made any I know of.”
“Smart, at least”
“Survival.—Reilly: if I sign those papers, I’m telling you— there’s one captain
on Lucy, and I’m it.”
‘There’s nothing in those papers that says anything to the contrary.”
He drank a long mouthful of the beer. “We get a witness on this?”
That’s the deal. Station offices.”
He nodded slowly. “Let’s go do it, then.”
It made him less than comfortable, to go again into station offices, to confront
the dockmaster’s agents and turn in the applications that challenged station to
do its worst. The documents went from counter to desk behind the counter, and
finally to one of the officials in the offices beyond—a call finally into that
office, where they stood while a man looked at the papers.
“How long—” Sandor made himself ask, against all instincts to the contrary. “How
long to process those and get the seal clear? I’d like to start hunting cargo.”
An official frown. “No way of knowing.”
“Well,” Allison said, “there’s already a routing application in.”
A lift of the brows, and a frown after. None too happy, this official. “Customs
office,” he said, punching in on the com console. “I have Lucy’s Stevens in with
forms.”
And after the answer, another shunting to an interior office, more questions and
more forms.
Nature of cargo, they asked. Information pending acquisition, Sandor answered,
in his own element. He filled the rest out, looped some blanks, letting station
departments chase each other through the maze. Clear was a condition of mind, a
zone in which he had not yet learned to function.
Legitimate, he kept telling himself. These were real papers he was applying for.
Honest papers. In the wrong name, and under a false ID, and that was the stain
on matters: but real papers all the same.
They walked out of the customs office toward the exchange, and when he got to
that somewhat busier desk, to stand in line with others including spacers with
onstation cards to apply for… Allison snagged his arm and drew him over to the
reception desk for more inner offices.
“Sir?” the secretary asked, blinking a little at his out at the elbows look and
the silvery company he kept.
Embarrassed, Sandor searched for the appropriate papers. “Got a fund transfer
and an account to open.”
“That’s Wyatt’s?” Everyone knew his business. It threw him off his stride. He
put the loan papers on the desk.
“No,” he said, “that’s an independent deal.”
“Dublin has an account with Wyatt’s.” Allison leapt into the fray. “This is a
loan between Lucy and Dublin. The ship is collateral. Captain Stevens hopes to
straighten it up with his own combine, but as it is, Dublin will cover any
transfer of funds that may be necessary: escrow will rest on Pell.”
“What sum are we talking about?”
“Five hundred thousand for starters.”
“I’ll advise Mr. Dee.”
“Thank you,” Allison said with a touch of smugness, and settled into a waiting
area chair. Sandor sat down beside her, wiped a touch of sweat from his temples,
crossed his ankles, leaned back, willed one muscle after another to relax. “You
let me do the talking, will you?” he asked her.
“You take it slow. I know what I’m doing.”
His fingers felt numb. A lot of him did. Clear, he thought again. There was
something wrong with such a run of luck. Ships that tossed off half a million as
if it were pocket change—rattled his nerves. He felt a moment of panic, as if
some dark cloud were swallowing him up, conning him into debts and ambition more
than he could handle. He had no place in this office. It was like stringing
jumps and accumulating velocity without dump—there was a point past which no
ship could handle what it could acquire.
“Captain.” The secretary had come back. “Mr. Dee will see you.”
He stood up. Allison put her hand on his back, urging him, intended for comfort,
perhaps, but it felt like a fatal shove.
He walked, and Allison went behind him. He met the smallish man in his office… a
wise, wrinkled face, dark almond eyes that went to the heart of him and peeled