Mighty Good Road

CHAPTER 2

Heikki dragged herself awake, aware at first only that something had changed. Santerese was gone. Not long gone, she thought—the sheets were still hollowed beside her—and then heard the sound of voices from the outer rooms. One was Santerese’s business voice, her expressive range flattened to something closer to ‘pointer taste. Heikki swore under her breath, and pushed herself out from under the covers, reaching for the wrap and the remote that lay on the chair beside the big bed. Precinct prudery, she thought, with a mental shrug, but tugged the wrap closed anyway and stepped out into the business rooms.

The lights were on in the suite’s main room, but the status cube was empty; in the tiny kitchen, the coffee-maker clicked quietly to itself. Heikki nodded to herself, and went on into the workroom. The media wall was blaring, multiple windows displaying half a dozen news-and-information channels. Santerese, headphones clamped to her ears, gestured vaguely toward the remote lying just out of reach on the other workstation.

Heikki grinned and reached for it, fingers moving on the touchface. The sound faded until the newsreader in one corner mouthed inaudible information, the stock numbers in the window behind streamed past in eerie silence. Other windows displayed multicolored tables: arrivals and departures from the Station Axis, shipping schedules for the FTL port, local and mean times and the ambient temperatures for pod and Point. Heikki took in the information with a glance, and settled herself at the workstation opposite her partner, careful to stay out of the cameras’ range.

Santerese smiled a greeting, her eyes barely moving from the screen in front of her. Pleasaunce, she mouthed, and Heikki nodded.

“Coffee?” she asked, quietly.

Santerese covered the mike again. “Yes, please.”

Heikki grinned, and went out into the kitchen. When she returned a moment later, carrying the steaming mugs, Santerese was busy at her keyboard.

“—makes a difference, certainly. It will require some specialized equipment, and you will have to pay the shipping and the tech costs—” She broke off, listening to a voice in her headphones, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, you knew your situation when you decided to wait. There’s no way I can do it, otherwise.” She listened again, and sighed. “Very well, I’ll hold.” She touched buttons on her board, and leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “The mine’s slid off the shelf it was lying on—which is what I was afraid it would do all along, damn it.”

Heikki gave her a sympathetic glance, and slid the second mug across the table. “Is it serious?”

“No, not really.” Santerese took a sip of her coffee, staring at the images crowding her screen. “Not if it doesn’t fall any further, that is. It means a rush job after all, and some deep-dive equipment, with staff. I was hoping to get away without it, that’s all. Do me a favor, doll, see if there are any ships leaving for Pleasaunce from anywhere this side of the Loop.”

“Sure,” Heikki said, and switched on her own workscreen. She tied herself into the Lloyds/West shipping net, and began punching inquiries; while the screen cleared and filled, she said, “What happened?”

“Tidal shift—” Santerese began, and broke off, reaching for her keyboard again, reopening the audio channel. “This is Santerese.” She listened for a few moments longer, then nodded. “As I told Fost, the consulting fee will still be applied, but there will be additional charges. I copied that to you already, it should be on your screen. Good. Well, I’m finding that out right now. Please hold.” She cut the sound again, and looked at Heikki.

Heikki said, “I show a single freighter leaving today from EP5, scheduled to arrive on Pleasaunce a little after planetary midnight on 225. The next ship is the mailship you were planning to take.”

“Thanks,” Santerese said, and touched keys. “There is a ship leaving today—what time, Heikki?”

“Leaves from Dock 15 at 1750.”

“Which I can catch with some difficulty,” Santerese continued smoothly. “It will reach Pleasaunce Port in six days; I assume it’s another seven or eight hours’ flight to the wreck site? Yes. So there you have it.” There was another long silence, and then Santerese nodded a final time. “Very well. I will copy my schedule to you as soon as I’ve confirmed it. Goodbye. Idiot,” she added, to the fading screen, and reached for her coffee. “Is there really a cabin, Heikki?”

“I’m afraid so,” Heikki answered, and reached for her own mug. They had both travelled by FTL freight before.

Santerese swore.

“And I’ve already reserved it,” Heikki said mildly.

“You don’t love me at all,” Santerese muttered. “Christ, what about the trains?”

“Also already reserved,” Heikki said. She glanced at her own screen, then touched the keys that would transfer the information to Santerese’s station. “You’ve got six hours to get yourself together.”

“Four,” Santerese corrected. “I’ll need a couple of hours on EP5 to file the shipping papers. Why do I do this to myself?”

“Because you love it,” Heikki answered, but the other woman was already gone. “And we can always use the money.” There was no response from the outer room, and she raised her voice. “Can I contact anyone?”

Santerese’s head reappeared in the doorway. “See if you can get hold of Corsell—leave a message if you can’t—tell him what happened, and to try and catch the freighter—what’s its name?”

Heikki consulted her screen. “Sea Comet.”

“I hope it’s not an omen,” Santerese muttered. She shook herself. “If he can’t, tell him—” She stopped abruptly. “I don’t know what. The next ship is the liner?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him to catch the damn freighter.” Santerese vanished again.

Heikki grinned in spite of herself, and turned her attention to the screen. She tied herself into the Loop’s central communications system—Corsell maintained quarters and a message-service subscription on EP5 —and left Santerese’s message, then closed down her station and returned to the main room. Santerese looked up from her half-filled carryall with a preoccupied smile.

“Have you seen my breather?”

“In the far wall?” Without waiting for a response, Heikki crossed to the storage wall, and pressed the hidden catches. The mask lay with the rest of their underwater gear, and she handed it and the thin pressure suit to Santerese.

“Thanks.” Santerese fitted both items into her case, and sat back on her heels, frowning a little.

“Have you made arrangements for deep-dive stuff yet?” Heikki asked.

“I thought I would talk to Jorge personally, on my way to the Axis,” Santerese answered. “I already reserved a minibell, but for a ten-day from now. I just hope he can supply me.”

“There’s one good thing about this,” Heikki said, after a moment. “You might be able to join me on Iadara after all.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Santerese pushed herself to her feet and reached for the carryall. “Damn, we were going to go over the figures—”

“It’s all right,” Heikki said, and bit back a laugh. “Don’t worry about it, Marshallin, I can handle it.”

Santerese had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. “I know, doll. Sorry.”

“I’ll contact you through the company of Pleasaunce if the bid goes through,” Heikki went on, “and we can make plans from there.”

“All right.” Santerese slung the carryall across her shoulder, and glanced around for a final time. “I think that’s everything I need. Let me know what happens with Lo-Moth.”

She started toward the suite’s main door, a small woman in a severely tailored day suit, the weight of the carryall balanced against one rounded hip. The narrow skirt, slit for walking, showed a glimpse of brown thigh. She had her hand on the latchplate when Heikki said, “Marshallin?” There was a note of laughter in her voice.

“Oh, God.” Santerese turned back, half laughing, half embarrassed. They embraced, not quickly, and Santerese said again, “Let me know about the bid.”

“I will,” Heikki answered. “Be careful.”

“You, too,” Santerese answered, and released her hold, reaching again for the latch.

Heikki stood for a moment after the door had closed behind her, trying to marshall her own thoughts. The Pleasaunce job was well under control, despite the inevitable chaos of the hurried departure; it was up to her to bring in the Lo-Moth bid. Sighing a little, she returned to the workroom, her fingers busy on the remote.

Sound returned to the media wall, the newsreader’s voice rising above the rest of the noise. Heikki listened with half an ear as she settled herself back at the workstation, and emptied that window as soon as she had heard enough to satisfy herself that the Loop was not on the verge of any major catastrophe. She replaced the newsreader’s vacuously handsome face with tables of shipping charges, and turned her attention to the screen in front of her. If she was to meet with Lo-Moth’s representative this afternoon, she would need to have a rough bid in hand.

As she had told Santerese the night before, she would want local help for this job, people who knew the back country as she could not. A guide and a local pilot, she thought, and Jock Nkosi, if he’ll take the job. Full union rates for him, of course, and three-quarters for the locals—no reason to be stingy there—plus a hazard clause to add forty percent of scale if we find evidence of sabotage. Djuro, as usual, would have his choice of union rates or a percentage of the profit.

She ran her hand across the shadowscreen, watching images flicker past on the monitor. Once she had found the file she wanted, she turned back to the keyboard, her fingers dancing across the controls. An instant later, a map of Iadara’s eastern hemisphere sprang to life on the screens, the scattered settlements traced in red, the terrain indicated by ghostly washes of color. She studied that for a moment, one finger idly tracing the most likely flight path across the shadowscreen. On the monitor, a green line appeared, moving with her hand. It crossed the thick jungle that edged the central massif: not promising terrain for a search. She eyed it a moment longer, then flattened her palm against the shadowscreen. The line vanished.

It was also not country to be crossed in lighter-than-air craft—as witness the accident itself, she added, with a grim smile. They would want a good scout-flyer, one of the sturdy, long-range machines that were common on Iadara, and then, if they found anything, a heavy-lift powercraft to land by the wreckage. From the look of the land, it would be a week’s search at the very least, and who knew how long to recover wreckage… , So, she thought, her fingers busy again on the keyboard, three weeks’ pay at the least, plus option, rental for the aircraft, and then maybe for a jungle crawler if we do find it, plus food and fuel…. She glanced thoughtfully at the charts on the media wall, then filled in numbers. Forty-three thousand pounds-of-account—we’ll call it K45 to be sure, she thought, and made the adjustments. I wonder, can I get poa these days, or will we have to take the local scrip, and worry about the exchanges? In the old days, everything had been calculated in a private corporate currency, with all the problems that entailed. But that was twenty years ago, she told herself. There’s no harm in asking for poa.

She looked at her figures again, head tilted slightly to one side, then touched keys, transferring the rough figures to her standard bid form. She made a few final changes, then dumped the completed bid to a datasquare, at the same time reserving a copy for herself. The diskprinter whirred softly, and extruded a neatly labeled square. Heikki left it in the bin, and ran her hand across the shadowscreen, shifting nets until she was tied into the Exchange Point’s main mail system. In the confusion, Santerese had forgotten to tell her partner where Lo-Moth was, and where they were to meet. On the whole, not surprising, Heikki thought, and keyed first her mailcode and then the codes listed for Lo-Moth’s main office.

The screen shifted to the search pattern. Heikki leaned back in her chair, fully expecting to receive the usual white-screen “engaged” signal, and a request that she leave a message. Instead, the contact lights flashed, and a dark woman, her face painted in a severe geometric mask, appeared on the screen.

“Dam’ Heikki? Could you hold one moment, please?”

“Certainly,” Heikki answered, by reflex, too taken aback by the old-fashioned courtesies to do anything more.

“Thank you,” the woman said, and vanished. The screen shifted to a started holding pattern, soft swirls of green and blue, then, almost before the pattern had fully formed, vanished again.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Dam’ Heikki. How may I help you?”

Heikki studied the woman for an instant. In the twenty years she’d been in salvage, no corporation, large or small, had ever showed Heikki/Santerese this much courtesy. They must want something very badly, Heikki thought, but said aloud, “I’m calling to confirm my appointment. With Ser Mikelis.”

The woman glanced down at a lapboard. “Yes, Dam’ Heikki, I can confirm that, for fourteen hundred. Our offices are in Pod 2, business suite 273. I can have an escort waiting on your arrival, if you’d like.” It was less an offer than a command.

“That will be fine,” Heikki said, achieving a proper boredom with an effort, and cut the connection. She sat staring at the empty screen for a long moment, her coffee forgotten on the table beside her. This is not the way the corporations deal with the independents, she thought again. They had my name, my mailcode, not just the personal contact code, on their hot list, pulled it out of the automatic answering queue and gave it to a human being to deal with. And that, she added silently, is when I start to worry.

Almost without thought, she keyed Sten Djuro’s codes into the machine. She owed him warning of a possible job anyway, but, more than that, she wanted him to use his connections among the FTL community, to see what he’d heard about Lo-Moth, and Foursquare. The screen pulsed softly to itself for some minutes, but she did not cancel the contact. At last, the screen brightened a little, but no picture took shape. Djuro’s harsh familiar voice said, “What is it?”

“It’s Heikki, Sten.”

“Ah.” The screen cleared abruptly, and the ex-engineer’s lined face filled the screen. “What’s up?”

Over the little man’s shoulder, Heikki could see the single room he lived in, as bare and unfurnished as though he still lived in freefall. A slate-blue sleeping pad lay near the far wall, disarranged by his waking; there was nothing else, not even a teacup, on the spare white mats.

“We’re bidding on a job,” she said aloud. “Do you know anything about a company called Lo-Moth?”

Djuro shook his head.

“They’re a crysticulture firm, based on Iadara, Sixth Precinct. It’s a typical crysticulture world, hot, humid, and a lot of sand.” Heikki took a quick breath, pushing away the too-vivid memories. “Anyway, they lost an LTA there a couple of months ago, and they’re taking bids to find it.”

“No locator, no beacon?” Djuro asked. The wrinkles tightened around his yellowish eyes, an expression that could be either humor or suspicion. Heikki shook her head, and had the satisfaction of seeing the ex-engineer frown. “Wait a minute, didn’t somebody default on that one, a precinct firm, a week or so back?”

“That’s right.” Heikki smiled. “See if you can find out anything about that, would you? Official or unofficial, I don’t care. I’m meeting a man named Mikelis at fourteen hundred, and I’d like to know a little more before I talk to him. It sounds like an interesting job.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Djuro said, rather sourly. “All right, Heikki, I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said, and cut the connection. Left to herself, she studied the various menus for a moment, her hand sliding easily across the shadowscreen, then selected the Exchange Point’s business library. At this hour, there would be a dozen librarians on duty, and the surcharges would be correspondingly high—but with luck, she thought, the information I want should be available with ordinary callcodes. At the idiot prompts, she keyed in requests for Lo-Moth’s shareholder reports and precis for the past three years, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, called up the more expensive FortuneNet yearly report. As the screen began to fill, she shunted the information to the hardcopier, and leaned back in her chair to consider her next move.

She had friends in the corporations, people for whom she’d worked, people with whom she’d studied, years ago, people she’d done favors over the years. The question was, was this the time to call those in? No, she decided slowly, not yet. I can find out enough on my own. She shut down the workstation and most of the media wall, and reached for the sheaf of paper lying in the copier’s basket.

By the time she had finished reading, the media wall’s remaining window displayed the time as 1242. Heikki sighed, and set aside the last of the closely printed pages. She had learned nothing world-shattering from the morning’s work: Lo-Moth was reasonably respected by its peers, made a steady though not spectacular profit for its shareholders, and had only the usual difficulties with its workers. In truth, the only oddity was that the company was able to maintain an office suite in the point’s exclusive Pod 2, and that was explained by the fact that Lo-Moth’s major shareholder— their holdings amounted to a controlling interest in the company—was the Loop conglomerate Tremoth Astrando.

1243 now, and the appointment was for 1400: it would take her most of the hour just to reach Pod 2. She swore softly, and left the workroom, to begin pulling clothes from the wall units with practiced haste. She dressed quickly, skirt, sleeveless tunic, multi-pocketed belt, a long scarf wound like a turban over her unruly hair, bright gold rings in ears and nose, then shrugged on the tailored jacket with the spiral collar that was the badge of business on the Loop. She caught up her data lens and tucked it into the slim outer pocket of the belt. She clipped its cord into the powercell concealed in yet another pocket, and saw the red test light glow briefly in the heart of the lens. As she slid her feet into the brightly painted station slippers, she heard the suite’s private door sigh open.

“Heikki?”

Djuro’s voice: Heikki let herself relax, her hand moving away from the latch of the compartment where she kept her blaster, to pick up the c-plastic knife she habitually carried in a thigh sheath. Even corporate security generally failed to pick up the special plastic, and she did not like to travel completely unarmed. “What’s up?” she called, and moved out into the main room. “I don’t have a lot of time, Sten—” Her voice faded, seeing the expression on the little man’s face. “What’s up?” she said again.

Djuro grimaced. “I don’t entirely know, Heikki. I did what you asked, and I’m getting answers I don’t like.”

“Oh?” Heikki stopped in the act of tucking the datasquare containing the bid figures into her belt. “What sort of answers?”

“They say—and I grant you it’s ‘pointer gossip—that FourSquare was paid a lot of money to break the contract.” Djuro shrugged, his expression bleak. “I heard that from Tabith Fang, and Jiri, and Thurloe. I’d’ve called you, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to put that kind of talk on the net.”

Heikki nodded. “Probably smart. Do you think it’s true, then?”

“I don’t know,” Djuro answered. “Fang doesn’t get this kind of thing wrong, but Thurloe—he’s a gossip, and Jiri’s just crazy. I don’t know. I’ll keep asking, if you want.”

“Yeah, I do, thanks.”

“Heikki.”

The woman paused, her hand on the doorplate, looked back over her shoulder with a lifted eyebrow.

“If it’s true, there’s serious trouble,” Djuro went on. “I don’t think we should bid.”

“I agree,” Heikki said, and kept her voice deliberately mild. “If it’s true. But I want to hear what Lo-Moth has to say. For God’s sake, Sten, it’s a preliminary meeting.”

Djuro shook his head. “You’re the boss, Heikki,” he said, not happily.

“That’s right,” Heikki answered, with a nonchalance that would have pleased Santerese, and pushed open the door of the suite.

She rode the spiralling stairs up to the corridor level, where Pod 19 joined the Exchange Point’s support lattice. About a hundred meters from the stairhead, a roving jitney slowed invitingly. Heikki hesitated for an instant, balancing expense against time, then lifted her hand. The jitney slid to a stop, and she levered herself into the cramped compartment. “Pod 2, suite 273,” she said to the computer box, and to her surprise there was a clicking noise from the machine.

“Pod 2 is traffic-restricted,” the voicebox informed her, its artificial tones without inflection. “Transport is provided to the main level entrances only.”

Heikki’s eyebrows rose. “Then take me to the second level entrance.”

“Acknowledged.” Lights flashed across the voicebox’s black surface, letters and numbers moving too fast for a human eye to read, and the jitney pulled smoothly out into the center of the corridor. Heikki leaned back against the cushions, trying to erase her sudden worry. Sten’s contacts don’t necessarily know what’s going on, she told herself, he said as much himself, but the words seemed to ring hollow in her mind.

The jitney made its way down the corridor, then through a connector tunnel, this one lined with holo-panels displaying a simulated starfield, and finally out into the brilliance of the Ten-Twenty Connector. It was crowded there. The jitney was stopped for several minutes, beeping futilely, in front of an interactive theater, before the press of people eased, and the machine was able to proceed. It was a relief when the jitney reached the descender and was able to swing off into the maze of express corridors. Light flooded the tubes from strips set into ceiling and floor, a dizzying brilliance. Heikki shielded her eyes, wincing, until the sensors kicked in and the jitney’s windscreens darkened.

They grew light again as the machine slowed and turned onto a short spiral ramp that led down into a pool of cool light. It diffused from the flat ceiling and the pale, ice-green walls, glowed in the business plaques that were projected at ten-meter intervals along the corridor. The windscreens faded, more quickly than they’d gone dark, and Heikki caught her breath. Heikki/Santerese did not generally deal with the top-rank corporations; this was a class above what she knew.

The corridor widened at last into a wide turnaround, the central island filled with enormous and expensive plantlife. Heikki’s eyebrows rose as she recognized Terran palms and Aliot flowering groundvines among the profusion, and she hastily schooled her face to its most neutral expression. The jitney swung around the island then, and slid to a halt in front of a marble-pillared door. It could be trompe-l’oeil, of course, Heikki thought, as she slid her paycard through the sensor and levered herself out of the cramped compartment, or at least cast stone built up from powders, but somehow she didn’t really believe it. It took an effort of will to keep from tapping the pillar like a yokel as she passed it, to see what it was really made of.

The open lobby was as filled with greenery as the island, and surprisingly crowded, though the clustered plants did much to absorb the sounds of conversation. Heikki allowed herself a single slow glance, her eyes sweeping across the room, then started toward the central podium. Most of the people were of the secretarial classes, data clerks and system monitors, marked by their too-fashionable clothes and the badges that clasped their collars. There were a few executives, however, the richness of their impeccably tailored coats and trousers visible even at a distance, and a single programmer stared disgustedly into his data lens, his face turned deliberately and offensively into the high side of his collar.

The young woman seated behind the podium’s triple keyboard looked up sleepily at Heikki’s approach, heavy lids lifting slightly to reveal slit pupils. The cat’s-eye lenses, Heikki knew, were a recent fashion.

“Can I help you?”

Heikki returned the lazy stare, lifting an eyebrow at the lack of title. “My name’s Heikki. There should be someone meeting me.”

At the sound of her voice, pitched a little too loud for ‘pointer convention, she saw several of the lounging figures straighten, heads turning into their collars. Corporate touts, all of them, she thought, and allowed her lip to curl in open contempt, set to wait and watch in the entrance lobby, ready to report any interesting or unusual arrivals to their employers. Well, boys and girls, here I am. Make what you want of it.

“Gwynne Heikki?” The cat-eyed woman’s metallic voice gave no hint of emotion.

Heikki nodded.

“Just a moment.” The woman swung sideways in her chair, and touched keys on a different board. Out of the corner of her eye, Heikki saw a man in a neat, very plain suit straighten abruptly and start toward the podium. As he came closer, she could see the thin wire running along his cheek from the plug in his ear.

“Dam’ Heikki. I’m Pol Sandrig. Director Mikelis sent me to meet you.”

“That was kind of him,” Heikki said, and put out her hand in greeting. Sandrig took it with a deferential little half bow.

“If you’ll follow me?”

“Of course,” Heikki murmured. Sandrig was not quite what she’d expected: the cloth of the suit was much too good for a high-ranking secretary, but a person of higher status should not have been sent on such a menial errand. Of course, Mikelis might be sending him in order to convey a message to his rivals—everyone knew the floor lobbies were full of touts, and staged their meetings accordingly—but that didn’t explain what that message might be. She eyed Sandrig warily as he moved ahead of her through the maze of corridors. No, not a secretary, she thought, and I don’t like not knowing what this may mean.

Sandrig paused in an inner lobby, where another woman sat at a multiboard podium, and said something in a low voice, his mouth half hidden behind his collar. As was polite, Heikki took a half-step backward, making sure she did not hear. The woman—she was older, her face unpainted, and there was a slight bulkiness in the breast of her otherwise perfectly tailored jacket that marked her as a private securitron—nodded, and touched keys. Sandrig glanced over his shoulder then, and smiled.

“Director Mikelis is waiting,” he said. “This way, please.”

Mikelis’s office was a two-room suite in the heart of the office complex, the outer room carpeted and lit in tones that reflected palely from the polished, almost-white wood-grained furniture. Yet another woman sat behind an electronic desk, a second, dark-haired woman in a brocade suit leaning over her shoulder. As the door opened, the dark-haired woman straightened, frowning, and Sandrig said quickly, “This is Gwynne Heikki, Electra.”

“Ah. Good.”

The woman at the desk touched a button, cooing into her filament mike, “Ser Sandrig and Dam’ Heikki are here, Director.”

The inner door slid back instantly, and a voice from the desk speaker said, “Come in, please.”

Sandrig gestured politely, and Heikki stepped into the inner office. To her surprise, both Sandrig and the dark-haired woman followed her, the latter still frowning moodily.

Mikelis’s office was almost aggressively plain, the lighting frankly artificial, curtains drawn across the media wall, the plain desk littered with printouts and a crooked stack of datasquares. Mikelis himself was equally plain, a stocky, grey-eyed man in a dark suit trimmed at collar and cuffs with nailhead opals. He rose politely at their entrance, but his eyes were still on the workboard lying on the desk.

“Dam’ Heikki, I’m glad to meet you. I’m Rurik Mikelis, If you wouldn’t mind waiting just a moment—”

“Of course not,” Heikki said, and took the seat she had not been offered. To her surprise, none of the ‘pointers seemed offended by the gesture—Mikelis, in fact, looked almost relieved. He stooped over his board for a moment longer, fingers busy on a hand-held shadowscreen, then flipped off the workboard. He reseated himself behind the desk then, sweeping papers and datasquares indiscriminately aside.

“Thank you for inquiring about the bid, Dam’ Heikki,” he said, “and for being willing to give us a consultation. You’ve met Pol Sandrig, my research liaison, and this is Electra FitzGilbert, director of operations.”

The dark-haired woman gave a curt nod. Heikki smiled back, deliberately overpolite, and murmured, “Delighted to meet you.” Behind the platitude, however, her mind was searching. Director of operations: she would be the person responsible for the lost ship, while Sandrig was at least partly responsible for its cargo. An interesting combination, she thought, and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“I understand from Dam’ Santerese that you’re generally familiar with the course of events,” Mikelis went on. “Before we go into any more detail, however, I would have to ask you to sign a bond of silence.”

“Of course,” Heikki answered. “And while I’m looking at your terms, perhaps you’d like to look at our rough-estimate bid? Based of course on the first information we have.”

“Yes, thank you.” Mikelis slid a viewboard across the table, the screen lighting at his touch. Heikki fished the correct datasquare from her belt and laid it on the desk, then turned her attention to the viewboard. The lens setting blinked in the upper corner; she slipped her data lens from her belt, adjusted the bezel until the numbers matched, then squinted through the lens. Letters sprang to life on the screen: it was a standard form, pledging her to silence regarding the subjects discussed at this meeting—time, date, and place were specified in excruciating detail—for a year and a day, and named a heavy fine for breaking the agreement. She nodded, and reached for the stylus clipped to the board.

“This seems reasonable,” she said aloud, and scrawled name and verification code at the bottom of the form.

“Excellent,” Mikelis said, and even FitzGilbert looked a little less thunderous. “So, to business, then. As you know from the various reports, we lost a latac—an LTA—over the back country, on what should have been a routine flight from Retego Bay to Lowlands. Under normal circumstances, we’d expect to have a record of the course from the automatic locators, or at least to be able to home in on the beacon after the craft went down. The locators failed in-flight, and the beacon did not function. The latac was carrying a new crystal matrix, which was potentially extremely valuable. But I should let Electra tell you about the latac, first.”

What, no mention of Foursquare even now? Heikki thought. She looked at FitzGilbert, who grimaced.

“The crew has not walked out, which, coupled with the mechanical failures, begins to look like sabotage to me. Mik tells me you lived on Iadara—then you know what the set-up is.”

Heikki nodded, suppressing her impatience. Mikelis —or one of his underlings—would have gone through her records as a matter of course; the point hardly seemed worth making. When something more seemed to be expected of her, she said, “There’s triple redundancy in the locators, or there was thirty years ago, and the crash beacons are the type used all over the Loop and the Precincts. I’d have to agree, it’s suspicious.”

“Iadara’s weather is peculiar,” Sandrig murmured. “Electrical storms alone—”

“Do not affect the beacon, damn it,” FitzGilbert retorted, and made no apology for her immodest language. “The beacon should’ve gone off.”

“What did you do when the latac failed to come in?” Heikki asked. She had used the Iadaran dialect word out of old habit, and Mikelis gave her a rather startled glance.

FitzGilbert scowled again. “Not one hell of a lot, at least not at first. There was a storm brewing—we assumed that brought the latac down, and that delayed us. Like Pol says, the weather’s something fierce. We do lose a lot of transmissions, and we did think that it was just normal interference cutting out the locator. When the latac didn’t dome in, and we didn’t get a beacon signal, we sent out a search flight, working from both the projected flight path and the wind data we’d gotten from station blue—that’s the nearest recording point, weather station blue northwest. And we didn’t find a damn thing. That’s when I started getting worried, and I pushed the panic button.” She nodded to Mikelis. “That’s why it’s on Mik’s plate now.”

“So you’d be hiring us not just to find the wreck,” Heikki said, “but to tell you why it went down.”

“Yes,” Mikelis said, and added, before Heikki could speak, “I accept that it’s going to cost us more for that.”

“I’m afraid it will,” Heikki murmured, but in spite of herself felt the stirrings of a salvage operator’s curiosity. Hijacking or sabotage, one or the other, and from FitzGilbert’s story the two possibilities were evenly balanced— She curbed her enthusiasm sharply. There was still the matter of Foursquare’s attempt at the contract to settle, and the question of the cargo; better to deal with the lesser of the two first. “I take it that the cargo—you said a crystal matrix—was something fairly small and portable?”

“Yes.” Sandrig leaned forward in his chair, his hands sketching a cube perhaps half a meter square. “About so big—I don’t know if you’re familiar with crysticulture, Dam’ Heikki?”

“Only with what everybody knows. And I’ve seen the fields.”

“Ah, this is something different. It was the matrix— the seed for first-stage growth—for what we hoped would be the universal center crystal.” Sandrig managed a sudden, deprecatory smile. “We hoped! But the indications were promising.”

Heikki nodded. Anyone who spent time on the Loop knew that the great stumbling block to intersystems trade and to the expansion of the Loop lay in the way in which the Papaefthmyiou-Devise Engines were constructed. The Engines “folded space”—which was not what really happened, of course, but was the closest undisputed analogy—around an FTLship or Exchange Point, warping hyperspace until the points of origin and destination lay side by side. At the heart of the Engines were the crystals, the common crystals focusing the energies from the generators onto the crucial center crystal, whose interior geometry was crudely analagous to the “geometry” of the hyperspace it manipulated. Each of these center crystals had to be grown specifically and exclusively for the Engine in which it would eventually be mounted; the PDEs that drove the startrains had two such crystals, mirrored twins, to hold open a permanent fold in space.

Mikelis nodded as if he’d read her thoughts. “The failure rate for growing center crystals runs between sixty and seventy-five percent—for the common crystals we lose maybe one in a hundred as too flawed for use. A universal matrix….” He let his voice trail off.

“A universal matrix—a matrix that would fully and truly reflect the geometry of hyperspace—could be used in any PDE,” Sandrig said. “It could be grown in mass lots—and you heard what Mik said, common crystals have a one percent failure rate, and they’re grown from a universal seed. More than that, it would make it possible to build FTLships quickly and cheaply. Shipbuilders wouldn’t be held up while they waited for an unflawed crystal, they wouldn’t have to make expensive last minute changes to accommodate the center’s peculiar resonances.” His voice took on an almost evangelistic fervor. “It might even eliminate the problems with the startrains’ PDE, allow us to put more than three terminals into an Exchange Point. After all, the problem seems primarily to be one of interference…. But can you imagine, an infinite number of Exchanges within each point?”

“It’s been tried before,” FitzGilbert said. Her voice was not unkind, but it broke the spell. “They’d only just started testing, Pol.”

Sandrig looked away, blushing fiercely.

“I do have one more question,” Heikki said, into the sudden silence.

“Of course,” Mikelis answered, and seemed grateful for the change of subject.

“What happened to FourSquare?”

The question was verging on the immodest, but Heikki was not prepared for the vehemence of FitzGilbert’s response. “You tell us, you’re one of them. We signed a contract, made a first payment, then they backed out, said they couldn’t handle the back country, that we hadn’t given them all the information.” Her smile was a baring of teeth. “This when they’d been in contact with local talent from the beginning, even if we hadn’t been honest enough to give them all the details—”

“Electra.” Mikelis’s voice held a warning. “It’s a reasonable question.” He looked back at Heikki. “What Electra’s said is perfectly true, though. We hired them in good faith, and they broke contract without offering us any rational excuse. When they refused to turn over their survey tapes—which will be made available to the winning bidder, of course—we sued, and eventually obtained the material. Does that answer your question?”

I suppose it will have to, Heikki thought. “I think so, thank you,” she said aloud, and glanced down at the viewboard. Lab and analysis fees—we’ll have to add a clause to the final contract allowing us to send back to the Loop for molecular work, if we need it, she thought, at Lo-Moth’s expense—and money to cover the hire of extra ground equipment…. She touched keys on the calculator inset beside the screen, and nodded at the new total.

“Bearing in mind that you are hiring us to find out why the latac crashed, as well as to locate the crash site, I’ve added recovery expenses and the costs of a Loop analysis to our estimate. The new total will be K49, pounds-of-account.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?” Sandrig asked. “Loop analysis, I mean. After all, we have excellent facilities on Iadara.”

FitzGilbert sighed audibly. Heikki said, with caution, “If it is a matter of sabotage, I think you would be better off getting a completely independent analysis.”

“Oh, of course.” Once again, Sandrig flushed to the roots of his thinning hair.

“If you feel it will be necessary,” Mikelis said, “I see your point.”

“Then you have our bid,” Heikki said, and the director nodded.

“We will be in touch with you, Dam’ Heikki. Thank you very much for coming.” It was an unmistakable dismissal, and Heikki rose to her feet just as Mikelis added, “Pol, would you see Dam’ Heikki to the entrance?”

There was a jitney waiting at the level entrance: Lo-Moth was expensively efficient in the small matters, it seemed. Sandrig walked her to the craft and handed her in with punctilious courtesy, wishing her good luck on her bid. Heikki thanked him, but wondered, as she folded herself into the cramped passenger space, if he was really eager to see her win the contract. He seemed remarkably unwilling to face up to the possibility of sabotage, or an enemy within the corporate ranks…. Hold it right there, she told herself. You have absolutely no evidence that there is an inside agent, or even that there was sabotage. It could have been a hijacking, even an accident; leave the speculations for when—and if—you get the contract.

“Pod 19, suite 2205,” she said aloud, and leaned back as the jitney creaked into motion.

When she finally reached her home suite, she was not surprised to find Djuro waiting for her, feet propped up on the table that held the status cube. “I ran into Jock Nkosi while I was making your inquiries,” he said without preamble. “He asked if we had anything going, and I told him about the Lo-Moth bid—in confidence, of course. Was that all right?”

Heikki nodded, shrugging herself out of her tight jacket. “Yeah, that’s good. If we get the job, I want him.”

“I told him that, too,” Djuro said. “You want a drink? I’ve made a pitcher.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said, and subsided into the chair that stood waiting for her. It tilted back, programmed to the proper angle; she kicked off her own slippers and rested her bare feet on the low table. “Did you find out anything more?”

Djuro appeared in the kitchen doorway, a tall glass in each hand. He gave one to Heikki, saying, “Not really. Nobody reliable seems to know anything more, so I tried to get back to Fang, but she’s left already—off on a three-monther, out past Precinct Twelve.”

“Fang’s a miner?”

“Yeah.” Djuro reseated himself, sipping cautiously at his own glass. “She doesn’t usually make mistakes. So what did Lo-Moth say about it?”

“They just said that FourSquare broke contract for no good reason, and then made difficulties about handing over the tapes,” Heikki said slowly. “Which does sound suspicious to me.”

Djuro nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, if you have to break contract, you don’t give your employer that kind of trouble, not if you want to keep your license.”

“I wonder. …” Heikki let the sentence trail off, and swung herself out of the tilted chair. She grabbed the remote from its place by the door to the workroom, and stepped inside, running her fingers across the touchface. The media wall lit, filled abruptly with names and numbers that vanished and were replaced by others at the touch of a key. She flipped hastily through the data base, not bothering to put the data through to a workscreen, but without result.

“Well?” Djuro asked, at her shoulder.

“I thought maybe if FourSquare’d been bought out, they’d’ve made arrangements to reconstitute themselves under a new name—after the old company lost its credit and licenses, that is. But the Board doesn’t list any new applications from them.” Heikki looked down at the remote, and made an adjustment, sending a new list of names flashing across the screen. “I guess now the question is whether they did go out of business.”

“Yeah, there it is,” Djuro said, after a moment. Heikki touched the key that would freeze the data, and they both stared at the glowing letters. “FourSquare, declared license-void 005/492, declared disbanded 105/492. That settles that.”

Heikki nodded, though privately she was not so sure. Still, she told herself, it does mean there’s no evidence of anything wrong beyond incompetence, and that’s something.

“If they offer the job,” Djuro went on, “will you take it?”

Heikki looked at him in some surprise. “Of course,” she answered, and was surprised in turn by her own certainty. Why do I want this job? she wondered, and put the question angrily aside. “Why the hell shouldn’t we?” Her voice was harsher than she’d intended, and Djuro shrugged.

“Just wanted to be sure. I’ll be off now.”

Heikki nodded. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

There was no word from Lo-Moth for the next ten-day. Heikki occupied herself with the routine business of operating from an Exchange Point, and kept an eye on the news reports from Pleasaunce. Santerese did not appear in them, though she did dispatch a brief message saying that she had begun work. All in all, Heikki thought, I shouldn’t ask for more. Djuro reported that at least two other companies, including the Twins’ cooperative, had put in bids on the job, but no one was offering odds on the eventual winner. Heikki grumbled, but resigned herself to waiting.

When the message finally arrived, it was at the end of the business day, too late to send a formal response. The media wall lit and windowed, codes streaming across its obsidian face. Heikki answered the prompts, filling in the security codes, then waited while the screen went blank and the hardcopier linked to the wall whirred to life. Sighing, she went to read the sheets as they came off the machine: as she had expected, Lo-Moth had copied her standard contract into its corporate format, but, to her surprise, there were no significant changes. She frowned, read it again, dumped the original to the legal analysis program, and leaned against the edge of the desk, waiting for the results. After nearly a minute’s consideration, the program spat its response: no significant changes. Heikki’s frown deepened, and she settled herself in front of the workscreen.

She tied herself into the communications net, and keyed in the codes that would reach Malachy’s secretarial program. She dumped a copy of both contracts to him, and added a quick note, asking him to go over the language and make sure that Lo-Moth hadn’t changed anything important. Only when the codestring indicated that the message had been accepted did she touch Djuro’s code.

It was several minutes before the screen lit, and when it did, the camera was turned carefully to the white-painted wall. “Yes?”

“It’s Heikki, Sten.”

“Ah.” The camera did not move. “What’s up?”

“We got word from Lo-Moth,” Heikki said, and could not keep the pride from her voice. “We’ve got the contract, if we want it. I’ve got Malachy looking over the terms now.”

“Didn’t they do what you wanted?” Djuro asked.

“It’s practically our contract, copied onto their format,” Heikki answered. “That’s why I want Malachy to look at it. Do you know where Jock’s staying these days, or if he’s taken another job?”

“No, he’s still looking,” Djuro answered, and swung the camera back toward himself. Heikki blinked, dizzied by the sudden movement, and saw the little man fasten the last clasp of his jacket. “He’s staying on the hostel level here, but I don’t think he’ll be there now. He’s probably at Victoria’s.”

“We can track him down there,” Heikki answered. “Meet me—unless you have other plans.”

Djuro shook his head silently.

“It’ll take me about an hour to get there,” Heikki went on.

“I’ll be there,” Djuro answered, and cut the connection.

It would take somewhat less than an hour to reach Dock Seven, and Victoria’s, but there was a certain code of dress observed in the dock pods that could not be broken with impunity. To ignore it was to proclaim oneself an outsider, fair game; to follow it was to state quickly and clearly who and what one was. Heikki kicked off the station slippers she was wearing, rummaged in a wall bin until she found the tall arroyo-leather boots she usually wore planetside, and worked the clinging leather up over her knees. She left the two front slits of her skirt unbuttoned, freeing the sheath at the top of each boot, and transferred her knife from the thigh sheath to the boottop. Then she reached into a second bin for the jacket she kept for venturing into the docks. It had the standard ‘pointer collar, left side higher than the right, an electronics pad sewn into the stiffened material, but it was tailored more sharply, broad in the shoulders and nipped in at the waist, and the fabric was visibly expensive, an unpatterned blue-black tree-wool. She shrugged it on, feeling automatically for the electronics in collar and cuffs, then went back into the bedroom for her blaster. She slid a fresh cartridge into the charging chamber—half-power, a stun cartridge, all anyone ever carried on any space station— and slipped it into the top of the right boot. It was not that she expected to need it—in all her twenty-five years in salvage, she had never yet had to use it, or the thin-bladed knife she carried in the left boot, on any Exchange Point—but it was a part of the uniform, part of the romance of salvage. She grinned, too aware of the ironies in that view to do more than enjoy them, and started for the door.

She took the stairs to the connecting level and walked the length of the tube to the minitrain station. The other passengers, recognizing the clothes, gave her a wide berth until the Docks change-station, and then she was swallowed in a crowd of similarly dressed men and women. The corridors connecting the dock pods were brightly lit, high-ceilinged tunnels with padding on the floors and halfway up the slightly curving walls. People moved quickly along the center of the corridor, the harsh light flaming from exotic Precinct clothing and flamboyant spacer dress, but here and there eddies formed in the relative shadow of the padded walls. Once it was a group of neo-barbs, mostly women this time, clustered about the platform of the sonic drill that was their sole means of support; then it was a trio of spacers, standing close together, heads turned into their collars as they talked. Light flashed from biolume bracelets as they gestured.

A slidewalk ran down the center of the tunnel that led to Docks Five through Nine. It was crowded, knots of men and women in spacers’ bright clothes leaning against the groaning grab bars, while other people, carefully suppressing any immodest language, pushed past them to hurry down the moving strip. Heikki hesitated for a moment, then, with some reluctance, stepped up onto the walk. By the time the slidewalk had carried her the three hundred meters to the entrance to Dock Five, a number of adolescents—‘pointers, mostly, out for a spree in the frowned-upon dockside clubs—had stepped up onto the walk, and Heikki advanced her left leg a little, letting the skirt fall back to expose the knife tucked into the cuff of the boot. The nearest ‘pointer hesitated, and there was a little swirl of movement as the group rearranged themselves, giving her a wider berth. Heikki allowed herself a cold smile, and looked away. Most of the trouble in the docks was caused by touring ‘pointers; the real dockside crime tended to be silent, nonviolent, and deadly only when it had to be.

The slidewalk ran out between Docks Six and Seven. Heikki walked the last fifty meters to the entrance to Dock Seven, disdaining the slidewalk’s continuation, and turned into the dock corridor. Behind her, the gang of adolescents stopped dead, glancing first at the brightly lit directory board, and then at the glittering signs that lined the head of the corridor. I hope to hell they’re not going to Victoria’s, she thought—but Victoria will know how to deal with them, if they are. The thought was more than a little satisfying, and she was smiling when she stepped through the mirrored door.

It was very dim in the main room, especially after the brightness of the tunnels, but she made her way to the bar with the ease of long habit. It was not particularly crowded yet, and Victoria himself was manning the bar. He stepped forward as Heikki came into the wedge of light in front of the bar, his generously painted mouth curving up into a genuine smile of welcome.

“Heikki. Where’ve you been, dear, and where’s the Marshallin?”

“Pleasaunce,” Heikki answered, and seated herself comfortably on the nearest stool. “And I’m just back from Callithea.”

“Another one of your archeological specials, or routine business?” Victoria asked, and leaned heavily against the bar. He was a big man, despite the corsets and padding that provided the shape beneath the satin and sequined evening gown, and his heavy makeup could not entirely hide the lines at the corners of his eyes and bracketing the sensual mouth. He looked like a dowager who resolutely refused to give up the habits of her youth—and it was, Heikki thought, a fair summation. “Salatha gin?”

“Please.” Heikki accepted the drink as it appeared seemingly from nowhere, and shrugged when Victoria waved away the proffered cashcard. “That can’t do your business much good.”

“Oh, the next drink’s on you, dear, never fret.” His eyes narrowed as the door opened again, and the group of adolescents Heikki had noticed on the slidewalk came in, clustering together and murmuring into their collars at the strangeness of it all. Victoria sighed, and shook his head. “Excuse me,” he said, and ran his fingers across the touchplate embedded in his enormous bracelet. Heikki grinned, and swung around on her stool to watch. A moment later, a short-haired woman in a black leather bodice and trousers that fit like a second skin slouched forward to meet them, her white-painted face set in a forbidding scowl. A heavy chain swung menacingly at her waist.

“Yeah, help you?” she growled, with patent insincerity. The adolescents exchanged glances, and said something too soft for Heikki to hear: Then, as abruptly as they’d appeared, the group retreated. As the door swung shut behind them, the leather-clad woman grinned, the expression transforming her almost elfin face, and came over to the bar, pulling her orderpad out of her waistband by its chain.

“Was that all right, boss?” she asked. “And I need a bottle of joie-de-vivre for upstairs, while I’m here.”

Victoria nodded, touching buttons on the bar, and a moment later the frosted bottle rose through the serving hatch, steaming gently in the sudden warmth. “Neatly done.”

The woman smiled again, and disappeared, balancing the bottle easily in one hand.

“Who’s she?” Heikki asked.

“Happily married—to a freighter tech, I believe—with two kids,” Victoria answered.

Heikki laughed. “I hadn’t seen her before, that’s all.”

“You haven’t been in recently,” Victoria answered. “Lord, my dear, I think it’s been two months.”

“I’ve been working,” Heikki said again, and added, before the other could ask, “All routine.” She took a sip of her gin, and leaned forward. “And I’m afraid it’s partly business that’s brought me now. Is Jack Nkosi here tonight? Or Sten?”

“Sten’s not in yet, if you’re meeting him. Jock’s upstairs.” Victoria lifted painted eyebrows. “Flirting with the waitresses. Do you want him?”

“I’ve got some business with him,” Heikki answered. She started to stand up, but Victoria waved her back.

“I’ll send a message. He’ll be distracting them all night, else.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said, and waited while the other fingered his bracelet again.

After a moment, Victoria nodded. “He’s on his way. You don’t know how glad I’ll be when I can finally retire, dear, and let someone else take over.”

“There’s no one else like you, and you know it,” Heikki began, but Victoria continued as though she had not spoken.

“You know what I’m really looking forward to? Not having to put on this damned corset every night.” He gave an impish smile as a warning buzzer sounded, and reached out to hit the monitor’s override button. “And I will say what I want in my own place, thank you very much.”

Heikki returned the smile, but Victoria’s eyes were already on the staircase that curved down from the bar’s upper floor. “And here he comes, looking like a cat in cream.”

Heikki turned on her stool, and couldn’t restrain a laugh. Nkosi was a big man, made bigger by the bulk of the leather coat he wore slung across his shoulder, its color and textures dulled by the rich brown of his skin. Two of the waitresses—and one of the waiters, who should have known better—were hanging over the railing, the younger girl calling something that Heikki could not hear. Nkosi lifted his hand in laughing answer, and moved toward the bar, arms spread in greeting. Heikki, who did not as a rule like being touched, submitted to being lifted off her stool, whirled in a dizzying embrace, and set neatly back where she belonged.

“And that is also a mighty fine jacket you have now,” Nkosi said, as though their last meeting had not occurred five standard months ago. “Tree-wool? Yes—”

“Now, dear,” Victoria said, and he was smiling, “I can’t have you assaulting the customers as well as corrupting my staff.” He slid a tall drink across the counter toward the newcomer.

“Have there been complaints?” Nkosi asked, with a grin.

“I’m not waiting for the paternity suits, dear,” Victoria retorted.

“Outrageous,” Nkosi said. “I always take precautions, do I not, Heikki?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Heikki answered, and Nkosi continued as though she had agreed with him.

“One would think you were jealous, Victoria. Most unworthy of you.”

“I could be jealous,” Victoria said, “if you ever paid any attention to me.”

“If I thought there was a chance you would consider me, Vickie, I would be on my knees in an instant,” Nkosi answered.

Victoria shook his head, smiling. “Someday, dear,

I’m going to take you up on that offer, and then where will you be?”

Heikki laughed. “Sten said he ran into you about a ten-day ago, and you were looking for work?”

“And I still am,” Nkosi answered. “The job he mentioned came?”

Heikki nodded. “I’m just waiting for the contract to go through our lawyer. It looks as though it will be pretty much a standard air search and wreck analysis— it’s been long enough since the crash that even if it was sabotage or hijacking—”

“Sten did not say that that was a possibility,” Nkosi murmured.

“—there shouldn’t be any problems, and there’s a danger bonus built into the contract in any case,” Heikki finished. “Yeah, there does seem to be a good chance it was one or the other. Does that make a problem?”

Nkosi shook his head. “Not in the least. It should add spice.”

Well, that’s typical, Heikki thought. She said aloud, “I can offer you union rates, plus your share of the bonus if we earn it. How does that sound to you?”

Nkosi didn’t seem to hesitate. “I am willing, the pay sounds good. Yes, I will go. What are the atmospheric conditions like?”

That was also typical, act first and think later, Heikki thought, and suppressed a grin. “Do you know Iadara, Sixth Precinct?”

“No.”

“It’s semi-tropical, in the settled areas, with a bad weather pattern through the interior—”

“Which of course is where we’re going?”

“Of course.” Heikki smiled, rather thinly this time. “It rates about a four on the Antraversi scale, up to a six in the storm season.”

“Not bad.” Nkosi nodded. “We can handle that, no problem. When do you want to sign papers? And when do we leave?”

“I’m waiting for the contract to come back from the lawyer,” Heikki answered.

“Heikki?” That was Djuro’s voice, and Heikki repressed a start. “Sorry I’m late,” the ex-engineer continued, “but I got a call from Malachy. He’s cleared the contract.”

Nkosi beamed down on the little man, and Heikki said, “That’s good news.”

Djuro nodded, and edged forward between two of the tall stools to lean easily against the bar. “I checked the shipping schedules, too, and there’s a freighter leaving for Iadara in six days.”

“So.” Heikki paused, considering. “If the money comes through from Lo-Moth in time, we’ll reserve cabins. You did say a freighter, Sten?”

“Yeah. I doubt there’ll be any trouble getting space.” Djuro paused for a moment, frowning, but then seemed to think better of his objection.

“That’s settled, then,” Heikki said firmly. “Jock, come by tomorrow morning, we’ll draw up an agreement and I’ll give you copies of the information that we have so far.”

“Excellent,” Nkosi said, and nodded to Victoria, who had withdrawn discreetly to the far end of the bar. “Then if you will all excuse me, I will return to what I was doing.”

“God help us,” Victoria said, and put his finger on the override.

“You’re not happy, Sten,” Heikki said quietly.

“I just—I’ve got a bad feeling about it, that’s all,” Djuro said. “But I’m not backing out on you, don’t worry.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Heikki forced a smile, pushing away her own sudden unease. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner,”