Kuyper nodded calmly; the plump civilian had never flinched from the unpleasant duties of his position. “We’ve received a dispatch from Capetown changing the amount of the bounty,” he said. “From now on we’ll be paying you sixty aurics per assessed unit instead of the hundred you’ve received in the past. That means three hundred and sixty aurics will be paid for the present string.”
“The hell you say, lardbelly!” Crais shouted. Her left hand moved beneath her cape and clenched on something hidden. “The hell you say.”
She looked venomously at the men, her lips working without sound. The flesh was drawn so tight across Crais’ cheekbones that her face might almost have been a skull. “Do you know what it costs me to live in the Zone? Nobody issues me food and fuel. Do they think I could patrol every day and tend crops besides?”
“Capetown believes that since the threat has diminished,” Kuyper said, “the bounty can also be cut. In my capacity as District Administrator I’ll make representations to Capetown about the changed policy, but—”
“How diminished will the threat look if me and the Ralliers stop hunting the Zone, mister?” Crais said. “In a month, in a week even? And what happens if some of us start hunting for the other side, hey? How many ears are there on a convoy inbound with a load of wounded, hey?”
“You can swallow that sort of nonsense, for a start!” Evertsen said. “Berlin might be willing to take on the Ralliers—for the duration only, of course—if they decided to turn their coats again; but the only use they’d have for you, Crais, is the same one they have for every Draka they capture. And if they were going to make distinctions among Draka—that wouldn’t be to the advantage of any of the three of us, would it?”
“Damn you, it ain’t right!” Crais said, but there was more despair than anger in her voice this time.
In a gruffly conciliatory tone Evertsen said, “It isn’t my job to explain Capetown’s policies, Mistress Crais. That’s just as well, because sometimes I find those policies completely inexplicable.”
“See here, Crais,” Kuyper said mildly, “I think there’s a way we can work with you. Capetown’s right about the number of units dropping these past months. The guerrillas have been steering clear of the district, and you’ve rooted out most of the stay-behinds. I think there’ll be enough in the account to pay you at the old rate for adults; but children will have to go at sixty aurics per unit, I’m afraid.”
Crais looked at the two older men. Her expression couldn’t be said to have softened, but Evertsen no longer felt there was a real chance that she was going to lunge for his throat with a skinning knife.
“I understand your concern about the cost of supplies, Crais,” he said. “I’ll give you a chit for my steward, directing him to sell you food and fuel from my personal stock at the delivered cost to me. I think you’ll find that more reasonable than dealing with drivers for supplies that’ve fallen off the back of quartermaster trucks, so to speak.”
“Still ain’t right,” Crais muttered. “But I guess I oughta be used to the short end of the stick. All right, I’ll take your bargain.”
Evertsen stripped an order blank off the pad and began writing directions to his steward on the back of it before Crais had an opportunity to change her mind. She added in a mixture of explanation and defiance, “It won’t matter so much next year because we’ll have the crops in. But we need to make it through the season, you see.”
A heavy Slavic voice sounded at the entrance to the TOC. Kuyper had already raised the lid of the strongbox. He paused and said, “Say, Crais? Would you mind waiting a moment to be paid? I want Bruchinsky to see that everybody’s being treated the same, if you see what I mean.”
“Afraid Bruchinsky might fly hot when you tell him to bend over, hey?” Crais said with a cold smile. She straightened her trophy string on the metal desktop. “Yeah, all right, I’ll help you with him.”