been jury-rigged as living quarters. Additional structures had been slapped together from whatever materials were available. This End Up City, like most boxtowns, had been a high-risk place to live.
Boxtowns were found all across human space still; Alacrity had lived in them and knew their subculture well. He watched until the place was no longer within range of the capsule's pickups, then turned back to the Earther.
"I've met Foragers before. These should be willing to take us in. We'll see."
The specter of the moon's first and smallest mass driver grew rapidly in the monitor, little more than skeletal remains, stripped and—rare for Luna—vandalized.
Clustered around the catapult head, though, were newer structures that struck Floyt as disharmonic and looking a bit unfinished, even though their design was strange to him and struck him as hodgepodge.
"This is our stop," Alacrity announced. They gathered their things as the capsule slowed and stopped, then stepped out onto a broad platform. The capsule whispered away on its rail-field.
The place had plainly been a busy depot at one time; now it looked forlorn. A few crates and containers were stacked here and there, along with old machinery, pieces of equipment, and scavenged parts. But most of the huge depot was empty, with just enough debris and general refuse to give it an air of decay.
Several men and women, young and fiercely suspicious, stood nonchalant guard. To Floyt they resembled some off-world update of Dickens's street urchins. They carried hammergun rifles, plasma lances, and scatterbeams. Half of them were crouched near machinery or other cover. The Terran concluded that they'd been forewarned of the capsule's approach—not surprising, he supposed, in such a pronouncedly technical society.
Carefully ranging to either side to give themselves clear fields of fire, the Foragers studied the new arrivals. They hadn't missed the weapon on Alacrity's hip. The breakabout lowered his warbag, and the Earther followed suit dubiously.
The guards were grimy and looked both hungry and dangerous. Floyt opened his mouth to invoke Alacrity's conditioning if he had to, in order to leave as promptly as possible. The breakabout spoke first, though.
"Which outfit is this?" he queried in loud, curt Terranglish.
"Who wants to know?" a thin young woman asked in the same language but with an exotic accent like nothing Floyt had ever heard before. Her straight brown hair was very close-cropped, her gray eyes canny and direct. She wasn't beautiful, Floyt thought, but attractive in her intensity and command of self.
"Shipwreck Mazuma," Alacrity answered. Floyt looked to him in open surprise, and the Foragers didn't miss that either. "I got that name from the Doghouse Outfit, from Freebie Giveaway himself. By spit and by split, divvies and blood. That was back on Blue Ribbon."
The Foragers glanced to one another uneasily. "Well?" Alacrity shouted, suddenly looking cantankerous. "I'm claiming my entitlements. What're you going to do about it?"
"What about him?" the woman asked, nodding toward Floyt.
"He's with me. I'm not asking for gens privileges, darling; just a place to locker." Floyt wondered why that made the woman blush angrily and the men chortle.
She approached Alacrity warily and offered her hand. The Terran didn't see the recognition technique as they clasped one another's wrists. Nevertheless, when they released, she nodded, saying, "He knows the get-in."
The rest relaxed just a hair, lowering weapons. "This is the Sockwallet Outfit," she informed them.
Then, turning from them a bit, she spoke softly into a comclip concealed in the folds of her tattered scarf.
When she turned her attention back to them, she said to Alacrity, "Gunny's going to meet us at the main lock. He's our boss." She held out her hand again. Alacrity shucked his Sam Browne belt and handed over the Captain's Sidearm.
Foragers moved in and searched their baggage and persons with hands and
Boxtowns were found all across human space still; Alacrity had lived in them and knew their subculture well. He watched until the place was no longer within range of the capsule's pickups, then turned back to the Earther.
"I've met Foragers before. These should be willing to take us in. We'll see."
The specter of the moon's first and smallest mass driver grew rapidly in the monitor, little more than skeletal remains, stripped and—rare for Luna—vandalized.
Clustered around the catapult head, though, were newer structures that struck Floyt as disharmonic and looking a bit unfinished, even though their design was strange to him and struck him as hodgepodge.
"This is our stop," Alacrity announced. They gathered their things as the capsule slowed and stopped, then stepped out onto a broad platform. The capsule whispered away on its rail-field.
The place had plainly been a busy depot at one time; now it looked forlorn. A few crates and containers were stacked here and there, along with old machinery, pieces of equipment, and scavenged parts. But most of the huge depot was empty, with just enough debris and general refuse to give it an air of decay.
Several men and women, young and fiercely suspicious, stood nonchalant guard. To Floyt they resembled some off-world update of Dickens's street urchins. They carried hammergun rifles, plasma lances, and scatterbeams. Half of them were crouched near machinery or other cover. The Terran concluded that they'd been forewarned of the capsule's approach—not surprising, he supposed, in such a pronouncedly technical society.
Carefully ranging to either side to give themselves clear fields of fire, the Foragers studied the new arrivals. They hadn't missed the weapon on Alacrity's hip. The breakabout lowered his warbag, and the Earther followed suit dubiously.
The guards were grimy and looked both hungry and dangerous. Floyt opened his mouth to invoke Alacrity's conditioning if he had to, in order to leave as promptly as possible. The breakabout spoke first, though.
"Which outfit is this?" he queried in loud, curt Terranglish.
"Who wants to know?" a thin young woman asked in the same language but with an exotic accent like nothing Floyt had ever heard before. Her straight brown hair was very close-cropped, her gray eyes canny and direct. She wasn't beautiful, Floyt thought, but attractive in her intensity and command of self.
"Shipwreck Mazuma," Alacrity answered. Floyt looked to him in open surprise, and the Foragers didn't miss that either. "I got that name from the Doghouse Outfit, from Freebie Giveaway himself. By spit and by split, divvies and blood. That was back on Blue Ribbon."
The Foragers glanced to one another uneasily. "Well?" Alacrity shouted, suddenly looking cantankerous. "I'm claiming my entitlements. What're you going to do about it?"
"What about him?" the woman asked, nodding toward Floyt.
"He's with me. I'm not asking for gens privileges, darling; just a place to locker." Floyt wondered why that made the woman blush angrily and the men chortle.
She approached Alacrity warily and offered her hand. The Terran didn't see the recognition technique as they clasped one another's wrists. Nevertheless, when they released, she nodded, saying, "He knows the get-in."
The rest relaxed just a hair, lowering weapons. "This is the Sockwallet Outfit," she informed them.
Then, turning from them a bit, she spoke softly into a comclip concealed in the folds of her tattered scarf.
When she turned her attention back to them, she said to Alacrity, "Gunny's going to meet us at the main lock. He's our boss." She held out her hand again. Alacrity shucked his Sam Browne belt and handed over the Captain's Sidearm.
Foragers moved in and searched their baggage and persons with hands and
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