Read Galactic Bounty for Free Online

for that matter, any information about her whereabouts."
    McCade finished the last sandwich and washed it down with coffee. "A love affair then?" he asked.
    "Perhaps . . .," the other man replied, placing his empty dishes on the cart, "but we're not sure. It could also be hero worship."
    Swanson-Pierce touched the "dismiss" button on the autocart. As it trundled toward the door, it blew up with a deafening roar.

Three
    The force of the explosion hurled both men to the floor. McCade found himself sprawled across the wreckage of an antique oriental table. He staggered to his feet. His ears were ringing, and he was bleeding from numerous small cuts. Otherwise he seemed to be in one piece. Across the office Swanson-Pierce pushed some fallen ceiling panels off his legs and, using his scarred rosewood desk for support, stood up. His right arm hung limply by his side.
    The office was a smoking ruin. McCade noticed that the areas nearest the cart had suffered the most damage, especially the ceiling. Apparently the top of the cart had blown off first, directing the blast upward and probably saving their lives.
    A squad of marines burst in through the blackened doorway, weapons at the ready. Finding no current threat, the squad leader motioned, and men dressed in fire-fighting gear entered to spray foam over the smouldering debris.
    A muscle in McCade's left cheek began to twitch as he made his way over to Swanson-Pierce. The naval officer was bent over, sorting through the rubble at his feet. He straightened up with a smile on his face and a fistful of cigars in his left hand.
    "Might as well salvage something," he said, clenching a cigar between his teeth. "Here, Sam, help yourself."
    "Don't mind if I do," McCade replied, taking most of the cigars, and puffing one alight. "How's your arm?"
    Swanson-Pierce glanced down ruefully. "It doesn't hurt yet . . . but I suppose it's going to." He looked thoughtfully at the blackened autocart. "It wasn't assassins this time."
    "Nope," McCade agreed, adding a stream of cigar smoke to the already polluted atmosphere. "This one was unlicensed all the way. No official warning of any kind."
    "How fortunate you ate our lunch so quickly," Swanson-Pierce said dryly. "Otherwise it would have blown up right next to us."
    "A good point, Walt. You should have a word with the chef. His idea of dessert leaves something to be desired," McCade replied.
    Just then a doctor and two medics appeared and took charge. McCade's cuts were quickly disinfected and covered with nuskin. Swanson-Pierce was helped onto a power stretcher. The pretty lieutenant McCade had met earlier materialized at the naval officer's side, and they spoke in low tones. McCade did his best to eavesdrop but couldn't make out more than a word or two. As the medics began to guide the stretcher through the door, Swanson-Pierce said, "Lieutenant Lowe here will take care of everything, Sam. Don't give her too hard a time, and good hunting!"
    Lieutenant Lowe was very efficient. Swanson-Pierce was barely out of sight when she went to work. Questions were asked and answered. Forms prepared and signed. Calls were made, demanding or pleading, whichever would get the fastest results, so that by evening McCade found himself standing on the blast-proof surface of the spaceport looking up at the long, graceful lines of his ship. She was beautiful.
    He resisted the temptation to call up her registry on his wrist term. He knew it by heart. Her name was Pegasus. Three hundred and fifty feet long, she'd begun her career as a navy scout. Decommissioned during the budget cutbacks a few years ago, she'd been purchased by a wealthy businessman for use as a yacht. He'd lavished considerable love and money on her. Unfortunately during a routine customs inspection, officials had found a small quantity of yirl hidden aboard. Rumor had it the illegal substance was planted there by rival merchants, but whatever the truth of the matter, the businessman was sent to a