frightened. Coledy was there, with several others, waiting for him by the niner
corridor access. In a few moments there were more drifting to them, less savory
than the first. He feared them. He feared not to have them. He cared for nothing
now, except to live; and to be atop the force and not under it. He watched them
go, using terror to move the innocent, gathering the dangerous into their own
ranks. He knew what he had done. It terrified him. He kept silent, because he
would be caught in the second riot, part of it, if it happened. They would see
to that.
He assisted, used his dignity and his age and the fact that his face was known
to some: shouted directions, began to have folk addressing him respectfully as
councillor Kressich. He listened to their griefs and their fears and their
angers until Coledy flung a guard about him to protect their precious
figurehead.
Within the hour the docks were clear and the legitimized gangs were in control,
and honest people deferred to him wherever he went.
Chapter Seven
« ^ »
i
Pell: 5/22/52
Jon lukas settled into the council seat his son Vittorio had sat proxy for
during the last three years, and sat scowling. Already he had been up against
one in-family crisis: he had lost three rooms of his five-room lodging,
literally sliced off by moving a partition, to accommodate two Jacoby cousins
and their partners in alterday rotation, one of them with children who banged
the wall and cried. His furnishings had been piled by workmen into what was left
of his privacy… lately occupied by son Vittorio and his current affection. That
had been a homecoming. He and Vittorio had reached a quick understanding: the
woman walked out and Vittorio stayed, finding the possession of an apartment and
an expense account more important, and far better than transfer to Downbelow
base, which was actively seeking young volunteers. Physical labor, and on
Downbelow’s rainy surface, was not to Vittorio’s taste. As figurehead up here he
had been useful, voted as he was told, managed as he was told, had kept Lukas
Company out of chaos, at least, having sense enough to solve minor problems on
his own and to ask about the major ones. What he had done with the expense
account was another matter. Jon had spent his time, after adjusting to station
hours, down in company offices going over the books, reviewing personnel and
those expense accounts.
Now there was some kind of alert on, ugly and urgent; he had come as other
councillors had come, brought in by a message that a special meeting was called.
His heart was still hammering from the exertion. He keyed in his desk unit and
his mike, listening to the thin com chatter which occupied council at the
moment, with a succession of ship scan images on the screens overhead. More
trouble. He had heard it all the way up from the dockside offices. Something was
coming in.
“What number do you have?” Angelo was asking, and getting no response from the
other side.
“What is this?” Jon asked the woman next to him, a green sector delegate, Anna
Morevy.
“More refugees coming in, and they’re not saying anything. The carrier Pacific.
Esperance Station: that’s all we know. We’re not getting any cooperation. But
that’s Sung out there. What do you expect?”
Other councillors were still arriving, the tiers filling rapidly. He slipped the
personal audio into his ear, punched in the recorder, trying to get current of
the situation. The convoy on scan had come in far too close for safety, above
system plane. The voice of the council secretary whispered on, summarizing,
offering visuals to his desk screen, none of it much more than what they had
before them live.
A page worked through to the back row, leaned over his shoulder and handed him a
handwritten note. Welcome back, he read, perplexed. You are designated proxy to
Emilio Konstantin’s seat, number ten. Your immediate experience of Downbelow
deemed valuable. A. Konstantin.
His heart sped again, for a different reason. He gathered himself to his feet,
laid down the earplug and turned off the channels, walked down the aisle under