Big George was staring at a wallscreen, too. Pancho sat beside him in his informal office, her eyes glued to the grainy image of Lars Fuchs.
“I received Pancho’s message,” Fuchs said, his broad, jowly face downcast, sour-looking. “Unfortunately, I can’t risk a meeting. Too many of Humphries’s spies might learn of it. Whatever you have to tell me, Pancho, send it in a message.”
The image winked off.
Pancho blinked, then turned to George. “That’s it? That’s his whole message?”
“He doesn’t waste words,” George replied. ” ‘Fraid somebody might intercept the beam and get a fix on his location.”
“I’ve got to talk to him,” Pancho said, feeling frustrated. “Face to face.”
George said, “Lots o’ luck.”
Getting to her feet, Pancho said, “I can’t tell him Mandy’s dead over a comm link.”
Shaking his unshorn head, George replied, “He’s not gonna meet with you, Pancho. I di’n’t think he would.”
“I’m not going to lead him into a trap, for cripes sake!”
“Not knowingly.”
She frowned at him.
“Lars hasn’t survived out there for so long by bein’ naive,” George said. “Humphries has had mercenaries tryin’ to bag him. Freelancers, too; the word’s gone ’round the Belt that Humphries’ll pay a bounty for Lars’s head.”
Pancho grimaced. “Mandy told me he promised to leave Lars alone.”
“Sure he did,” George replied, scorn dripping from each syllable.
“I’ve got to see him.”
“It’s not gonna happen, Pancho. Face it. Lars is cautious, and I can’t say I blame him.”
Pancho took a deep breath, telling herself, When you’re faced with a stone wall, find a way around it. Or over it. Or tunnel under it, if you have to. What did Dan Randolph always say: When the going gets tough, the tough get going—to where the going’s easier.
“George,” she asked, sitting down next to him again, “how do you get messages to Lars?”
He hesitated a moment. Then, “He’s got a half-dozen or so miniaturized transceivers scattered around on minor asteroids out there. When I squirt a message to one of ’em, I tell him which one I’ll be aimin’ at on the next message.”
“And the transceivers stay on the same ‘roids all the time?”
“Naw. Lars moves ’em around. He tells me where they’ll be next when he answers me back.”
Pancho was silent for a few moments, thinking. At last she said, “So you could send him a message and tell him where you’ll be sending the next one.”
“And when,” George added.
“And then he goes to that rock to pick up your message.”
“Right.”
“I could be waiting for him at the asteroid where the transceiver is. When Lars shows up, I’ll be there to greet him.”
George huffed. “And he’ll blow you to bits before you can say hello.”
“Not if—”
“Count on it,” George said.
“I’ll take that chance.”
Shaking his head, George replied, “Pancho, I can’t give you the fookin’ coordinates! Lars’ll think I betrayed him, for cryin’ out loud!”
“I’ve got to see Lars face to face. I’m willing to take the chance that he’ll attack my ship. It’s on my head.”
George remained adamant for hours. Pancho wheedled, pleaded, begged.
“What’s so fookin’ important?” George asked. “What is it you’ve got to tell him to his face?”
Pancho hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then she answered, “George, if I could tell you, I would. But it’s for Lars’s ears only.”
He scratched at his thick beard. “That big, huh?”
Pancho nodded wordlessly.
“All right,” he said uneasily. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go out on the ship with you.”
“But you said it’d be dangerous!”
“Yeah. And it will be, believe it. But I think I can work out a scheme that’ll keep Lars from blasting us on sight. Besides, I’d rather be there to face him than have him think I ratted him out.”
TORCH SHIP SAMARKAND
Harbin sat in Samarkand’s command chair, his pilot and navigator seated on a level of the bridge slightly below his. The data screens showed a confusing array of ship trajectories heading toward Ceres and away from the asteroid. The ship’s computer was sorting out all the information, seeking the one ship that carried Pancho Lane.