by Brian Daley
"The thought plus the markup," someone joked.
"Thank you all very much." Floyt rubbed his thumb across TERRA: 500 years IN space. He was caught in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions.
Alacrity saw, and blustered, "Now, let me see what kind of karmic value the Sockwallets have me tabbed for, here." He made a big production of opening his cake, getting into a dramatic wrestling match, panting, "Nice and fresh, hah?" Foragers hooted and jeered him on.
In the end he drew out a long chain of fine gold links holding a heavy, ornate Christian cross. Floyt was willing to bet Balensa could've identified the metalworking style.
Alacrity's long fingers found a hidden release. Inside the cross was a sliver of extremely aged wood.
He stared at Sim. "You can't be serious."
"You're right. Some crosses came our way on Holy See. We got slivers of wood off a piece of pool cue in the wreckage over at the mass driver. I aged them myself."
Alacrity glanced around at his hosts. "I'm speechless, rigs, except—drinks all around!" The Sockwallets clapped and stamped their feet in the light gravity. The party was at full velocity; the dome shook with it. A group nearby was singing a song Floyt thought he recognized. The Foragers had reworked "Bless 'Em All" to extol their own life. Everyone joined in the chorus, Floyt included.
While the racket went on, Gunny motioned Floyt closer. "I've been meaning to ask you, if it's not too much trouble
… "
He pulled a sheet from beneath his sweater. It was a yellowed piece of paper preserved in some sort of clear, flexible coating.
"It's from the real old days," the boss confided, a bit owl-eyed. "I couldn't puzzle it out, though, and I didn't want to just go showing it around."
The handwriting was a strange combination of old English script and the lovely, vanished Palmer method. Floyt had taught himself to read both in the course of his genealogical studies. He skimmed the paper. "Where did you get this, Gunny?"
"It came to us here on Luna; fella said a Forager gave it to an ancestor of his."
"It's in Ancient English, Gunny. It's from Shakespeare, King Henry VI, and it says:
My crown is in my heart, not on my head;
Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones,
Nor to be seen: my crown is call'd content;
A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy."
Floyt handed it back, and Gunny said, "Thanks, Delver." No thumps or hand-pumping this time.
Clearing his throat, Gunny pounded the table. "Hey! HEY! SETTLE DOWN!" he bellowed into the resonant din. "It's about time Delver Rootnose and Shipwreck Mazuma met the pride of the Sockwallets!"
Uproarious Foragers calmed quicker than Floyt would've thought, clearing a space just behind the guests. Gunny swung his chair around to face it; Floyt and Alacrity did the same. Simoleanna removed her tongue from Alacrity's ear, sliding out of the way, and he lifted his hand from her thigh. The lights dimmed, except for those focused on the cleared area.
A thin, black-haired girl stepped forward, then slowly made her way across the floor. Her long slender feet, in slippers that reminded Floyt of opalescent toe shoes, scarcely touched down under her fractional weight. Her straight, shoulder-length hair was crowned by a slim, shining diadem.
She moved with conscious pride, chin held high, although it was clear that she was nervous. Sounds of approval and affection arose from the massed Foragers.
They began to hail her, calling her name; Sweetalk didn't pause as she walked to where Gunny and the lashup's guests waited. Her elders called out compliments: how gifted Sweetalk was with painter's palette and long-range detector; how fair she was and how good a trader; how lucky they were to have her among them.
"Sweetalk, so helpful and patient!"
"With always a cheering word!"
Her face glowed.
She blushed deeply, though, being introduced to the outsiders. Floyt took his cue from Alacrity and stood, inclining his head to her. The Terran reflected on the amazing difference between the Sockwallets' camouflage and their real way of life. How it must bind these people together! he realized. Earthservice psychprop couldn't keep him from smiling at Sweetalk.
She went aside, to the open arms of her family. The Foragers' practice was not too different from some Terran customs of long ago, Floyt knew. How was this lost? he wondered.
A little boy, towheaded and blond, perhaps four years old, was approaching somewhat uncertainly. The visitors remained standing and waited.
"Boodle," one of the Foragers proclaimed. "Who reads and writes two languages now!"
"And can already play the bistal!" another pointed out.
"It doesn't mean they won't slap his landing gear if he gets out of line," Alacrity murmured to Floyt out of the side of his mouth. "But for right now, look at the kid swagger."
Boodle, giggling, broke protocol a little by clinging to Alacrity's boot-guarded knee with one hand, waving to his family with the other. The breakabout was nearly helpless with laughter. Someone half sang that Boodle was a joy to them all, but the boy showed no sign of dislodging himself. Floyt joined in the general guffawing.
"And this is Angle," a clear tenor warranted from one side. "Nearly an adult now!"
The boy Angle was gangling and copper-haired, freckled and pale. He wore a resplendent costume and was very grave, coming as close to marching as was possible on the Moon.
Alacrity had tousled Boodle's hair and gently shoved him off on his way. The breakabout was watching the child bounce happily toward the throng. Angle, pausing, looked to Floyt and bowed. Not knowing what else to do, Floyt returned the bow and automatically offered his hand. The Sockwallet Outfit let out a collective Ah!
Angle's face reflected surprise, but he responded at once. He and the Earther gripped one another's right forearms. The Foragers cheered and applauded the compliment Floyt had rendered, greeting Angle as an adult. They saluted the boy's new majority. Angle broke into an awkward grin, blushing furiously. Alacrity, too, traded grips with him.
More Forager youngsters came toward them. The adults hailed and praised. Loud declarations were made about the good fortune of the Sockwallet Outfit; these children were its hope and future. The celebration became more boisterous, in contrast to the lifeless, sun-drenched lunascape just outside.
Hobart Floyt had never had a better time in his life.
* * * *
"In my opinion, the Sleep of the Just is probably a low-gravity one," Floyt informed Gunny Readyknob as the crowd moved toward the main dome once more.
Gunny chortled, body moving in wavelets. Alacrity had gained them entry, but the Earther had won an acceptance of his own.
The two were again dressed in their traveling clothes. Floyt felt better than he'd have expected after the revelry. He attributed part of that to Alacrity's having set their quarters' air supply for an increased oxygen content, and part to the pleasures of low-gravity sleep.
He felt there was more to it than that, though. Earthservice programming notwithstanding, Floyt was enjoying himself, albeit a little guiltily.
Children capered among the grown-ups. Festive clothing had been put away, but the holiday mood lingered. Angle, newly adult, strode along proudly with the holstered Captain's Sidearm slung from his shoulder. As an honor to the guests, the weapon had been under Gunny's personal keeping. He had delegated to Angle the task of carrying it and returning it to its owner in the airlock, as per ritual. The boy was almost bursting with delight.
Alacrity skate-skimmed along next to Simoleanna, and both were looking at each other wistfully, though holding hands was out of the question for two people bouncing in fractional gravity. As far as Floyt could recall, the breakabout had been unable to slip away during the revelry, and had slept in the guest quarters. Still, the offworlder had been selected because he was resourceful, and the leers he was exchanging with Simoleanna were almost indecent.
The inner hatch was already swinging open; several men came through, wearin
g the deceptive fashions of the outer guards. They moved out of the way of the mob, to watch the leavetaking.
Most of the Outfit wouldn't be going to the platform, having other work to do. As the crowd neared the half-ajar inner hatch, Alacrity and Floyt stopped to say good-bye. At the sidelines, Shilly, dressed in the shabby clothes of a depot worker, readied himself.
His floppy, visored cap was pulled low; the heavy pistol tucked into his belt under his jacket pressed against his middle. He moved to a spot on the edge of the throng where a few stragglers—children—stood. He saw that Page and Jord were almost in position.
The husky assassin's nerves tingled with a pleasure beyond any he'd ever derived from sex, drugs, or any other stimulus. The tension and anticipation were something he savored completely and clearly in that moment. His broad hand closed on the grip of the handgun. Page and Jord would have second and third shots, respectively.
Floyt was being embraced by the Foragers' behemoth of a boss. Fitzhugh was talking to a few of the others, one woman's hand in his. Shilly made sure none of the adults were near, or looking his way. Then he slid the pistol out of his belt and raised it calmly, centering his sights on his target.
"Gun!" screamed Sweetalk, who'd been dawdling to one side, as she launched herself at his wrist. Lunar gravity helped; she sank her teeth into Shilly's wrist, wrapping her skinny legs around his arm, driving his gunhand around.
The energy bolt, passing within half a meter of Floyt's skull, coruscated and spattered off the inner hatch in a backwash of heat and molten metal. Sweetalk had driven the gun sideways rather than upward, with the single object of sparing the dome any damage. It had very nearly been a primal reflex; any threat to the lashup's artificial atmosphere must be eliminated, at any cost.
Shilly tore Sweetalk from his arm and hurled her aside, to thump against the dome with a dull impact. She lay still. But three more children, twin pubescent girls and a chubby boy, swarmed up onto him. The boy clung to the assassin's gun arm, biting down as hard as he could, drawing more blood, clubbing blindly with a free hand. One of the girls clamped an arm around the man's neck, scratching at his eyes, trying to bite off his ear. Her sister grabbed the remaining arm and a fistful of the outsider's hair, kicking and yanking.
Page, Shilly's dapper little partner, had produced his own gun, but couldn't spot the target. Jord, his nerve gone, began edging toward the airlock.
Alacrity had reacted to the first shot, throwing Floyt to the floor and covering the Earther with his own body. From where he sprawled, Floyt watched the violence with horrified fascination. Homing in like missiles in the lunar gravity, Foragers sprang at the big assassin, striking with hands and feet, grappling and snapping.
Abruptly, another hissing hum of gunfire sounded, and a shriek; Alacrity lifted his head to see Page go down under Gunny and several others, but one Forager had been shot.
Angle was trying to pull forth the Captain's Sidearm, but couldn't work the retaining-strap lock. He made his first adult decision.
"Shipwreck!"
Alacrity heard, and spotted him. Angle threw the gun-belt, a singular act of trust from a Forager inside his lashup.
Alacrity snagged it out of the air; in another moment he had the big handgun free. "Don't kill them!" he bellowed, wanting some answers to what was going on. But the Sockwallets weren't hearing that as they raised wordless, animal cries of hatred. He could hear the assassins' screams and the thudding blows. "I said, don't kill—"
Another shot blared. The breakabout whirled as clutching his leg, another Forager fell. A third intruder was poised as the inner hatch, its automatics activated by the gunfire, sealed shut, trapping him in the lashup. So much commotion and chaos surrounded the first two intruders that no other Foragers had noticed him yet.
Jord saw Alacrity spot him. He began to bring his weapon to bear, but the breakabout already had the Captain's Sidearm raised. He steadied it with both hands and squeezed the trigger.
The pistol's report filled the dome like an explosion. It had been developed for use against boardings, riots, or mutiny; by design, it emitted a terrific amount of visible light and sonic energy, for shock effect.
Jord's shoulder, head, and most of his upper right arm disappeared in a gush of incandescence. His remains were thrown against the hatch, to slide to the floor. Smoke drifted up, swirled and drawn by the circulation system; the odor of the exploded, burned flesh and bone made Floyt nauseous. The stench, and Alacrity's single, apocalyptic shot, drew the Foragers back from their fighting frenzy.
As the sounds of conflict died away, Alacrity hastily stooped to slide the Captain's Sidearm away from him; he didn't want to be attacked by mistake. Floyt was standing next to him by then, and Gunny and the others were trying to bring order. To the Earther, the eeriest thing was the utter silence of the children at that moment, their almost unnatural discipline.
He took one look at the gory wreckage that had been Shilly. The smell of his blood vied with that of the charred corpse of Jord. Shilly was eyeless, virtually faceless and formless. Alacrity was still staring toward the man he'd shot, eyes unfocused.
"No interrogations today," the breakabout mumbled.
* * * *
"One of the oldest tactics on Earth," Floyt commented, regarding the gaping hole in the side of the shipping container.
The would-be murderers had entered the guarded tunnels inside a large, partially hollowed-out gypsum processor. It was appropriately packed and marked for delivery, with concealed audio and video pickups to let its occupants know when it was safe to emerge.
"But how did they know when we were coming to the lock?" Simoleanna puzzled, gazing at the life-support equipment within the processor.
"They were in commo with somebody monitoring the capsules, it looks like." Gunny's tone was flat, but the look on his face was sheer rage. None of the Foragers had been killed, thanks to the instant responses of the children. Four had been shot, two wounded seriously. Sweetalk had come into adulthood just behind Angle; her collarbone and right wrist had been broken in defense of the Sockwallet lashup.
There'd been at least one other accomplice, possibly more. The guards at the platform had been disabled by stunblasts fired from behind. Whoever it was had held a capsule for escape but, perhaps failing to hear from the three assassins and losing nerve, had deserted his fellows.
Gunny rejected the idea of having the capsule intercepted. "Unlikely whoever it is will still be aboard. And we don't want the law in on this."
Floyt, who'd been worrying about an investigation making them miss their starship connection, asked, "But what about the bodies?"
The Forager boss gave a brief snort that wasn't humor. "What bodies?"
"Oh … "
"We owe you an awful lot," Alacrity said.
"Yes, you do," Gunny concurred. "See that you remember it; if you find out who's responsible, I'll expect to be informed."
"I promise."
Word was relayed from the platform that another capsule had arrived and was being held. Alacrity exchanged glances with Simoleanna, but there was no time, and there were no proper words for the moment.
"Get going," Gunny Readyknob ordered. "Starships don't wait."
Chapter 8
Diversions
As the capsule shot toward Lunaport, Floyt adjusted the Inheritor's belt under his outer clothes and commented to Alacrity, "That was a very good shot. Er, it was, wasn't it?"
"Adequate, I guess." He rubbed the holster briefly. "First time I ever had to use it like that." Alacrity began rummaging in his warbag. "I scrounged something off Gunny before we left. Thought we might want it, after what happened."
He dug out a handgun, a modern reproduction of an archaic Webley .455 Mark VI revolver used in Great Britain before the space age. He opened the top-breaking pistol and showed Floyt the basics of its operation. The reproduction Webley was loaded with fat, soft, slow dumdum bullets, which were known, for reasons shrouded in antiquity, as "Chicago po
pcorn."
"Of course I know what 'popcorn' is," Alacrity snorted, when Floyt asked. "It's the ceremonial pastry you Earthers used to decorate the traditional Yule log," he finished smugly.
Floyt smiled to himself, but refrained from comment. In view of the recent proof that they were in danger, he revised his attitude about weapons.
One hour later, the starship Bruja lifted out of Lunaport with Alacrity and Floyt safely inboard.
She was a general-cargo freighter out of Bolivar, and the two companions were the only ones to have availed themselves of her limited passenger space. The skipper was only too happy to alter course slightly for a stop in Epiphany's stellar system; arrangements made by Weir's executors included a voucher payable by the Bank of Spica, for first-class passage for Floyt.
Capitan Valdemar, sensing the pressure under which Earthservice reps were negotiating, had charged the top, all-inclusive fare listed on the fee schedules of luxury liners, plus a hefty course-deviation bonus. Earthservice auditors had wept at the amount of money being transferred, none accessible to them. Capitan Valdemar, notoriously grasping and tightfisted, had, under the circumstances, been content to allow Alacrity to deadhead on the voyage, since there was plenty of space available.
The Bruja was making ready for translight. At the Terran's insistence, the two had watched the liftoff on screens in the tiny passenger lounge. At Alacrity's, they were drinking blastoff cocktails, a tradition in many human-run spacecraft. The drink differed from vessel to vessel.
"I can't find any listing for Bolivar." Floyt frowned as he consulted a portable data bank provided by Earthservice.
"That thing's full of Earthservice errata-data," the breakabout replied. He took another swallow. "An awful lot of worlds changed their original colony names. I mean, who wants to live on a place called New Passaic?"
The purser/third mate refilled their goblets with more of the Bruja's blastoff cocktail, which was known as an emboscado. Like the rest of the all-male ship's complement, he wore a heavily adorned uniform of green leather jacket and tight britches, with red, ruff-collared blouse. He cued up Wainwright's Liftoff Overture on the sound system. Alacrity was more partial to ditties like "High Movers Reel," or "Breakabouts' Waltz," but said nothing.