“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Wade said, walking forward with a deliberation more suggestive of drink than a stagger would have been. “I have great experience in construction methods and problems. I am the largest contractor, I say with no exaggeration, within a hundred kilometers of Point Easy.”
“Get the hell out of here!” the guard snarled.
The other two Grantholmers held an electronic pick against the lockplate of the hatch to the continuation of Corridor 12. The pick was designed to duplicate the combination of simple locks like this one by sheer number-crunching. The coarse concrete surface of the panel caused alignment problems.
“If you can’t get this fucking thing to work,” snarled the soldier with the slung doorknocker, “I’ve got a trick that will!”
“My wife left me,” Wade said, continuing to walk toward the trio of soldiers. “Me, the largest contractor within a hundred—”
“Get back, you stupid bastard!” the guard shouted. He stepped forward and brought his weapon around in an arc that slammed the side of the wire stock into Wade’s head. The thin old man hurtled over a chair with a streak of blood bright against the white hair of his temple.
The pistol shots were so sharp and swift that the three of them together could have been the first whipcrack of a nearby thunderbolt.
One of the soldiers lurched against the closed door, hard enough to bloody his nose on the rough gray finish. His partner simply slumped, releasing the electronic pick as he fell. The bullet wound beneath either man’s left ear, under the lip of the soldiers’ tight-fitting helmets, looked like a blood blister rather than a hole.
The guard continued to rotate with the inertia of the force with which he’d struck Wade. He had a surprised expression and no right eye because of the bullet that had killed him an instant before his fellows died.
Wade got up from his flailing sprawl. He patted his left temple gingerly, looked at the blood on his fingertips, and grimaced.
“Told you Tom here was a dab hand with a pistol,” he murmured to Holly as he bent to pick up the submachine gun with which he’d been clubbed.
The passenger fifty meters down the corridor screamed uncontrollably. He let go of his children’s hands to find his room key, then dropped the key when he tried to touch it to the lockplate. The toddlers gripped their father’s trouser legs and added their high-pitched voices to his shrieks.
Holly opened the corridor hatch with her key. She grabbed one of the soldiers to drag him through. “We don’t want them found any sooner than we can help it,” she muttered in a voice pitched more for herself than for informing her companions.
Belgeddes dropped the pistol into his tunic pocket “A nice little weapon,” he said conversationally as he took another soldier by the collar with both hands. “I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind.”
The corpse Wanda Holly was dragging suddenly began to thrash like a pithed frog. She pulled it another half-meter forward to get the feet out of the hatchway.
Then, unexpectedly to herself though not to the old men, she knelt and vomited out the whole contents of her stomach.
* * *
Passengers pranced nervously up and down the corridors of the Empress of Earth, their eyes as wide as those of does separated from their herd. None of them really looked at Ran Colville, incongruous in white trousers and a jacket of pink and puce streaks.
There was a three-man team from the Grantholm commando in the Embarkation Hall. Ran scuttled past the soldiers to a drop shaft. Four passengers, caught on the wrong deck as Ran had been, lurched from their stasis at the edge of the hall and followed him into the shaft. All of them hunched as if to draw their heads within their shoulders, turtle-like.
A Grantholm submachine gun followed the movements, but the soldiers didn’t deign to speak. They were in the Embarkation Hall and other key points as an earnest of intent. The fifty or so troops in the commando couldn’t control thousands of people directly. So long as the passengers were trying to get to their rooms, the Grantholmers had no need to act.