“I was there when the crazy vets highjacked the starship.” Or maybe “One day this crazy guy ran in with tear gas. I shot him.” But none of us could remember the museum guards being armed, which would have been memorable. Maybe they just kept the guns out of sight. Maybe I should worry about something else.
Marygay had her thumb on the OVERRIDE button, but it wasn’t necessary. The floater stopped for cross-traffic a block before the library. I gave her a kiss and slipped out the door.
The snow was sifting down slowly, straight–still good for the shuttle and perhaps for me, since it would slow down response to a call for help from the museum. I threaded my way through the inching traffic, people perhaps being extra-courteous because of my limp. The crowbar had slid past my knee.
It occurred to me that the museum might be closed, and that might be a good thing. I could break in and, although it would doubtless set off an alarm, I would just be dealing with police, and not a lot of bystanders.
No such luck. As I approached the museum, someone was leaving, backing out the front door with a wide covered tray, probably breakfast.
I went through the heavy wooden door, and sure enough, the guard was nibbling at a piece of cake from a stack of assorted kinds on a plate. She was a female Man, in her early twenties. She said something to me in their language, mumbling through a mouthful. I think she said good morning, and invited me to leave my coat and attache‚ case there.
She had the broad chin they all have, a good target for a punch. When she looked inside the case, I’d give her an uppercut that I hoped would knock her out for a minute and leave her disorganized for another.
It wasn’t necessary. She asked me what was in the bag, and I said, in slow English, “I don’t know. I’m from Paxton, supposed to deliver this to the Man in charge of the weapons exhibit.”
“Oh, he’s not a Man; he’s one of you. Jacob Kellman, he came in two or three minutes ago. You could take it right to him, A4.” The small building only had two stories, with four rooms each.
The door to A4 was closed. I opened it and there was no one inside. No lock. I eased it shut and worked fast–pulled out the crowbar and ran past all of the less potent examples of man’s inhumanity to all species, straight to the glass case with the fighting suit. Two swings with the crowbar and the front pane of glass cascaded in.
I ran back toward the door and got there just as it opened. Kellman was a greybeard, at least as old as me, unarmed. Drawing on my vast knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, I shoved him hard and he fell down sprawling in the corridor. I slammed the door shut again and wedged the crowbar in between the door and the jamb, as a crude lock, and hurried back to the exhibit.
The fighting suit was a newer model than the last one I’d had, but I hoped the basic design hadn’t changed. I reached into the concealed niche between the shoulders and felt the emergency lever and pulled. It wouldn’t work if there was anyone alive in the suit, but fortunately it was unoccupied. The suit clamshelled open, smashing another pane of glass, and the reassuring hydraulic wheeze meant it had power.
Someone was pounding on the door and yelling. I got one boot off and with a stockinged foot swept away enough broken glass so I could stand barefooted while I undressed. Got my sweater and pants off and tried to rip open the shirt, but the buttons were sewn on too well. While I fumbled with them, the pounding became a rhythmic heavy thump–someone bigger than Kellman was applying a shoulder to the door.
I got both gas grenades out of the briefcase, pulled the pins, and hurled them the length of the room. They popped with a satisfying swirl of opaque cloud and I stepped backward into the suit, slid my arms into the sleeves, and clenched both hands, for the “activate” signal. I didn’t bother with the plumbing; I’d either hold it in or live with the results.