Cherryh, CJ – Merchanters Luck

holding the door open.

“I think I have a right to know what this is about,” Sandor protested, not sure

that Union rights applied here at all, this side of the Line.

“We don’t know,” the officer in charge said, and put him into the lift with the

other police, closed the door behind. “Sir.”

The lift whisked them up with a knee-buckling force, two, four, six, eight

levels. Sandor put his hands toward his pockets, nervous habit, remembered and

did it anyway, carefully. The door opened and let them out into a carpeted

corridor, and one of the police took a scanner from his belt and took him by the

arm, holding him still while he ran the detector over him. Another finished the

job, waist to feet.

“That’s fine,” the officer said then, letting him go. “Pardon, sir.”

Maybe he had rights this violated. He was not sure. He let them take his arm and

guide him down the corridor, a corporation kind of hall, carpeted in natural

fiber, with bizarre carvings on the walls. The place daunted him, being full of

wealth, and somewhere so far from Lucy he had no idea how to get back. Perhaps

it was the shock of the strung-together jumps he had made getting here; maybe it

was something else. His mind was not working as it ought; or it lacked

possibilities to work on. His hands and feet chilled as if he were operating in

a kind of shock. He was threadbare and shabby and as out of place here as he

would be in Dublin’s fine corridors. Lost. There was money here that normally

ignored nuisances his size, and somehow the thought of arguing a three thousand

credit account in a place like this that dealt in millions-One of the police

strode ahead and opened a door with a key card, let them into an office where a

militia guard stood with a large, ugly gun at his side; and two more station

security officers, and a man at a desk who might be a secretary or a clerk.

“Go on in,” that one said, and pushed a button at the desk con-sole. The

militiaman opened the farther door and Sandor hesitated when the police did not

bid to move. “Go on,” the officer said, and he went, far from confident, down an

entry corridor into a large room with a U-shaped table.

All its places were filled, mostly by stationers silver-haired with rejuv; but

there were exceptions. The woman centermost was one, a handsome woman in an

expensive green suit; and next to her was another, a militia officer in blue, a

pale blond man with bleak pale eyes.

“Papers,” the woman in the center said. He reached into his pocket and handed

them to a security agent on duty in the room, who walked to the head of the U

and handed them to her. She unfolded them in front of her and gave them a

cursory scrutiny.

“Why am I here?” Sandor ventured, not loud, not aggressive. But it had never

seemed good to back up much either. They just asked me to come up here. They

didn’t say why.”

She passed the papers to the militia officer beside her. She looked up again,

hands folded in front of her. “Elene Quen-Konstantin,” she identified herself,

“dockmaster of Pell.” And he recalled then what was told about this woman, who

had defied a Union fleet. He swallowed his bluffs unspoken, taking her measure.

‘There’s been some question about your operation, Captain Stevens. We’re

understandably a little anxious here. We have statements by some merchanters

that you’re under ban at Mariner, under a different name. On unspecified

charges. This is hearsay. You don’t have to answer the questions. But we’re

going to have to run a check. We’re quite careful here. We have to be, under

circumstances I’m sure I don’t have to lay out for you. Your combine will be

reimbursed for any unwarranted delays and likewise your housing and your dock

charges will be at Pell’s expense during the inquiry. Unless, of course,

something should turn up to substantiate the charges.”

It took a great deal to keep his knees steady. “There ought to be something a

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