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ferry cargo between the surface and the freighters in orbit, the ships that were too large to land and lift except from the yards in the Shawl of Rikavie, where the gravitational pull was minimal.
    Four freighter tenders.
    He’d seen passenger shuttles that would carry maybe a thousand souls, at least for two days or so, and these freighter tenders were even bigger than a mass passenger ferry. He slowed to a stop without noticing what he was doing and stared at the ships hungrily; then Dalmoss’s voice called him back to where he was.
    “There’s the boss,” Dalmoss said. “Over there. On the crate, by that mover. Come on.”
    Those freighter tenders might as well be crates themselves. He’d not be allowed to so much as move them into orbit, if he was allowed onto them at all. Hilton pushed his wild fantasies firmly into a comer of his mind and followed Dalmoss to where a man of Hilton’s approximate age was sitting on a crate, waiting for them.
    Fisner Feraltz only half sat on the crate, his right leg stretched out straight and resting on the floor, covered in bracing. A little more to the fleshy side than Hilton himself was, perhaps, but then it wasn’t as if the food in settlement encouraged overindulgence.
    “Hilton Shires, Foreman,” Dalmoss called. “We missed you in the meal-room, sorry.”
    Feraltz waved the apology off with his left hand. The right hand was braced stiff. “My fault, Dal, I didn’t make it to first-meal. Too much effort. Hilton Shires? Fisner Feraltz. Excuse me if I don’t offer my hand.”
    He was a lot more informal than Hilton had expected, which came as a relief. “Quite all right. When in Combine Yards do as Combine does, after all. Thanks for the opportunity to interview.”
    Feraltz beckoned him closer, so that he could speak more quietly Hilton supposed. “My pleasure, Shires. I owe a debt of gratitude to your family, but I’m keeping quiet about it. Sentiment isn’t very supportive of Langsariks in Port Charid just now, I’m afraid.”
    Feraltz.
    Of course.
    Dalmoss wasn’t looking surprised, so it apparently wasn’t a particular secret; but Hilton could certainly understand why Feraltz might want to avoid calling attention to his personal history, just at the moment. To have spent a year with Langsariks was probably about the same as having been raised by wolves, as far as Feraltz’s fellow Dolgorukij were concerned.
    “So. Look at this, Shires.” Feraltz’s gesture took in the entire sweep of the receiving area, the tenders, the work crews, the load-in cranes. The crates. “The Combine Yards are picking up the slack for lost capacity elsewhere in system. We’re going to have to make some pretty significant increases to accommodate the overflow. There’s new facilities under construction — ”
    Hilton knew that. The Combine’s new warehouse project had been one of the first things Port Charid had drawn on its new Langsarik labor pool to get started.
    “ — but we’re not staffed for it, and I need someone with prior management experience to help us grow. I’ll need to start you on the entry levels, of course, so you can familiarize yourself with the administration of this kind of an operation.”
    It sounded good.
    “I don’t have any prior management experience.” It sounded a little too good. All right, Feraltz felt he owed something to Aunt Agenis’s extended family for saving his life and getting him safely back to his own people, even though it had taken them a while. Hilton still wanted to be sure that Feraltz wasn’t overestimating his ability, in his desire to be accommodating. “I was a lieutenant. It’s people like my aunt who actually ran things.”
    He’d commanded raids, successful ones, but he wasn’t about to make a point of that. Not here. Very poor taste.
    Feraltz shook his head, rejecting Hilton’s disclaimer. “I know what your position was, and I think the skills are transferable. I’d like you to accept an entry-level