flowing gently into flowering wildness, as if someone had removed the walls, ceiling, and floor of a very large house, leaving in place all of the implements of living.
The Delinqs moved, recovering.
Sten spotted a motion detector swiveling toward them. He ran forward and leaped, knife plunging through the pickup. Sten spotted other cameras and pointed. The Delinqs nodded. Moved forward, fading into the unfamiliar shrubbery.
Sten, Oron, and Bet kept together, looking for what would be an office. At one side of the dome was an elaborate salle d'armes .
Blades and guns of many worlds and cultures hung from the dome panels. And, on the other side, an imposing, free-floating slab that had to be a desk. Behind it, the most elaborate computer panel Sten had ever seen. Nearby stood a stylized sculpture of an enormously fat woman. Maybe.
Sten looked at Oron questioningly. His eyes gleamed bright.
He waved them at the sculpture.
Sten and Bet slid up to it. It had to be. A narrow UV trip beam crossed in front of it. Sten took a UV projector from his belt, flipped it on, adjusted the intensity, and hung it in front of the pickup across the chamber.
It took several minutes to find the tiny crack in the sculpture.
Sten fingered all projections on the sculpture. It wasn't that simple. Probably a sequence release that would take forever to figure out.
Oron turned, and Sten took the small maser projector from the ruck Oron wore. Opened it up, aimed the maser sights at the crack, and flipped it on. A little pressure on the trigger and the sculpture powdered. Underneath was a touch-combinationed door. Sten very carefully took a freeze carrier from his own pack and undipped a tiny tripod.
He opened the freeze carrier and a white vapor spilled into the room from the near Kelvin-Zero cylinder inside. Sten pulled on an insulated glove and attached the cylinder to the tripod, aiming the release spout at the right side of the safe door. He armed the release and backed away.
Spray jetted from the cylinder and crystallized against the hull-strength steel door to the safe. Then Bet took a hammer from her pouch and tapped. The metal shattered like glass. The three grinned at each other.
They were in.
Papers, more papers, bundles of Imperial credits—Sten started to stuff bills in his pouch but Oron waved at him. No.
Then came a thick red folder. BRAVO PROJECT. They had it!
None of them noticed the young Delinq who'd wandered into the salle . Fascinated by an archaic long arm, he took it from the wall. The bracket clicked softly upward.
Sten handed the Bravo folder to Oron. The blank look suddenly returned to Oron's eyes. He looked, puzzled, at the folder and stood up. The folder spilled, papers scattering across the floor. Sten muttered and started gathering papers. No kind of order—scattered all over the floor. Sten worked as fast as he could.
The first blast caught three Delinqs in the chest, and side scatter from the riot gun blistered the foliage. The Sociopatrolman in the door pulled the trigger all the way back and swiveled.
The second blast caught a Delinq as he dived through some brush, burning away half his chest. Coughing screams broke the silence. Sociopatrolmen streamed through the door—guns out.
Bet pulled a grenade from her belt, thumbed the fuse, and pitched it, going flat, as death seared above her head.
Sten rolled toward the salle , ducking behind the first shelter he saw.
Three joined tanks, with a long hose and twin handles. Some kind of weapon.
The placard above the museum piece read: EARTH
PRE-EMPIRE. RESTORED. FLAME WEAPON. It Was Sten's luck that Thoresen, like many collectors, kept his weaponry ready for use. Sten grabbed the hose's two handles, and pulled them both. He saw the puff from the cone head at the nozzle, a small flare of fire, and then greasy, black flame spurted from the nozzle.
It spouted fifty meters across the chamber—a far greater range than its aeons-dead builders planned—and
The Delinqs moved, recovering.
Sten spotted a motion detector swiveling toward them. He ran forward and leaped, knife plunging through the pickup. Sten spotted other cameras and pointed. The Delinqs nodded. Moved forward, fading into the unfamiliar shrubbery.
Sten, Oron, and Bet kept together, looking for what would be an office. At one side of the dome was an elaborate salle d'armes .
Blades and guns of many worlds and cultures hung from the dome panels. And, on the other side, an imposing, free-floating slab that had to be a desk. Behind it, the most elaborate computer panel Sten had ever seen. Nearby stood a stylized sculpture of an enormously fat woman. Maybe.
Sten looked at Oron questioningly. His eyes gleamed bright.
He waved them at the sculpture.
Sten and Bet slid up to it. It had to be. A narrow UV trip beam crossed in front of it. Sten took a UV projector from his belt, flipped it on, adjusted the intensity, and hung it in front of the pickup across the chamber.
It took several minutes to find the tiny crack in the sculpture.
Sten fingered all projections on the sculpture. It wasn't that simple. Probably a sequence release that would take forever to figure out.
Oron turned, and Sten took the small maser projector from the ruck Oron wore. Opened it up, aimed the maser sights at the crack, and flipped it on. A little pressure on the trigger and the sculpture powdered. Underneath was a touch-combinationed door. Sten very carefully took a freeze carrier from his own pack and undipped a tiny tripod.
He opened the freeze carrier and a white vapor spilled into the room from the near Kelvin-Zero cylinder inside. Sten pulled on an insulated glove and attached the cylinder to the tripod, aiming the release spout at the right side of the safe door. He armed the release and backed away.
Spray jetted from the cylinder and crystallized against the hull-strength steel door to the safe. Then Bet took a hammer from her pouch and tapped. The metal shattered like glass. The three grinned at each other.
They were in.
Papers, more papers, bundles of Imperial credits—Sten started to stuff bills in his pouch but Oron waved at him. No.
Then came a thick red folder. BRAVO PROJECT. They had it!
None of them noticed the young Delinq who'd wandered into the salle . Fascinated by an archaic long arm, he took it from the wall. The bracket clicked softly upward.
Sten handed the Bravo folder to Oron. The blank look suddenly returned to Oron's eyes. He looked, puzzled, at the folder and stood up. The folder spilled, papers scattering across the floor. Sten muttered and started gathering papers. No kind of order—scattered all over the floor. Sten worked as fast as he could.
The first blast caught three Delinqs in the chest, and side scatter from the riot gun blistered the foliage. The Sociopatrolman in the door pulled the trigger all the way back and swiveled.
The second blast caught a Delinq as he dived through some brush, burning away half his chest. Coughing screams broke the silence. Sociopatrolmen streamed through the door—guns out.
Bet pulled a grenade from her belt, thumbed the fuse, and pitched it, going flat, as death seared above her head.
Sten rolled toward the salle , ducking behind the first shelter he saw.
Three joined tanks, with a long hose and twin handles. Some kind of weapon.
The placard above the museum piece read: EARTH
PRE-EMPIRE. RESTORED. FLAME WEAPON. It Was Sten's luck that Thoresen, like many collectors, kept his weaponry ready for use. Sten grabbed the hose's two handles, and pulled them both. He saw the puff from the cone head at the nozzle, a small flare of fire, and then greasy, black flame spurted from the nozzle.
It spouted fifty meters across the chamber—a far greater range than its aeons-dead builders planned—and
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