Normally the man would have been cowed by this direct attention, but instead he simply shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
“I just want to be sure this `no rough stuff’ rule works both ways,” the thug grumbled. “I don’t want to be no clay pigeon in a shooting gallery for nervous guards.”
“They aren’t regular guards,” one of the others supplied. “They’re some kind of army types.”
“Yeah?” The original questioner fixed Stilman with an accusing gaze. “You didn’t say nothing about that when you was briefing us.”
“It’s been all over the media,” Stilman said levelly. “I assumed you knew. All it means is that they shouldn’t rattle as easily as normal guards would.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“You aren’t supposed to like it. If you did, we wouldn’t have to pay you to do it.”
Kong tensed, waiting for Stilman to quell the rebellion physically as well as verbally. To his surprise, however, the headman simply turned his back on the complainer.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he muttered, “I don’t like it, either. It’s Max’s orders, though, and while I’m taking her pay, she calls the shots.”
Kong tried to think of another time when he had heard Stilman speak out openly against an order from Max, but couldn’t bring one to mind. Coming from him, the casual complaint was of monumental significance.
“Here comes another one.”
One of the small electric vans that were the mainstay of the space station’s delivery network was pulling off the main drag into the loading area, a meat wagon this time.
The men waited in silence as it backed into position, then uncoiled from where they had been lounging against the wall and moved forward as the driver came around to open the back of the vehicle.