Now if only the jackers were sufficiently confident to cooperate. You couldn’t crack a jack without thieves.
His left side was beginning to cramp. Moving slowly and taking his time, he worked his body around into a different position one muscle at a time. It wouldn’t do any good to try to move quickly. Bundled within the container as he was, fast moves would only get him hurt. All those years of gymnastic training were paying off. The adjuster was as limber as he was strong.
A smaller man would’ve had an easier time of it in the crate. But no way would Manz have allowed another Braun- Ives operative or one of Hafas’s shorter officers to take his place. This was his project, he’d been on it from the start, and he was going to see it through to whatever end it met. These jackers he’d never met had cast an unprecedented shadow over his professional competence.
More than that, he was damn curious to find out how they were getting away with it.
His com whispered. “You all right in there, Manz?” Hafas’s voice.
He twisted his lips toward the tiny pickup attached to his breathing mask. “Snug as a mug in a fug. Or a drugged lug. Or something like that. How about some bacon and eggs, over easy? The real stuff. No soy for this boy.”
“Would if we could.” Hafas sounded genuinely sorry.
“But we can’t,” Manz finished for him. “One of the things I’d like to know is how our happy-jacks know when the real pharmaceuticals are arriving. Braun-Roche-Keck ships through empty fake containers on a regular basis, but they’re never bothered.”
“Has to be someone inside your labs supplying the info.”
“That’s my thought also. But first things first. Time enough to track down the leak. Best way is catch the jackers and just ask them.”
“Any time now,” said the inspector encouragingly.
“Yeah. Not that it would be so terrible if this special shipment made it into orbit and reached its intended destinations. But I’d sure like to catch these bastards first.”
“If they haven’t panicked or decided to pack it in.”
“Yeah. Any word on when the shuttle’s due in to pick up this gift box?”
“Seven hours. Maybe eight. No longer.”
“Guess I can stick it out ’til then. Time for the Count to sign off. Keep an eye on the mausoleum for me. The view in here’s nothing to write home about. Same goes for the accommodations.”
In Security Central Moses studied Vyra as she ran through a series of exercises designed to keep her loose and alert. The rest of the Port staff tried hard not to stare, some having more success at this than others. Not all who stared at her were men, and not all who looked away were women. She had that kind of effect on people. With her double-jointed arms she was able to perform certain exercises even the most agile homeworld contortionist could not have duplicated.
“It is possible,” Moses announced into the comparative silence, “that our ruse has been detected and no attempt will be made this time.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hafas sipped at a coffee. “If they move we vape ’em, and if they don’t then the shipment gets through. It’s a win-win situation for us.”
Vyra straightened and sauntered over. Despite the strenuous activity, she wasn’t even perspiring. “Unless they get away with this one, too.”
The inspector peered around at the gracile offworlder, wondering not for the first time if she was married. Then he remembered that he was. “You really think that’s possible, with your colleague in there?”
“No, I don’t. But then, I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to pull off four successful jackings in a row at the same Port, and they have. Right now my credibility quotient’s about this big.” She stretched her hands wide. The suit she was wearing stretched too. So did the inspector’s eyes. He turned hurriedly back to the bank of monitors he’d been watching.
Numerals flashed by on multiple chronometers as nothing continued to not-happen. Just as oil could displace water, so tension was being replaced by disinterest and subsequent boredom. Their private eternity was reduced by three hours, then four, then five.
“They’re not here,” she mumbled much later. “They’re not going to try. Is the shuttle still on time?”
Hafas glanced tiredly at a readout. In cooperation with Port Authority, Security had established and maintained a steady-state link with the outworld freighter drifting in geosynchronous orbit.
“Drop is scheduled in one hour, fifty-five minutes,” he intoned. “Well, it was an interesting idea, but it looks like we haven’t fooled anyone except ourselves.” His attention strayed to additional telltales and a single notation. “Two hours ago something small and fast broke one of the greenbeams. The intrusion was duly reported and analyzed. Says here that based on its schematic the techs think it was a honeybee that wandered in from outside, probably hitching a ride on somebody’s pants.” His expression was glum. “Unless you count a little pollen, it didn’t take anything.”
She responded with a singular low whistling noise. It was an offworld reaction, and its significance escaped him.
Manz had about had enough of his voluntary confinement. If their quarry were going to make a move, they were fast running out of time. At this point he doubted that they were. Maybe, he hoped, the shuttle would be early and he could finally get out of this damn box. The recycler continued to supply him with breathable air, but it was starting to grow stale.
Like this not-so-brilliant notion, he told himself.
He thumbed a switch on his feeder tube and got warm broth instead of cold tea. For the past half-hour his thoughts had been largely of solid food. That, and a chance to straighten up and lie down on a real bed. Wearily, he put his eye to the peep lens for what seemed like the millionth time.
In the dim light he thought he saw movement. Not through the lens, but within the container. Inside with him.
Absurd. He’d been folded inside the crate for so long that he was starting to see things. In the darkness, that wasn’t surprising. Fatigue was beginning to take its toll. It was a wonder his eyes hadn’t started playing tricks on him hours ago.
There it was again.
Fascinated and astonished, he nearly forgot to breathe as he watched the tiny drill bore a hole two centimeters wide in the bottom of his container. It was exactly the size of the holes that had been cut in the undersides of the four much smaller shipping containers whose contents had previously been jacked. The operation was carried out soundlessly, with great precision and an absence of sensor-activating waste heat.
A perfectly circular section of composite fell out of the bottom of the box, leaving a smooth-edged hole behind. Twisting around and bending forward, he thought he could see a matching hole in the material of the security shed floor.
Snip a hole and save the cut-out, then when you’re finished seam the excised disc back in place. The building appears inviolate and no one’s the wiser. Do it over and over, again and again, as often as you please. Clever, oh so very clever, he thought.
Except for one thing. The hole was only four centimeters wide. How could you get a hand through an opening that small? For that matter, how could you have a body attached to the hand? The raised floor of the shed was maybe half a meter thick, the open space underneath crisscrossed by alarm beams and under constant vid surveillance. No one could hide in that open space long enough to stick a hand up through the floor into a violated shipping container.
The answer was simple. It wasn’t a hand that came probing up through the hole.
Distinctively ridged and marked, the dark tendril was the thickness of his thumb. Emerging from the hole like a feeding grass eel weaving in a shallow water current, the tapered tip began to feel around the edges of the opening in ever widening circles. The adjuster gaped at it as if hypnotized.
“How’s every little thing?” He whispered into his pickup, his eyes never leaving the flexible intruder.
