Pell Dock.” The fear was back, a
knot clenched in the vicinity of his stomach. “This is a hired-crew ship. My
last crew met relatives on Viking and ran out on me. I had no choice but to take
her out myself; and I couldn’t get cargo. I limped in all right, but I’m pretty
tired.”
There was a long silence. It frightened him as all thoughtful reactions did, and
sent a charge of adrenalin through him. “Congratulations, then, Lucy. Lucky you
got here at all. Any special assistance needed?”
“No, ma’am. Just want a sleepover. Except—is Reilly’s Dublin at dock? Got a
friend I want to find.”
“That’s affirmative on Dublin, Lucy. Been in dock two days. Any message?”
“No, I’ll find her.”
A silence. “Right, Lucy. We’ll want to talk to you about dock charges, but we
can do the paperwork tomorrow if you’re willing to leave your ship under Pell
Security seal.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I need to come by your exchange and arrange credit”
A pause. “That was WSC, Lucy?”
“Wyatt’s Star, yes, ma’am. A twenty, that’s all. Just a drink, a sandwich, and a
place to sleep. Want to open an account for WSC at Pell. Transfer of three
thousand Union scrip. I can cover it.”
Another pause. “No difficulty, Lucy. You just leave her open all the way and
we’ll put our own security on it while customs checks her. What’s your Alliance
ID?”
Apprehension flooded through him, rapid sort in a tired brain. “Don’t have that,
Pell Dock. I’m fresh from Unionside.”
“Unionside number, then.”
“686-543-5608.”
“686-543-5608. Got you clear, then, Lucy, on temporary. Personal name?”
“Stevens. Edward Stevens, owner and captain.”
“Luck to you, Stevens, and a pleasant stay.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He reached a trembling hand for the board, broke contact and
shut down everything, put a lock on comp and on the log; and already in the back
of his mind he was calculating, about the gold, about turning that with a little
dock-side trade, a little deal off the manifest, very quiet, putting the profit
into account, making it look right. There were ways. Dealers who would fake a
bill. It might be good here. Might be the place he had hoped to find. And
Dublin…
She was here.
He hauled himself out of the cushion and walked back to the access lift at the
side of the lounge, opened the hatch below and got a waft of mortally cold air.
He got a jacket from the locker, shrugged it on and patted his coveralls pocket
to be sure he had the papers, then committed himself and took the lift down into
the accessway, got out facing the short dingy corridor to the lock, and the
yellow lighted gullet of the station access tube at the end. He shivered
convulsively, zipped his jacket, and walked down and through the tube into the
noise of the dock and the thumping of the machinery that was busy blowing out
Lucy’s small systems.
Customs was there. Police were. A noisy horde of stationers beyond the customs
barrier, a crowd, a riot. He stopped in the middle of the access ramp with the
customs agents walking toward him—neat men in brown suits with foreign insignia.
His expression betrayed shock an instant before he realized it and tried to