“For what?”
“Is that,” Sandor asked, looking back at Quen, “one of the things I should wait
for a lawyer to answer? I don’t see I have to make my business public.”
“You’re not obliged to answer. Use your own discretion.”
He thought about it—looked back at Talley: a precise, military bearing, cold and
clean, with a hardness unlike any merchanter he had ever seen. The eyes rested
on him, unvarying, virtually unblinking, making him uneasy. “For the record,” he
said, “I get some latitude from my combine. I was on the Viking-Fargone run. It
never paid; and I thought maybe I could widen my operation a little, set up an
account here and do better on a cross-Line run… my discretion. I have a margin
to operate in. I moved it. Am moving it.”
“How much margin, Captain? Three thousand, as you claimed? And you look to
compete with larger, faster ships? We’re interested in the economics of your
operation. What do you haul, when you can get cargo? Small items—of high value
and low mass?”
Suddenly the room was all too close and the air unbearably warm. “I couldn’t do
much worse than where I was, that was all. Yes, I haul things like that. Station
surplus. Package mail. Licensed Pharmaceuticals. All clean stuff. Dried foods.
Sometimes I carry passengers who aren’t in a hurry and can’t afford better. I’m
slow, yes.”
“And WSC has interest in a Pell base of operations?”
He weighed his answer, trying to remember what he might have said over the com
when he was accounting for himself coming in. “Sir, I told you—my own risk. I
figured I could get some station cargo. I heard it was good here.”
“Captain, I know something about Union law. The legal liabilities and the risks
of your operation don’t leave much room for profit; and it seems to me very
doubtful that your combine would leave a step like yours to an independent.”
“It’s not a company move. It’s a simple shift of a margin account.” He grew
desperate, tried to make it sound like indignation. “I never violated the law
and I came here in good faith. There’s no regulation against it on Unionside.”
“Financial arrangements on both sides of the Line have been— loose, true. And
you fall into a peculiar category. I perceive you’re an excellent dockside
lawyer. Most marginers are. And I’d reckon if your log and ledgers are put under
subpoena… we’ll find they don’t exist, in spite of regulations to the contrary.
In fact you’ll keep no more records than the Mazianni do. In fact it’s very
difficult to tell a marginer from that category of ship—by the quality of the
records they keep. What do you say, Captain? Could that account for your
economics in a cross-Line run?”
If ever in his life he would have collapsed in fright it would have been then,
under that quiet, precise voice, that very steady stare. His heart slammed
against his ribs so hard it affected his breathing. “I’d say, sir, that I’m no
pirate, and having lost my family to the Mazianni, I don’t take the comparison
kindly.”
The eyes never flinched, never showed apology. “Still, there is no apparent
difference.”
“Lucy doesn’t carry arms enough to defend herself.” His voice rose. He choked it
down to a conversational tone as quickly, refusing to lose control. “You admit
she can’t make speed. How is she supposed to be a pirate?”
“A Mazianni carrier could hardly pull up to a station for trade and
conversation. But there is a means by which the Mazianni are trading with
stations, in which they do scout out an area and the ships trading in it, mark
the fat ones, and pick them off in the Between. Marginers undoubtedly figure in
that picture, trading in the nullpoints, picking up cargo, faking customs
stamps. Would you know any ships like that?”
“No, sir.”
“She moves fast when she’s empty, your Lucy”
“You can inspect her rig—”
“We have an unusual degree of concern here. The allegations made against you
include a possible charge of piracy.”
“That’s not true.”
“We advise you that the Alliance Fleet is making its own investigation, apart