They spoke while strolling toward the rear of the main hangar. At present, several large skimmers were undergoing servicing. Flashes of actinic light like miniature thunderbolts sparked from the undersides and flanks of various craft. Half-hidden by the open panels behind which they were working, painters were laying down new circuitry. Mechanicals scurried to and fro across the bare, dry floor, ferrying equipment and supplies to preoccupied workers. More sophisticated mechs carried out automated, less sensitive repairs on their own, without human supervision. At the far end of the hangar, a solitary thranx was tuning some particularly delicate and expensive piece of apparatus recently arrived from Amropolous.
“Things going okay here, Tarik?”
He shrugged diffidently. “Every now and then we have to bring in a couple of peaceforcers to evict some shelter-seeking refugees from one corner of the facility or another. That’s supposed to be Sanderson’s job, not ours. Interrupts our work here.”
Wim Sanderson was head of port authority. “I’ll have a word with him,” she assured the chief mechanic. “That’s not why you got me out of bed to come down here. Why didn’t you just message what you had to tell me?”
Bergovoy glanced around. His manner was casual, but his eyes were not. “Didn’t trust the system. I know it’s supposed to be secure, but you never know.” He returned his attention to his guest. “In response to your requests, I had the service records on the two missing vehicles compiled. They were more interesting for what wasn’t there than for what was.”