Pointing to the tubes, Sindri said, “The MD is powered by antiprotons, concentrated and held in those storage rings around which they constantly move. When the discharge setting is activated, a stream of particles are released through that lens, a power of about two thousand joules to a three-second burst. You can squeeze about ten bursts out of it before the batteries need recharging.”
“Doesn’t seem like a very reliable weapon,” Grant observed.
“In truth, it is not. Though developed as such, the MD proved more useful as a tool, to mine buried elements and ores.”
“Why did you take it to the redoubt, then?”
Sindri shrugged. “I thought it might be needed to force egress through doors that could not be opened or passages blocked by rubble. My people had no choice but to turn it on your so-called Magistrates. It was their only defense.”
“No smaller models were ever built?” asked Kane.
“Not that I am aware of, no.” His response was glib, practiced and smooth.
Putting the cart in reverse, Sindri backed it out of the niche and into the main corridor. He drove slowly along it, silently, as if lost in thought. Then he said, “You were lying to me, Mr. Kane. You know why the Magistrates were in the redoubt, don’t you?”
Kane didn’t reply for a long, tense moment. Carefully he answered, “We aren’t sure, Sindri. Believe me.”
“But you have suspicions?”
“Yes.”
“Do me the honor of presenting them to me, please.”
Brigid said, “We suspect they were looking for some signs of us. Your people’s paths and theirs crossed at the wrong time. An accident.”
Sindri’s shoulders stiffened. “Why would Magistrates be looking for you? Are you criminals?”
“In many circles on Earth,” answered Brigid, “we most definitely are.”
Sindri looked at her wide-eyed. “Miss Brigid, I would have never believed it of a young lady with your refinements. Your companions yes, but not you. I can scarcely credit it.”
He smiled conspiratorially, leaning toward her. ‘ ‘What crime did you commit? Did you punish an unfaithful lover, stab him with a jeweled letter opener on the night of the full moon, then dance about naked in his blood?”
Brigid’s eyes slitted in confusion, and she drew as far away from him as the bucket seat would allow. “What? No, of course not.”
Sindri’s face fell in disappointment. “Then what did you do?”
She tried to shrug casually. “I wanted to know a few things that weren’t meant to be known.”
“Elucidate, kindly. I’m quite fascinated.”
“What the hell difference does it make?” broke in Grant harshly.
Kane couldn’t help but smile. Out of all the exiles at Cerberus, Grant was still the most sensitive about his criminal status. He didn’t like to think about it and he certainly didn’t enjoy talking about it.
Sindri turned around to look him reproachfully. “It makes a very great difference to me, sir. Common ground we all share, you see. I, too, am a criminal.”
Kane angled an eyebrow at him. “What kind?”
“Oh, the very worst, from a philosophical point of view.” Sindri’s fingers began tapping a nervous ditty on the steering wheel. “An idealist, a savior gone wrong. I kill in order to save.”
Grant’s lips twisted in a barely repressed smirk. “Just who did you kill while saving them?”
Sindri laughed. “Ninety-five percent of the population of Mars. I hope you don’t want their names, because they’ve tended to slip my mind.”
The food at Sindri’s table came from self-heat ration packs. The fact that he served it on plastic dinnerware didn’t improve its taste, look or smell very much. Kane tried to feed some scraps of a rice-pilaf concoction to Robinson Crusoe. The cat sniffed at it to be polite, but declined to consume any. Kane couldn’t blame him.
Grant and Kane were surprised by the fiery wine Elle served them. Brigid drank a little of it, but not much.
The table had been moved out of Sindri’s improvised living quarters and into the barnlike warehouse. Trolls stood around it here and there at a respectful distance, but their black eyes never left the three outlanders at the table.
Three females danced in the shaft of sunlight slanting in from the skylight. They moved in hobbling, graceless kick steps to the skirling and twanging of men playing pipes and harps.
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