“But what are you going to do?”
He pulled out a cordless screwdriver, hefted it in one hand. “It’s not much, but it will have to do. It’s heavy enough to make a reasonable club.”
Amanda reached for him, but he brushed her away. “Where are you going?” she asked, breathless with fear. “To find this man Buchanan.”
“Alone? By yourself?”
“Who else is there? How much time do we have before this Buchanan takes off in one of Humphries’s ships and leaves Ceres altogether?”
“You can’t go after him!” Amanda pleaded. “Let the law handle this!”
Storming to the door, he roared, “The law? What law? We don’t even have a village council. There is no law here!”
“Lars, if he’s really a hired killer, he’ll kill you!” He stopped at the door, tucked the screwdriver into the waistband of his slacks. “I’m not a complete fool, Amanda. I won’t let him kill me, or anyone else.”
“But how can you . . .”
He grabbed the door, slid it open, and marched out into the tunnel, leaving her standing there. Billows of dust followed his footsteps.
The Pub was crowded when Fuchs got there. He had to push his way to the bar.
The barkeep recognized him, but barely smiled. “Hello, Lars. Gonna call another town meeting?”
“Do you know a man named Buchanan?” Fuchs asked, without preamble.
The barkeep nodded warily.
“Do you know where I can find him?”
The man’s eyes shifted slightly, then came back to lock onto Fuchs’s. “What do you want him for?”
“I need to talk to him,” said Fuchs, struggling to keep his voice even, calm.
“He’s a badass, Lars.”
“I’m not here to start a fight,” Fuchs said. He even felt it was true.
“Well, that’s Buchanan right down there at the end of the bar.”
“Thank you.”
Fuchs accepted a frosted aluminum goblet of beer, then wormed his way through the crowd until he was next to Buchanan. The man was with two friends, talking to a trio of miniskirted young women, their drinks on the bar in front of them. Buchanan was tall, with wide sloping shoulders, and young enough to have a flat midsection. His blond hair was cut short, except for a tiny imitation matador’s twist at the back of his head. His face was lean, unlined, relaxed.
“You are Mr. Buchanan?” Fuchs asked, putting his aluminum goblet on the bar.
Buchanan turned to him, looked Fuchs over and saw a stocky older rock rat in a shapeless gray velour pullover and wrinkled slacks with the build of a weasel and a sour expression on his broad, heavy-featured face. The guy had a tool of some sort tucked in his waistband.
“I’m Buchanan,” he said. “Who the fuck are you?”
Fuchs replied, “I am a friend of the late Niles Ripley.”
He said it quietly, flatly, but it was as if he had shouted the words through a power megaphone. Everything in the Pub stopped. Conversation, laughter, even motion seemed to freeze in place.
Buchanan leaned his right elbow on the bar as he faced Fuchs. “Ripley won’t be blowing his horn around these parts anymore,” he said, grinning. One of the men behind him snickered nervously.
Fuchs said, “Your name tag was found in his dead hand.”
“Oh, so that’s where it got to. I was wondering where I’d lost it.”
“You killed him.”
Buchanan reached slowly behind him and pulled a hand laser from the pouch strapped to his waist. He laid it down carefully on the bar, next to his drink. Its power cord trailed back to his belt; its business end pointed at Fuchs.
“If I did kill him, what’re you going to do about it?”
Fuchs took a breath. The lava-hot rage he had felt only a few minutes earlier had turned to ice now. He felt cold, glacially calm, but not one nanobit less enraged than he had been before.
He replied softly, “I thought you and I could go back to Selene and let the authorities there investigate the murder.”
Buchanan’s jaw dropped open. He gawked at Fuchs, standing like a stubborn little bull in front of him. Then he lifted his head and brayed with laughter. His two friends laughed, also.