freelancer, and better yet, some other marginer who might deal in forged paper.
Risky business. Riskier still… with the military stirring about. An operation to
tighten loopholes in which piracy was possible—also tightened loopholes in which
marginers survived.
Union and Alliance in cooperation. He had never foreseen that. He swallowed the
last of the dry sandwich, wadded the wrapper and thrust it back into his pocket,
spacer’s reflex. The section seal was ahead, the office section, the military
dock where militia were even more in evidence. He watched the overhead signs to
find his way, finally located the customs office adjunct to the Dock Authority,
halfway down the dock, and walked through the door. It was getting close to
mainday. A line of applicants stood inside, spacers and ships’ officers with
their own difficulties. A sign advised a separate window, a different procedure
for ship clearance. He fished his papers out of his pocket and presented them at
the appropriate window, and the young woman looked him in the eyes and glanced
down again at the ID and Lucy’s faked papers. “Captain Stevens. There’s a call
in for you.”
It started his heart to pounding; any anomaly would, in places such as this.
“What ship?”
“Just a moment, sir.” She left the counter, took the papers with her. Terror
verged on panic. He would have bolted, perhaps, with the papers-No. He would
not. With the security seal on Lucy there was no way. A long counter, a bored
clutch of clerks and business as usual, separated him from his title to Lucy,
and making a row about it would draw attention. He leaned there, locked his
hands on the counter to brace himself in his studied weariness and exasperation,
hoping, still dimly hoping, that it was Allison Reilly with a parting
message—(but she would not, never would, wanting no connection with him)—and
they would give him his papers back and unlock his hatch for him. He cursed
himself for ever agreeing to that seal; but he had been tired, his mind had been
on Allison Reilly and his wits were not what they had been.
The official came back. His heart leapt up again. He leaned there trying to look
put upon. “I’m really pretty tired,” he said. “I’d like to get that message
later if I could.” That was what he should have said in the first place. That he
finally thought of it encouraged him. But she looked beyond his shoulder at
someone who had come up behind him, and that little shift of the eyes warned
him. He turned about, facing station police.
It was not the scenario he had planned—his back to a customs counter, an office
full of people who had no involvement in the situation; no gun in his pocket,
Lucy’s papers in someone else’s possession, his ship locked against him.
“Captain Stevens,” the policeman said. “Dockmaster wants to see you.”
Perhaps his face was white. He felt himself sweating. “It’s alterday.”
“Yes, sir. Will you come?”
“Is something out of order?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m just asked to bring you to the offices.”
“Well, look, I’ll get up there in a minute. I need to settle something here with
customs.”
“My orders are to bring you now. If you would, sir.”
“Look, they’ve got my papers tangled up here.—Ma’am, if I could have my papers
back—” He turned belly to the counter again, expecting a heavy hand and cuffs on
the instant. He tried, all the same, and the woman handed him the papers, which
he started to put into his inside breast pocket. The officer stopped that reach
with a grip on his wrist, patted his coat with a small deft movement even those
standing closest might have missed, patted the other two pockets as well.
“That’s all right, sir,” the officer said. “If you’ll come along now.”
He put the papers in his pocket, left the counter and went. The policeman laid
no hand on him, simply walked beside him. But there was no escaping on Pell.
“This way.” The officer showed him not to the main elevators in the niner
corridor, but to a service elevator on the dock. Other police waited there,