Spindrift by Allen Steele Page B

pulled off his work gloves. “I can speak to them, can’t I?”
    â€œSure. Just watch what you say.” The guard stepped back a couple of feet, the butt of his rifle resting upon his hip, while his companion moved past them and took up a similar position on the gravel pathway leading between the rows of plants.
    Once again, Shillinglaw nervously looked around. Even with two armed guards as escorts, he didn’t like where he’d found himself. The farm surrounded them like a primeval forest, its warm air humidified by the fine spray of water from the gridlike network of irrigation pipes high above their heads. Here and there among the cannabis, he spotted other inmates, some spreading mulch and trimming leaves while others cut full-grown plants and loaded them into wheelbarrows. Gazing at the nearby crater wall, he saw a couple of prisoners lounging against the railing of one of the lower-level cell tiers; they stared back at him, their expressions implacable until one of them raised his fingers to his lips and blew him a kiss.
    Shillinglaw hastily looked away. No wonder Torres had left him and Sinclair at the crater entrance. Even with armed guards at his side, he felt vulnerable. He suddenly realized Torres’s intentions: instead of letting him talk to Ramirez in the privacy of an interrogation room, he’d made sure the meeting took place where his unwanted visitor would be intimidated. But with Sinclair in the picture, that idea had backfired, and now the warden wanted to distance himself as much as possible.
    â€œSo…let’s hear what you have to say.” Ramirez shoved his gloves in his back pocket. “Better not be another psych profile, though. I’m done with them.”
    â€œI’m sure you are.” Sinclair regarded him with undisguised contempt. “Anyone ever find out what’s wrong with you? I mean, besides the fact that you hate the human race?”
    â€œNot the entire human race, no…just certain members.” Ramirez bent forward to peer at Sinclair’s lapel pin. “We’ve never met, but I have little doubt that you’re among them.”
    Sinclair smirked, a retort hovering on his lips. Shillinglaw cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” he said before the conversation could degenerate further. “I’m John Shillinglaw, associate director of the European Space Agency. My colleague…um, companion…is Donald Sinclair, from the…”
    â€œI know where he’s from, thank you.” Ramirez turned his attention to him. “ESA, you say? How interesting…which department?”
    â€œExtrasolar Exploration. It’s…”
    â€œNew, isn’t it? Have you made any progress? Toward building your own starship, I mean.” He absently glanced up toward the pressure dome high above. “We don’t get much news here. Or at least I don’t…the warden restricts my net access. Just sports and the occasional fic.”
    From the corner of his eye, Shillinglaw saw that Sinclair was listening with great interest. “We’ve made some progress,” he replied, and quickly changed the subject. “I’ve come here to discuss an important matter with you…something you may be able to help us understand.”
    â€œI hope it’s not about the Savants again.” Ramirez looked down at the ground. “Look, it was a mistake. I’ve lost everything because of what they did…and if I’d known what they were planning, I would’ve never helped them in the first place. So if you’re trying to find out more about their plans, believe me when I tell you that I’ve already—”
    Sinclair made a flatulent sound with his mouth. Shillinglaw chose to ignore him. “It’s not about the Savant genocide,” he said. Mindful of the nearby guards, he lowered his voice. “It’s about Raziel. It’s received a