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.”
Fortunately for you, not dedicated enough, Jaruzelski mused regretfully, thinking of the gun reposing unused in the drawer. “How soon can we take delivery?”
“As soon as payment clears. Don’t waste your time trying to have someone trace it. You can bet that since my suppliers were efficient enough to acquire the goods, they’re smart enough to conceal payment.”
“I don’t have the time to worry about things like that,” Jaruzelski told him honestly. “I have seriously ill patients to tend to.”
“Yeah, you’re a good man, all right. A little stubborn, but that’s understandable. I’ll arrange the details.” Nial rose and, to the doctor’s great relief, did not extend a hand. He wanted as little contact with this human maggot as possible. “Been interesting doing business with you. No hard feelings.”
The chief surgeon eyed the broker coldly. “I sincerely hope there actually exists a traditional theological Hell and that you go straight to it.”
Nial chuckled. “Naw, I wouldn’t care for it there. I like skiing too much.”
Manz was half dozing when the motion alarm clipped to his right ear jolted him back to full wakefulness. He’d worried it would be tempting to drift off in the dark, peaceful silence of the sealed container, so he’d had the alarm installed as a precaution. Rubbing his eyes and sucking tea, he had a quick look outside.
Nothing had changed within the security shed. Light-amplifying diodes provided just enough illumination for him to see by. None of the other crates and packages containing important but less valuable commodities awaiting transshipment had been touched. A quick check of the special instrumentation that had been installed in the Braun-Roche-Keck shipping container along with its single sleepy inhabitant revealed that a near-vacuum still existed outside as well as within.
That reminded him to check his rebreather. The cartridge that purified his recycled air was still more than four-fifths active, and his supplementary oxygen supply hardly dented. Everything was functioning according to plan.
It was an elegant and bold attempt to catch the jackers … and something of a last resort. Steal my pharmaceuticals, steal me, he mused. If this didn’t work, if the drugs vanished right from under his eyes, Braun-Ives’s next step might well be to call in a metaphysician or two.
