agent. It was farce, a too elaborate result of his intrigue with Jacoby. He had
sent out a tentative feeler and someone had raised the stakes in the game to a
ridiculous level.
Union ships were coming. Were very close, that they would take the enormous
chance of sending in someone like Jessad. He resumed his seat at his desk,
holding the drink, sipped at it, trying to pull his thoughts into coherency. The
proposed deception of comp could not go on. He reckoned the life of the
Jessad/Vittorio charade in days, and if something went wrong he would be the one
quickest caught, not Jessad, who was not in comp. Jessad was expendable in Union
plans, perhaps, but he was more so.
He drank, trying to think.
Seized up paper with sudden inspiration, more forms, started the call-up
procedure for a short-hauler. There were crews in Lukas employ who would not
talk, like Sheba, men who would take a ship out and carry a ghost aboard,
falsify manifests, falsify crew or passenger listings… the tracing of the black
market routes had turned up all manner of interesting data that some captains
did not want known. So this afternoon another ship would go out to the mines,
and Vittorio’s comp number could be changed into the station log.
A little ripple, a ship moving; no one paid attention to short-haulers. Out to
the mines and back again, a ship incapable of threatening security because it
lacked speed and star capacity and weapons. He might still have some questions
to answer from Angelo, but he knew all the right answers to give. He transmitted
the order to comp, watched in satisfaction as comp swallowed the order and sent
out notification to Lukas Company that any ship moving had to carry some station
items to the mines free-freighted. Ordinarily he would have kicked hard at the
size of the assessment for free transport; it was outrageous. He keyed back at
it: Accepted ¼ station lading; will depart 1700md.
Comp took it. He leaned back with a great sigh of relief, his heart settling
down to a more reasonable rhythm. Personnel was an easy matter; he knew his
better men.
He set to work again, pulling names from comp, choosing the crew, a merchanter
family long in Lukas’s pay. “Send the Kulins in the moment they hit the office,”
he told his secretary over the com. “There’s a commission waiting for them. Make
it out and hurry about it. Scramble together anything we’ve meant to freight
out, and get it going; then get an extra dock crew to make a pickup from station
lading for free-freighting, no quarrels, take whatever they’re given and get
back here. You make sure those papers are flawless and that there’s no snag…
absolutely no snag… in comp entries. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” the answer came back. And a moment later: “Contact made with the
Kulins. They’re on their way and thank you for the commission, sir.”
Annie was convenient, a ship comfortable enough for a prolonged tour of Lukas
mine interests. Small enough for obscurity. He had taken such tours in his
youth, learning the business. So Vittorio might. He sipped at his drink and
thumbed the papers on his desk, fretting.
iii
Pell: Central Cylinder; 9/9/52; 1200 hrs.
Josh sank down to the matting, sat, collapsed backward, in the gym’s reduced G.
Damon leaned over him, hands on bare knees, the suspicion of amusement on his
face.
“I’m done,” Josh said when he had a breath; his sides hurt. I’d exercised, but
not this much.“
Damon sank to his knees by him on the mat, hunched and himself hard-breathing.
“Doing all right, anyhow. I’m ready to call it.” He sucked air and let out a
slower breath, grinned at him. “Need help?”
Josh grunted and rolled over, heaved himself up on one arm, gathered himself
gracelessly to his feet, shaking in every muscle and conscious of the men and
women in better form who passed them on the steep track which belted all Pell’s
inner core. It was a crowded place, echoing with shouted conversation. It was
freedom, and the worst there was to fear here was a little laughter. He would