"To get out of there," said Alo. "I don't care where you're going—I'll go there."
He scowled again.
"I hid in the equipment locker. I needed to escape." She turned toward the viewscreen. Her eyes were dark with emotion; there was something swirling in her gaze, some hatred that he did not want to know about.
"Came to the wrong place," he said sardonically. His head ached fiercely. What was it he had been thinking about? Bluffing Garikoff? "Hope you brought your own food," he added. "Mine isn't for sale."
"As a matter of fact, I brought a whole bagful."
"Good. Go eat it. I have problems to solve, and I don't need you here making them worse." His eyes were watering, and it seemed to be affecting his brain. This bitch—on his ship! Good Christ. But he couldn't worry about her now—he had to figure how to beat Garikoff. What was the thread he'd been following? Bluffing . . . how? Start the run on Deerfield, then sheer off through the field before any damage was done and hope to escape? At those velocities, G-G would have to be shadowing him pretty tightly to be sure of hitting him.
He stared at Alo, who had returned to the corner. LePiep purred uneasily and padded over to the opposite corner. "I can fly the ship," Alo said. "Just in case you're having trouble doing that."
Panglor grimaced, trying not to be distracted. "No," he muttered. "Too dangerous." It was too dangerous to cross G-G; they were sure to be watching him. They certainly wouldn't trust him.
Any more than he would trust them.
Trust them? They had promised to let him escape with the ship . . . but would they really want a live witness escaping? Suppose they didn't. Suppose they meant for him to be dead afterward. Suppose they had rigged the Cur—
With what?
Faulty engines?
Faulty computers?
A bomb?
Bomb. The blood drained from his face. He croaked, "Jesus—a bomb." Of course. The perfect way to guarantee their own safety. Rig the Cur to blow apart just before it went through the field—
It was obvious.
"Jesus." He sat back in his couch, feeling dizzy. "A fucking bomb," he whispered. "But where?" The techs were all over the ship.
Alo looked at him strangely. She squinted. She dug a hand down under her collar to scratch her shoulder. "What are you talking about?" she said nervously. She got up and strode across the control bay and stared at the viewscreen with her hands on her hips. Then she turned. "Did you say there was a bomb on this ship?" she demanded.
He focused with difficulty, cleared his throat, and coughed convulsively. "Might be," he grunted finally. Now think, think, think. Where should you look for a bomb?
"Why?" Alo said.
He lowered his eyebrows. "Are you crazy?" he snarled. "What difference does it make why? If there is, there is, and we've got to find it. It could be timed, it could be remote, it could be damn near just about any kind of bomb that there is." Should have been going over the ship instead of wasting time at the waystation. That was probably why they left the neutrino aligner loose—to keep him busy. He pressed the knuckles of both fists to the corners of his forehead.
Suddenly he jumped up. His fingers moved on the console. The viewscreen flickered and showed the outer hull, down one side. "What are you doing?" Alo asked.
"Shut up." He crossed his arms and watched the screen, squinting at every detail; the view switched to another section of the hull, switched again. "Inspection scan. Through the sensor-fringe," he said abruptly. "Look for anything that looks like a bomb."
"What's a bomb look like?"
"How the hell do I know?" He knew he sounded scared, and he wished he didn't. LePiep hopped onto the console, keeping her distance from Alo, and peered along with them, nervously.
The scan ended. "Nothing," he said angrily. He turned to Alo and shouted, "Nothing!" He was nearly blind with rage. On the entire hull of the Cur they had found nothing but dents. He blinked. "There's a bomb on this ship," he said quietly. "I know there is."
"Probably it's inside," Alo said.
"No kidding. You start down that side, I'll start down this side. Look everywhere—in every compartment, behind every panel. Jeeez."
Together, they began searching the ship, right down to the cargo hold and the interhull spaces; most especially, they searched in places that would normally not be visited. Panglor checked the pile chamber on telescan, and he went down into the hold and poked about in the spooky, echoing chambers. Alo joined him there—but everywhere they looked, they found nothing.
"Why are you so sure there's a bomb?" she asked, her voice reverberating. "What's going on?" Her tone was impatient, as though she suspected him of being fruity, or paranoid.
Stepping toward her, he tipped his head back and looked down his nose. Squash her. Yes, just go ahead and squash her.
Wait—
He had checked the outer hull through the sensor-fringe. Through the computer. Suppose Garikoff had anticipated him, had rigged the computer, had loaded it with recorded inspection images?
"Dear God," he breathed. He stamped out of the hold and hurried back to the bridge. Alo followed. Squinting at the screen, he set the ship into a slow longitudinal roll. "They wouldn't count on just gunners," he muttered. "I know they wouldn't." The stars turned in the screen as the ship rolled. Then he switched to the inspection scan. The image flickered: There was the hull, and behind it were the stars, stone steady. He chewed a knuckle. He wasn't used to this kind of thinking. What the hell could he do now? He worked furiously at the com-console, but couldn't get a real image; Garikoff had set blocks in the programming. "Damn it!" he screamed, slamming down his fist.
"They bitched your computer, huh?" said Alo, scratching her cheek. "That probably means there's something out there."
"Got to go outside and look."
"Wait a minute. Maybe I can clear that for you."
"Sure." He started slowing the ship's roll.
Ignoring his sarcasm, she went on, "I mean it. Normally I wouldn't, because you're being such a bitch—but my life's on the line, too."
"Forget it," he growled. "I'm going out, and you keep your hands off."
"You go suit up," she said. "I won't hurt anything. I'll get this program straightened out, and I'll have a search underway before you're even outside. Take you forever to cover the whole ship yourself." Before he could move to stop her, she canceled his de-spin program on the console. He started to protest, but she cut him off. "I still need that spin. Now go."
He gave her a dark look. "Hurt LePiep and I'll kill you," he warned. Then he hurried down to the airlock. Inside, he stripped off his jumpsuit and pulled on the mesh silversuit. Leaving the headpiece in the airlock, he rushed back to the bridge.
Alo had a satisfied look on her face. The screen showed another inspection scan, but this time the stars were moving with the ship's roll. He stared open-mouthed for a moment, then thundered, "How did you do that?"
The girl ignored his question. "Look at these," she said, working the controls. "I'm not sure what they are." The viewscreen split into thirds, showing three different views, three different protrusions on the hull.
Panglor squinted. "Left one's okay—that's sensor gear. The middle one—that's probably a bomb, all right. The right one—no. That's the com-hump."
"I don't mean the hump," Alo said impatiently. "I mean that little thing behind it." She pointed on the screen to a small shape, which looked like a shadow on the back edge of the hump.
"That could be a bomb, too. I gotta get out there." He slapped in the de-spin program and cut off the drivers to kill the acceleration. They would have to make it up afterward. "When I give the word, you zero the g-field."
"Hurry," she said. He glared at her. "I'll keep looking," she added.
He returned to the airlock and put on his headpiece and hardware pack. He energized the field in his space-suit, and the skintight mesh turned to quicksilver. Thirty seconds passed, while the airlock depressurized. "Okay," he said. "Zero grav
."
"Mmpff," he heard, and then he was floating, weightless. He opened the outer port and drifted outside. Had he not been so scared, he would have enjoyed the view: D3, the stars, the galaxy. But he didn't enjoy it. What the hell did he know about bombs? He'd never even seen one—not unless you counted mining charges back in the 82 Eri asteroid belt.
He breathed deeply, then aimed himself and jetted slowly back along the hull, toward the stern. First he stopped over the object he had identified as a bomb. It was a squarish box obviously attached to the hull recently. It was also, he discovered after a few minutes of work, simply a cover over a section of plumbing, probably connected to the modified drivers.
"What'd you find?" That was Alo's voice, loud in his ear.
"This isn't it," he growled. "Have you found anything else?" He pushed himself away from the box, reoriented himself to the ship and the stars, and jetted back toward the com-hump. "Well?"
For several minutes, there was no answer. Then: "Puglor."
"Listen, brat, that's not my—"
"Yeah, well, look behind you, on your right. Something in the shadows, behind that strut."
Muttering, he looked. There was a bracing member that secured the escape pod to the outer hull; he couldn't see a thing behind it until he shined a light. Then he saw it—a box. And this one was a bomb. It was a standard blastex rocksplitter, exactly like the ones used in the asteroids, with a remote trigger. "Jesus," he whispered. For God's sake now, be calm! How are you going to be calm with a bomb in front of you? Never mind, just do it! "Kid—I've gotta disarm this bastard. Don't do anything to mess me up." He maneuvered himself into position and drew out a unitool. Suddenly he felt calmer. "Keep looking, though." He reached out with a silvery arm toward the bomb.
Minutes later, the box was in his hand, just one more disassembled mechanism. His heart thundered in his ears. The bastards, the devious fucking bastards. They were going to do this to him.
That clinched one thing. Whatever else he did, he was not carrying out Garikoff's instructions. "I'll kill the bastards first," he growled. Gripping a cleat, he hurled the bomb away from the ship with all of his strength. The box glittered against the black emptiness, then vanished.
He steadied himself from the recoil of his throw, then started making his way toward the com-hump again. Alo came on, saying, "I don't see anything else." He ignored her and kept moving. The com-hump was forward, partway around the curvature of the hull. "Where are you going?" Alo asked. "Your animal's going crazy in here."
"Touch her and I'll break your neck!" he thundered.
"I won't hurt her," said Alo, annoyed. "Where are you going?"
He squinted, drifting into the ship's shadow; for an instant he could see nothing. "Where was that thing we saw back behind the com-hump?" he asked, revolving slowly to peer along the hull.
"What? Oh, to your—wait, I can't see—okay, to your right and forward about ten meters. Do you think—"
"Just keep searching," he snapped. There it is, there it is—now, what is it?
He braked, landing. It was a second bomb, mounted at the base of the hump, like a small mole.
He reached out and quickly began disconnecting the device. He opened its cover, shaking with rage. The bomb was a timed device, probably set to go off after his insertion. So they'd meant to kill him, regardless—no mess, no fuss, no one to talk. The bastards.
The Christin' bastards.
"Another?" asked Alo.
"I'll kill the mothers!" he snarled. Carefully, very carefully, he poked at the fiber circuitry. Could be booby-trapped, though probably they didn't imagine he would find it in the first place. It wasn't; and two minutes later it, like the first bomb, was spinning away into space.
If the sons of bitches thought they'd beat him with gadgetry, they were wrong.
* * *
"Are you sure the hull's clear?" he asked as he strode into the control bay. LePiep hurled herself at him, whistling with joy. He caught her, grunting, and looked around. The room was a disaster; clothes and food packets and papers had gone everywhere in the zero grav.
"I'm sure," said Alo.
He pulled at his lip and studied the screen. Then he tapped new orders into the console, putting the ship back under acceleration and instructing the computer to compensate for the interruption. He had to be on schedule, later.
"What's this all about?" asked Alo, perching in the copilot's couch.
"Shut up." He was trying to think of a way to avoid Garikoff and still make his insertion. Now think, think, think.
"Why can't you tell me—"
"Keep your mouth shut!" he roared. "I can still put you out the airlock." He started tapping furiously at the flight console.
Alo jumped down, glaring.
"Be useful," he snapped. "Scan ahead to the collapsing-field. I want to know what ships are out there."
"But—"
"Do it!"
"Hrrrrrl!" cried LePiep, upset by the commotion. She burrowed into the pile of loose clothes. Panglor watched her unhappily, touched by her frustration; but the flight program was more urgent. His hands shook as he worked. Alo grumpily worked at the viewscreen controls.
First he modified the breakaway he'd planned from his legal flightpath. The new plan would not put him on collision course with Deerfield, but would leave open a window for a last-minute change to a collision course. G-G's agents could compute; they'd have no way of knowing, until he passed that window, that he was rebelling. But if he took that window, and only later changed to give Deerfield a safe berth—that could buy him time, make time so short that he'd have a fighting chance of making insertion even if G-G started shooting. Still, there would be the traffic patrol yelling, and possibly firing . . . and maybe G-G wouldn't be fooled long enough . . . maybe there was a third bomb, yet undiscovered . . .
But it was the only chance he could think of.
They worked for nearly an hour. Alo looked at him several times, opening her mouth to speak; but each time she remained silent, giving him a dark look. Finally, she blurted, "What's the matter? Why am I looking for these ships?"
"They might start shooting at us," he said.
She digested that, while he kept working. Then she returned to the scanners. Some time later, she reported, "There are two ships accelerating toward insertion, one ahead and one behind, both in normal traffic patterns. Two other ships are on parallel courses ahead, but slower, and not aiming for insertion. What are they—patrol?"
Panglor picked his teeth, studying his flight projection. "One of them, maybe. Feed me the figures on all of them." The figures came onto his board, and he grunted. It was going to be a delicate course to thread.
Going to be a busy time.
* * *
Hours later, he rubbed his eyes, waking. Couldn't remember when he'd dozed off—but it was just an hour now to insertion. His stomach hurt.
"Want some moke?" he asked in a gravelly voice. Alo eyed him and nodded.
He turned on the brewer in the galley, then went to the head and freshened himself. When he came back, the moke was steaming, and he poured two mugs and carried them to the bridge. "What's going to happen when we go through?" Alo asked, accepting one of the mugs. She seemed subdued.
"Find out soon," he said, manipulating the view-screen. Alo had kept a track on all the ships she'd spotted earlier; that made it easy. He put a high magnification on Deerfield and found a tiny silver bug swimming through space. "Mmmmp," he said. His stomach crawled, in presentiment of the danger ahead. Feeling a wave of fear, he turned and saw LePiep rolled up, trembling, her eyes wide. "Easy, babe. Easy," he whispered, touching her. He wished somebody would say the same to him.
Precisely on schedule, The Fighting Cur's drivers kicked up to eight gees, nearly full power. Panglor swayed and steadied himself against the vacillation of internal grav, until the field compensated. They were now boosting out of the legal flightpath toward a near-interception of Deerfield. Control would start yelling soon.<
br />
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" complained Alo.
"Keep watching that screen and tell me if anyone else changes course." He glanced up and saw her displaying an uncooperative expression. "Listen—later you're going to tell me what you're doing here, but right now you're under the gun with me. So the less trouble you cause, the better your chances of being alive to talk later. Right?" His stomach still hurt. Having the girl aboard was even worse than being alone. Concentrate, now.
Alo pinched her nose. "Well, since you were right about the bombs, I guess maybe . . . "
The Fighting Cur was already hundreds of kilometers closer to Deerfield, and was closing faster every second. Panglor had to watch the console closely; the Cur's control system was not quite adequate for keeping these oversized drivers precisely on the beam, and without his override, the ship tended to shake from oversteering by the automatic system. If I were going to send some loser out on a job, he thought, sweating, I'd at least give him the right machinery.
On the other hand, they knew he was good. They knew, too, that he'd be panicking if he didn't have to concentrate so hard on flying. He knew they knew that, and it made him madder still.
"What are those other ships doing?" The sweat began popping faster on his forehead.
"Not much—wait." Alo fiddled with the screen. "The patrol ship seems to be doing something—changing orbit." She licked her lips. "Yep. Moving in."
"Don't sound so happy," he growled.
The com started warbling with an incoming call. Every muscle in his body tensed; he tried to ignore the sound, but couldn't. "All right," he said. "Put it on."
A harsh voice roared into the control room, until Alo cut the volume. "—is Patrol A Seventy-three. State at once reason for departure from flight plan. You are warned that you are in violation of Traffic Code ten-beta-fifteen. Police action will commence at once if you do not respond." The message began repeating.
Then Alo said, "There's another call coming in—on a tight beam from that other ship."
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