The convoy entered a small, nondescript storage chamber. Vyra was there, and Moses, and several technicians. Manz eyed the locksealed crate. He’d spent much of the previous night studying a virtual forwarded by the company. His Minder hovered unusually close to his shoulder.
“That’s it.” He turned to the waiting techs. “Let’s play house.”
Special lockseals were uncoded and cracked. The double-strength top slid smoothly out of its guides to reveal the container’s heavily padded interior. In addition to the pharmaceuticals packed in their foam mounts, there was plenty of air space in the center of the box. Secured to the ends of flexible guide ladders, two of the techs leaned over and went to work on the crate’s interior without touching the sides. Guards and techs ignored one another, each tending to his or her own work.
The inspector was intrigued by the peculiar, long tube strapped to Vyra’s back. “Ms. Kullervo, wouldn’t you prefer a real gun to that … device?”
She reached back and patted what at first glance appeared to be an ornately engraved walking cane. “No, thanks. This has been in my family for generations. It’s a lot lighter than it looks, it doesn’t look like a weapon, and I’ve practiced with it since I was a child. So you see, Inspector, my reasons for carrying it around extend beyond nostalgia.”
He shrugged, his gaze lingering on her an unavoidable instant longer. “Suit yourself.” He turned back to the gurney and its precious cargo. “How much longer?”
“Just finishing up.” One of the techs sat back on her ladder and smiled as she removed her surgical gloves. “Have a look.”
One at a time they each climbed to the business end of an empty ladder. On command, the flexible arm raised them up and over so they could peer down inside the crate without disturbing it or its contents. The other tech was moving back as he finished the last of his work.
Hafas contemplated the hastily remodeled interior. “There you go, Manz. Just what you asked for. All the comforts of home, if you don’t mind living quarters on the slightly cramped side. Personally I don’t find it very inviting. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“If I was in the least claustrophobic, I’d never have thought of it, much less proposed trying it out. Gemmel thinks it’s worth a shot, even if our jackers somehow find out about it and pass on this one. In that event, this is at least one shipment that will find its way to its intended destination.”
“You’ll be completely isolated in there,” Hafas reminded him unnecessarily. “We’ll be in touch on the prearranged secure channel, but if something goes wrong it’ll still take time to get you out of there.”
The adjuster smiled reassuringly. “I’m alone with my thoughts most of the time anyway, Tew. Thanks for your concern, but I’ll be fine so long as our faceless happy-jacks don’t decide to make any sudden changes in their modus and try blowing the shipment instead of sneaking it.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Not their style. They’re not that direct. Besides, explosives could damage the entire shipment. Unless they used just the right amount.” A grinning Hafas turned quickly serious. “We’d better get on with it. If they’re out there somewhere timing this, they’ll be getting suspicious soon.”
Manz nodded and eased off the ladder into the yawning crate, careful not to make contact with the interior any more than absolutely necessary. Once tightly curled in the position he’d chosen, he flashed a ready sign to the waiting techs.
It was dark as dark could be inside once they slid the lid back in place and recoded the lockseals. To all outward appearances, the container had arrived in untampered condition direct from the production facility in northern New Mexico.
Hafas addressed the special com he was carrying. “Testing; one, two, three … what’s it like in there?”
The adjuster’s response came through clear and prompt. “Cramped. Like a coffin. The Minder keeps bumping into my ear. How do you get room service on this setup?”
Hafas smiled to himself and gestured at the guards. They resumed their original positions on all four sides of the cart. “We’re ready here,” he murmured into the com.
Flanked by the four Port guards, the two heavily armed JeP police, Hafas, Moses, and Vyra, the cart operator once again eased his vehicle forward.
So much organized firepower was bound to draw attention, but for the most part the clerks and administrators ignored the procession as it traveled through the outer offices and entered the atrium. There Port guards stood watch while Hafas, Vyra, and Moses checked out the security shed and its immediate, heavily landscaped surroundings. Finding nothing untoward or unexpected, the cart was signaled forward and its cargo deposited in the middle of the shed floor, whereupon its satisfied escort withdrew. At a command from Hafas, the redundant security system was switched back on, its feathery, pale green beams crisscrossing the air within the freeform planter.
Their job done, the Port guards followed procedure by returning to their usual standby duty positions. Hafas and his people retired to Administration Security Control. Vyra elected to accompany him while Moses stationed himself immediately in front of the planter, facing the concealed security shed’s only doorway. He would remain there for as long as was deemed feasible, alert and untiring in a way no human lookout could match.
The inspector activated the special com. “No trouble with the delivery, Manz. How’re things at your end?”
With his range of movement greatly restricted, the adjuster had to twist and squirm mightily in order to place one eye against the small lens set into the inner wall of the container. His soft mouthpiece scraped against his lips as he sucked air from the compact rebreather and its supplemental oxygen tank.
The lens functioned as the business end of a complex system of optical fibers that had been threaded through the exterior wall of the crate. It allowed him to look in all four directions as well as directly overhead at the same time. The setup was designed to be invisible to a casual observer.
“Water’s lovely and the beach is fine. Wish you were here. Love to Ma and the kids. Now go away and let me do my job.”
“You got it.” Hafas clicked off, turned to Vyra. “He sounds happy as a clam.”
“Why not?” she replied. “He’s imitating one.”
Manz sucked on the tube built into his mouthpiece, sipping cold tea. A light on his belt allowed him to inspect the container’s interior. Not that there was anything to see. Several smaller metal cases containing the irreplaceable pharmaceuticals were snugged into foam padding. There was some visible wiring and bundles of exposed fibers, the rest of his hastily improvised and jury-rigged life-support equipment, and the thickly insulated walls themselves. Prospective jackers might wonder at the size of the crate, but if they did it was reasonable to assume they’d attribute its unusual dimensions to the size of the shipment and additional security measures.
At least, that was the idea.
Except for the almost imperceptible hiss of the rebreather the only sound came from the rhythmic pulse of his own lungs. He checked his chronometer, took another drag on the fluids tube, and tried to find a more comfortable position. Transfer was due to take place in not less than seven nor more than twenty-four hours, depending on exactly when the pickup shuttle dropped from the belly of its orbiting mothership.
Anyone who tried jacking this shipment would find something inside they weren’t likely to be expecting.
Company.
XIV
“Wroclaw Witold Jaruzelski went and bought a gun.
Now he sat and stared at it, wond’ring what the hell he’d done.”
Not much of a poem, the doctor mused as he considered the icy, inorganic shape of the weapon that was presently nesting in his open drawer like a sedated cobra. But that was all right. Physicians weren’t expected to be creative. Methodical; that was much better. Methodical and prepared.
He had arranged for the purchase of the gun under the requisition category labeled “essential medical instrumentation.” There was a certain poetry in that, too. He reached for it and stroked the unyielding composite barrel with his fingers. Fingers that were practiced at putting people back together again, not the other way around. Difficult to believe so much destruction could emerge from so small an orifice.
Feeling slightly faint, he shut the drawer, knowing for a certainty now that no matter how much he might want to, he wouldn’t be able to shoot the man who called himself Nial. The gun, then, had been a waste of money. Except that while he now knew he couldn’t carry it through, being able to contemplate the act had temporarily made him feel a little better. It was just as well. Killing the broker wouldn’t solve his problems, nor prolong the lives of those presently immobilized in Intensive Care.
Nial was the death-merchant, not he.
Now you’re being profound, Wroclaw, he told himself, and you haven’t time to waste on philosophical maunderings. The broker was due in his office any minute.
The door announced him. Jaruzelski impatiently granted admittance.
Nial seemed relaxed and in good spirits. And why not? Jaruzelski mused. He was about to make a great deal of money.
“Morning, Doc. How’re things in the healing profession?” Without waiting to be asked, he helped himself to the chair opposite the chief surgeon’s desk.
“As well as can be expected on a new world. We’ve isolated and synthesized cures for many of the endemic diseases, but as you know, some of the most obnoxious are also the most persistent. I must always concern myself with sterilizing thoroughly whenever I leave a native ward lest I carry the seeds of possible contamination with me.”
There, that got a twitch out of him, by God! Jaruzelski was pleased at having made the usually imperturbable broker react.
“Don’t worry, I’m clean.”
“Would you tell me if you weren’t?” the broker asked pleasantly. “No matter. You’d infect me, and gladly, in a minute, but no telling who else might walk in. So I believe you.
“Much as I’d like to stay and chat, I have other business to attend to. Do you want the stuff, or do I advise my local friends to buy shares in the domestic mortuary business?”
Jaruzelski picked up a fluid stylus and fiddled with the trim. “Did your employers agree to the proposed payment arrangements and method of exchange?”
Nial nodded. “Yeah, it’s fine with them. I also put in a good word for you. I like you, Doc. You’re a dedicated kind of guy.”
