the troops outside were being relieved indicated they had not come in fresh, and
Porey’s crew had been in evidence, not Porey—alterday crew, perhaps. “Take your
time,” Porey repeated, and it was evident that he would remember the time
taken—the day that he had the chance to do things his own way.
“By your leave,” Emilio said, received no courtesy, and stood up and walked out.
The guards let him go, down the short corridor and via lift to the ship’s big
belly, where lift functioned as lock, into Downbelow atmosphere. He drew up his
mask and walked down the lowered ramp into the cool wind.
They had not yet sent occupation forces to the other camps. He reckoned that
they would like to, but that their forces were limited, and there were no
landing areas at those sites. As for Percy’s demand for supplies, he reckoned he
could come up with the requested amount; it scanted them, certainly scanted
station, but their balking and the stripped domes, he reckoned, had at least
gotten the Fleet’s demand down to something tolerable.
Situation improved, his father’s most recent message had been. No evacuation
planned. Fleet contemplating permanent base at Pell.
That was not the best news. It was not the worst. All his life he had figured on
the war as a debt which had to come due someday, in some generation. That Pell
could not keep its neutrality forever. While the Company agents had been with
them, he had hoped, forlornly, that some outside force might be prepared to
intervene. It was not. They had Mazian, instead, who was losing the war Earth
would not finance, who could not protect a station that might decide to finance
him, who knew nothing of Pell, and cared nothing for Downbelow’s delicate
balances.
Where are the Downers? the troops had asked. Frightened by strangers, he had
answered. There was no sign of them. He did not plan that there should be. He
tucked Porey’s supply request into his jacket pocket and walked the path up and
over the hill. He could see the troops standing here and there among the domes,
rifles evident; could see the workers far off among the fields, all of them,
turned out to work regardless of schedules or age or health. Troops were down at
the mill, at the pumping station. They were asking questions among the workers
about production rates. So far it had not shaken the basic story, that station
had simply absorbed what they produced. There were all those ships up there, all
those merchanters orbiting station. It was not likely that even Mazian would
start singling out merchanters and taking supply from them… not when they were
that numerous.
But Mazian, the thought kept nagging at him, had not out-maneuvered Union this
long to be taken in by Emilio Konstantin. Not likely.
He walked the path down over the bridge in the gully, up again, toward
operations. He saw its door open, saw Miliko come outside, stand waiting for
him, her black hair blowing, her arms clenched against the day’s chill. She had
wanted to come to the ship with him, fearing his going alone into Porey’s hands,
without witnesses. He had argued her out of it. She started toward him now,
coming down the hill, and he waved, to let her know it was at least as all right
as it was likely to be.
They were still in command of Downbelow.
Chapter Nine
« ^ »
Blue one: 10/5/52; 0900
A trooper was on guard at the corner. Jon Lukas hesitated, but that was
guaranteed to attract attention. The trooper made a move of his hand to the
vicinity of the pistol. Jon came ahead nervously, card in hand, offered it, and
the trooper—heavyset, dark-skinned—took it and frowned while looking at it.
“That’s a council clearance,” Jon said. “Top council clearance.”
“Yes, sir,” the trooper said. Jon took the card back, started down the
crosshall, with the feeling that the trooper was still watching his back. “Sir.”
He turned.
“Mr. Konstantin’s at his office, sir.”
“His wife’s my sister.”
There was a moment of silence. “Yes, sir,” the trooper said mildly, and made
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