offer.
They were plenty. There was a fine relief map of the planet on perpetual emanation in conjunction with the space beacon, and a wonderful radio grid, so it was easy to place himself. There was an entertainment band and best of all, a news band—a broad one, set up in video frames, each with its audio loop of comment. He could tune in any page of the entire sequence. It was indexed and extremely well edited to cover both current news and background, local and intercultural events.
He started with the most recent bulletins and worked backwards. There was nothing, and nothing, and nothing that might apply to him, not even a date line from anywhere he’d been. Until suddenly he found himself gaping into the face of Richard E. Rockhard.
He turned up the audio.
“… indicted yesterday by C Jury of Earth High Court,” said the announcer suavely, “on one hundred and eleven counts of restraint of trade, illegal interlocked directorates, price pegging, monopoly, market manipulation …” on and on and on. Apparently the old pirate had blown his balloon too big. “… estimated value of Mr. Rockhard’s estate and holdings has been estimated in excess of two and three quarter billions, but in the face of these charges it is evident that the satisfaction of invoices outstanding, accounts receivable, taxes and penalties will in all likelihood total to a far higher figure than the assets. These assets are, of course, in government hands pending a detailed accounting.”
Slowly, his hands shaking, Deeming reached for the control and turned the communicator off. He watched, fascinated, as the ruddy, cold-eyed face of the old man faded away under his hand, distorted suddenly, and was gone. A trick of his mind, or of the fading electrons, shattered the picture as it was extinguished, and for the tiniest fraction of a second it assumed the wordless pleading which had moved him so deeply before.
“Stupid, clumsy old swine,” he growled, too shocked to think of anything really foul to say.
No money. There wasn’t anything except what the government held. He could see himself going to the government with a claim like his.
He pawed through the money the old man had given him for incidentals. He had used none of it so far, but it no longer looked like a lot. He crammed it back into his pocket and then shook himself hard.
I got to do something. I got to get down there and disappear.
He cut in the penetroscope and switched it to the video. The instrument resolved night views considerably better than it did images through beryl steel. He aimed it downwards and got a good sharp focus on the ground and began hunting out a place to hide his boat. He would want hilly or rocky ground, a lot of vegetative cover, access to road or river, and perhaps …
Something golden flashed across the screen.
Deeming grunted and slapped at a control. He caught them, lost them, caught and hung on to them—three Angels, flying in V formation close to the ground, with their backpack geo-gravs. They were swiftly covering the ground in a most efficient area search looking for—well, something concealed down there, small enough to justify that close scrutiny, sitting mum enough to justify a visual hunt. Something, say, about the size of his boat.
On impulse he cut in the ship detectors. The picture reeled and steadied and reeled again as the detectors scanned and selected, and then gave him a quick rundown of everything it had found, in order of closest estimated arrival time at a collision point with him.
To the north and north-east, two small golden ships converging.
To the east, another, and directly above it, another, apparently maneuvering to fly cover on its partner.
To the south, a large—no, that was nothing, just a freighter minding its own business. But no—it was launching boats. He zoomed the video on them. Fighter boats streaking towards him.
To the south-east … The hell with the south-east! He pawed the Revelo coin out
They were plenty. There was a fine relief map of the planet on perpetual emanation in conjunction with the space beacon, and a wonderful radio grid, so it was easy to place himself. There was an entertainment band and best of all, a news band—a broad one, set up in video frames, each with its audio loop of comment. He could tune in any page of the entire sequence. It was indexed and extremely well edited to cover both current news and background, local and intercultural events.
He started with the most recent bulletins and worked backwards. There was nothing, and nothing, and nothing that might apply to him, not even a date line from anywhere he’d been. Until suddenly he found himself gaping into the face of Richard E. Rockhard.
He turned up the audio.
“… indicted yesterday by C Jury of Earth High Court,” said the announcer suavely, “on one hundred and eleven counts of restraint of trade, illegal interlocked directorates, price pegging, monopoly, market manipulation …” on and on and on. Apparently the old pirate had blown his balloon too big. “… estimated value of Mr. Rockhard’s estate and holdings has been estimated in excess of two and three quarter billions, but in the face of these charges it is evident that the satisfaction of invoices outstanding, accounts receivable, taxes and penalties will in all likelihood total to a far higher figure than the assets. These assets are, of course, in government hands pending a detailed accounting.”
Slowly, his hands shaking, Deeming reached for the control and turned the communicator off. He watched, fascinated, as the ruddy, cold-eyed face of the old man faded away under his hand, distorted suddenly, and was gone. A trick of his mind, or of the fading electrons, shattered the picture as it was extinguished, and for the tiniest fraction of a second it assumed the wordless pleading which had moved him so deeply before.
“Stupid, clumsy old swine,” he growled, too shocked to think of anything really foul to say.
No money. There wasn’t anything except what the government held. He could see himself going to the government with a claim like his.
He pawed through the money the old man had given him for incidentals. He had used none of it so far, but it no longer looked like a lot. He crammed it back into his pocket and then shook himself hard.
I got to do something. I got to get down there and disappear.
He cut in the penetroscope and switched it to the video. The instrument resolved night views considerably better than it did images through beryl steel. He aimed it downwards and got a good sharp focus on the ground and began hunting out a place to hide his boat. He would want hilly or rocky ground, a lot of vegetative cover, access to road or river, and perhaps …
Something golden flashed across the screen.
Deeming grunted and slapped at a control. He caught them, lost them, caught and hung on to them—three Angels, flying in V formation close to the ground, with their backpack geo-gravs. They were swiftly covering the ground in a most efficient area search looking for—well, something concealed down there, small enough to justify that close scrutiny, sitting mum enough to justify a visual hunt. Something, say, about the size of his boat.
On impulse he cut in the ship detectors. The picture reeled and steadied and reeled again as the detectors scanned and selected, and then gave him a quick rundown of everything it had found, in order of closest estimated arrival time at a collision point with him.
To the north and north-east, two small golden ships converging.
To the east, another, and directly above it, another, apparently maneuvering to fly cover on its partner.
To the south, a large—no, that was nothing, just a freighter minding its own business. But no—it was launching boats. He zoomed the video on them. Fighter boats streaking towards him.
To the south-east … The hell with the south-east! He pawed the Revelo coin out
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