surprisingly sophisticated instruments. They did it so thoroughly that Floyt almost objected until he saw that the breakabout, headstrong and quarrelsome as he might be, was accepting the inspection with good grace.
Half the guards remained behind. The two travelers were surrounded by their tatterdemalion escort and convoyed toward the lashup.
In a larger warehouse area beyond the platform, the newcomers saw much more equipment and cargo, salvage and scrap. It was all carefully sorted and tagged or stenciled, stacked, crated, and orderly. The jumble on the capsule platform had been camouflage.
The party skim-hopped up an incline toward the mass-driver's former control complex and catapult head. The members of the Sockwallet Outfit kept a sharp watch on their visitors. "How'd you fall in with the Doghousers?" the woman asked.
"Met up with them after they hit some trouble on the Bragging Dragon job."
She was impressed. "You too?" she asked Floyt. Having no idea what they were talking about, he simply told the truth. "No."
"What's your name, by the way?"
Alacrity answered for him. "Name's Delver Rootnose. He's not Forager, as you can see. Neither am I, really. We buddied a while ago."
Floyt held his peace, reflecting that Alacrity hadn't created a bad alias for someone interested in genealogies. "What do they call you, rig?" Alacrity asked.
"Simoleanna Coup."
"Simoleanna?"
"S'right. My father's name was Simolean Coup. And they don't call me Anna and they don't call me Mo. It's Sim. Got me, rig?"
"Sim. Got you."
The group sequenced through gates and open locks, up toward the lashup. The tunnel was vast, its floor, walls, and ceiling of seamless rockmelt.
They passed a trio of guards skip-sliding down to reinforce the detail at the capsule platform, and saw others posted, Foragers of all ages past adolescence, and both sexes. They were well armed, with energy weapons and flechette burpguns. Alacrity congratulated himself on picking the safest place on Luna.
They ascended to the outer door of the final airlock, which was secured shut. A monstrously obese man waited there; Floyt judged him to be of old-time Polynesian descent. He wore a gorgeous handmade sweater of off-white wool from Dunrovin and loose black pantaloons, with scarlet velvet slippers.
"Gunny, this is—"
He gestured Simoleanna to silence, gliding over to them like a balloon. He stopped before Floyt, jabbing a thumb into his quivering chest and announcing, "Gunny Ready-knob is my name. What's yours, rig?"
"Delver Rootnose," the Earther responded promptly, not without trepidation.
The Sockwallets' leader looked to Alacrity. "And that'd make you Shipwreck Mazuma, huh?"
Alacrity nodded.
Gunny Readyknob went on, "Well, if you were really in Freebie Giveaway's outfit, you know what Freebie keeps up his right sleeve. Now what d'you think that would be, rig?"
Alacrity raised one eyebrow. "Freebie's got nothing up his right sleeve, Gunny. He's left-handed.
That's where he keeps his neurosap."
Gunny switched to a language Floyt didn't recognize, filled with rasping clicks and aspirants. The Terran caught the rising inflection that made it a question, though. "Shipwreck" replied in the same tongue, finishing with the strangely Terranglish word "Shibboleth."
Whatever it all had meant, Floyt saw, it convinced Gunny Readyknob. He laughed monumentally, rippling, and plucked up Alacrity, placing a sound, smacking kiss on his forehead. The other Foragers guffawed; the breakabout endured it with a blush.
The guards slung arms. The whole group began to pass into the main airlock. Floyt's fears for his own safety had submerged his distaste for offworlders until now, but he found his revulsion for the grubby space tramps growing. Safety or no, he wasn't certain that he could tolerate their company in close quarters for long. Simoleanna Coup was eyeing Alacrity curiously. The breakabout seemed at ease.
The outer hatch, a gargantuan metal plug, swung shut, moving
Half the guards remained behind. The two travelers were surrounded by their tatterdemalion escort and convoyed toward the lashup.
In a larger warehouse area beyond the platform, the newcomers saw much more equipment and cargo, salvage and scrap. It was all carefully sorted and tagged or stenciled, stacked, crated, and orderly. The jumble on the capsule platform had been camouflage.
The party skim-hopped up an incline toward the mass-driver's former control complex and catapult head. The members of the Sockwallet Outfit kept a sharp watch on their visitors. "How'd you fall in with the Doghousers?" the woman asked.
"Met up with them after they hit some trouble on the Bragging Dragon job."
She was impressed. "You too?" she asked Floyt. Having no idea what they were talking about, he simply told the truth. "No."
"What's your name, by the way?"
Alacrity answered for him. "Name's Delver Rootnose. He's not Forager, as you can see. Neither am I, really. We buddied a while ago."
Floyt held his peace, reflecting that Alacrity hadn't created a bad alias for someone interested in genealogies. "What do they call you, rig?" Alacrity asked.
"Simoleanna Coup."
"Simoleanna?"
"S'right. My father's name was Simolean Coup. And they don't call me Anna and they don't call me Mo. It's Sim. Got me, rig?"
"Sim. Got you."
The group sequenced through gates and open locks, up toward the lashup. The tunnel was vast, its floor, walls, and ceiling of seamless rockmelt.
They passed a trio of guards skip-sliding down to reinforce the detail at the capsule platform, and saw others posted, Foragers of all ages past adolescence, and both sexes. They were well armed, with energy weapons and flechette burpguns. Alacrity congratulated himself on picking the safest place on Luna.
They ascended to the outer door of the final airlock, which was secured shut. A monstrously obese man waited there; Floyt judged him to be of old-time Polynesian descent. He wore a gorgeous handmade sweater of off-white wool from Dunrovin and loose black pantaloons, with scarlet velvet slippers.
"Gunny, this is—"
He gestured Simoleanna to silence, gliding over to them like a balloon. He stopped before Floyt, jabbing a thumb into his quivering chest and announcing, "Gunny Ready-knob is my name. What's yours, rig?"
"Delver Rootnose," the Earther responded promptly, not without trepidation.
The Sockwallets' leader looked to Alacrity. "And that'd make you Shipwreck Mazuma, huh?"
Alacrity nodded.
Gunny Readyknob went on, "Well, if you were really in Freebie Giveaway's outfit, you know what Freebie keeps up his right sleeve. Now what d'you think that would be, rig?"
Alacrity raised one eyebrow. "Freebie's got nothing up his right sleeve, Gunny. He's left-handed.
That's where he keeps his neurosap."
Gunny switched to a language Floyt didn't recognize, filled with rasping clicks and aspirants. The Terran caught the rising inflection that made it a question, though. "Shipwreck" replied in the same tongue, finishing with the strangely Terranglish word "Shibboleth."
Whatever it all had meant, Floyt saw, it convinced Gunny Readyknob. He laughed monumentally, rippling, and plucked up Alacrity, placing a sound, smacking kiss on his forehead. The other Foragers guffawed; the breakabout endured it with a blush.
The guards slung arms. The whole group began to pass into the main airlock. Floyt's fears for his own safety had submerged his distaste for offworlders until now, but he found his revulsion for the grubby space tramps growing. Safety or no, he wasn't certain that he could tolerate their company in close quarters for long. Simoleanna Coup was eyeing Alacrity curiously. The breakabout seemed at ease.
The outer hatch, a gargantuan metal plug, swung shut, moving
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