Fill out the papers and hand them to personnel. Take whatever they give you for
today. Go on.”
There were dark looks from them, suspicion of offense. “Come on,” Hale said,
shepherding the others out. Vittorio hastened out after them, vanished, leaving
the door open.
A moment later a man merchanter-clad slipped through and closed it. Like that,
closed it. No fear, no furtiveness in that move. As if he commanded. An ordinary
face, a thirtyish man of no distinction at all. His manner was cold and quiet.
“Mr. Jon Lukas,” the newcomer said.
“I’m Jon Lukas.”
Eyes lifted meaningfully to the overhead, about the walls.
“No monitoring,” Jon said, short of breath. “You walk in here in public and
you’re afraid of monitoring?”
“I need a cover.”
“What’s your name. Who are you?”
The man walked forward and wrenched a gold ring from his finger, took a station
id card from his pocket, laid both on the desk in front of him.
Dayin’s.
“You made a proposal,” the man said.
Jon sat frozen.
“Get me cover, Mr. Lukas.”
“Who are you?”
“I came on Swan’s Eye. Time’s limited. They’ll take on supplies and head out.”
“Name, man. I don’t deal with nonentities.”
“Give me a name. A man of your own to walk onto Swan’s Eye. A hostage, one who
can deal in your name if need be. You have a son.”
“Vittorio.”
“Send him.”
“He’d be missed.”
The newcomer stared at him, coldly adament. Jon pocketed card and ring, reached
a numb hand for the intercom. “Vittorio.”
The door opened. Vittorio slipped in, eyes quick with apprehension, let the door
close again.
“The ship that brought me,” the man said, “will take you, Vittorio Lukas, to a
ship called Hammer, out on the peripheries; and you needn’t have apprehensions
of the crew of either. They’re trusted, all of them. Even the captain of Swan’s
Eye has a powerful interest in your safety… wanting her own family back. You’ll
be safe enough.”
“Do as he says,” Jon said. Vittorio’s face was the color of paste.
“Go? Like that?”
“You’re safe,” Jon said. “You’re precious well safe… safer than you’d be here,
not when it comes to what it’s coming to. Your papers, your card, your key. Give
them to him. Go on Swan’s Eye with one of the deliveries. Just don’t look guilty
and don’t get off. It’s easy enough.”
Vittorio simply stared at him.
“You’re safe, I assure you,” the stranger said. “You go out there, sit, wait.
Act as liaison with our operations.”
“Our.”
“I’m told you understand me.”
Vittorio reached to his pocket, handed over all his papers. There was a numb
terror on his face. “Comp number,” the other prompted; Vittorio wrote it down
for him on the desk-pad.
“You’re all right,” Jon said. “I’m telling you you’re better off there than
here.”
“That’s what you told Dayin.”
“Dayin Jacoby is quite well,” the stranger said.
“Don’t foul it up,” Jon said. “Get your wits together. You foul it up out there
and we’ll all be in for Adjustment You read me clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Vittorio said faintly. Jon gave him a nod toward the door,
dismissal. Vittorio tentatively held out a hand toward him. He took it
perfunctorily—could not, even now, like this son of his. Came closest in this
moment, perhaps, that Vittorio proved of some real service to him.
“I appreciate it,” he muttered, feeling some courtesy would salve wounds.
Vittorio nodded.
“This dock,” the stranger said, sorting through Vittorio’s papers. “Berth two.
And hurry about it.”
Vittorio left. The stranger slipped the papers and the comp number into his own
pocket.
“Use of the number periodically should satisfy comp,” the man said.
“Who are you?”
“Jessad will do,” the man replied. “Vittorio Lukas, I suppose, when it comes to
comp. What’s his residence?”
“Lives with me,” Jon said, wishing otherwise.
“Anyone else? Any woman, close friends who’ll not be sympathetic…?
“The two of us.”
“Jacoby indicated as much. Residence with you… very convenient. Will it excite
comment if I walk there in this clothing?”
Jon sat down on the edge of his desk, mopped his face with his hand.
“No need to be distressed, Mr. Lukas.”