herself on
the outs with Mazian, then luck happened and here was Mallory, shiny-new
loyalties and all. Smart captain. Damn good, Bet gave her that. If luck had been
on her own side she'd have gotten snagged up in Norway's company instead of
Africa's and have herself a clear record right now—have credit in her pocket,
have a snug spot and a rack to sleep in, rich as a skut could get. No matter
Norway's captain was a hardnosed bastard who'd gunned down her own troops and
tried to blow Africa to hell—no love lost at all between Mallory and Porey.
They'd fought in space, fought on dock-side, Mallory had arrested three of
Africa's marines and Africa troops had sniped at Norway's on the docks of Pell
before they got to open space. Not to ask what Norway's skuts would do to one of
Africa's if they got her aboard.
Long, long way to die, she knew that.
And if station law caught her they'd hold her for Mallory, who would take a
direct, even personal interest in her.
She shivered. She did her work, she thought about that ship that was coming and
how long they were going to be in port—some three, four days from now. Another
three, four days to fill Mary Gold's tanks—
While the contents of that bedroom got more noticeable, long enough for an
inquiry into that business in the restroom to get damned close.
They said they were going to close down Thule, they were going to blow it and
shove the pieces into the sun so there was no way the Fleet could even mine the
place for metal—so there wasn't going to be a Thule Station for a ship to come
back to, the people were going to be scattered across a dozen lightyears and
maybe they wouldn't even bother about the records, just junk everything, maybe
forget all the old records as useless and she could go on and never worry about
the business on Thule catching up with her someday, if she could just keep it
quiet for a week, keep on using Ritterman's card in places Ritterman might go,
and convince the computers he was still alive. Thule wasn't like Pell, where
there might be relatives to ask questions: the types that had come out to this
armpit of the universe were all loose-footed, the dregs of Pell, mostly; the
sweepings out of Q-section, refugees and nobodies hoping for a break that might
have come but wouldn't, now. And Ritterman wasn't the sort to have a lot of
friends.
Just get the supplies she needed, look respectable enough to impress Mary Gold,
work to the next port, and just try to make herself useful enough to stay
on—anywhere, any port but Pell—that being Norway's port.
That was why she'd told old Kato she was staying, because Ernestine was going
back. And Kato had believed the crap about her wanting to take her chances on
the Rim, but Kato had desperate business to do at Pell and a ship in debt and
Kato left her for a fool, good luck, mate, stay out of trouble, hope you find
your luck.
Hell.
She went back to Ritterman's apartment, she read the messages on the comp, which
was only a notice from station library that tapes were overdue. She found the
ones the library wanted back, she laid them on the table, to take out and dump
in the return the next morning, she looked the address up in the station
directory to be able to find it.
And she kept the vid tuned to station traffic ops, always hoping, while she made
down a comfortable bed on the couch and drank Ritterman's vodka, ate Ritterman's
chips and candy and read Ritterman's skutty picture-books till bedtime.
Back to the docks the next morning, down to the row of vending machines spinward
of the lift. She had her mouth full of cheese puffs when the bell rang, that
loud long burst that meant a ship had just dropped into system; and she gulped
it down with a mouthful of soda and took a breath.
So she made her leisurely stroll toward the corner where the public monitor was,
because it was just the longscan had gotten the info from the zenith buoy, and
that was an hour and a