finds out we’re gone.”
“Have a stroke, I imagine,” Andrew predicted, going on with his packing.
“I hope not. He’s been helpful, after all, and . . . and what, exactly, is that ?”
There was no apology in Andrew’s voice as he held up the weapon he had been about to toss into his bag. “It’s called an M-3 gauss pistol—a standard Navy sidearm.” With which your father spattered his brains over his office , flashed through his mind, only to be sternly suppressed. “It has a number of highly desirable qualities. One is that it’s manufactured entirely from materials that can get past ordinary customs scanners, which is why I was able to bring it from Earth without having to answer any awkward questions. Another is that it can be used inside a space vehicle without jeopardizing hull integrity.”
“But . . . do you really expect to need it?”
“I have no way of knowing what to expect. So I’ve done my best to be prepared for all eventualities.”
She held his eyes with hers—eyes oddly at variance with her overall appearance, for they were that curious light shade that could seem blue or gray or green depending on the lighting. Some unacknowledged Cossack ancestor who had gotten in a bit of raping in the course of a pogrom, Andrew imagined.
“You know a lot that you’re not telling me,” she finally said. “That was obvious from some of the things you said to Persath. I kept my mouth shut at the time because I didn’t want to queer the deal. For that, I think you owe me one. I wish you’d take me into your confidence. And please don’t give me any military chickenshit about ‘need to know.’”
“It’s actually not as chickenshit as it may seem. More often than not it operates for the protection of the person lacking a need to know. As you’ll recall, I told you I can’t be responsible for your safety. That doesn’t mean I’m eager to expose you to potential danger unnecessarily.”
“All right. I’ll accept that for now. But sooner or later I’m going to want to know everything you know.”
“Yes, I know you will.” Andrew did know it, and he dreaded it so much that he was still in denial about the prospect. A glance at the clock saved him. “And now it’s time to get up to the landing flange and meet the air-car Persath is sending.”
Persath hadn’t wanted them to use public transportation, in which the two humans would have attracted attention, and Andrew wasn’t quite prepared to write this off as paranoia. So an air-car awaited them, piloted by a completely uncommunicative Lokaron chauffeur. (Tizathon law required air-cars over urban areas to be under sentient control as well as being hooked into the computerized traffic-control network.) He took them over the seemingly endless alien cityscape until the towers thinned out and the extensive open expanse of the spaceport appeared. They passed beyond the vast commercial facilities for ground-to-orbit shuttles and finally came to rest alongside the private vessels of the super-rich.
One of the things Andrew had always found appealing about the Lokaron (at least those of Gev-Harath and cultures derived from it, like Gev-Tizath) was that they didn’t make any sophomoric noises about having “outgrown ornamentation.” The vessels that stretched away into the distance were inherently attractive, with the streamlined look of ships intended for atmospheric transit. But that look had been enhanced with a dazzling variety of colorful designs programmed into their liquid-crystal skins, giving them almost an enameled appearance, pleasingly “retro” to human eyes. Some of the color combinations seemed gaudy, but Persath’s ship was tastefully understated: mostly medium-gray, with a decorative pattern of sweeping lines in gleaming dark green lined with sliver trim.
Persath was waiting alongside it and dismissed the chauffeur. His jitters were manifest. “Good. You are here. We have clearance. Let us proceed
“Have a stroke, I imagine,” Andrew predicted, going on with his packing.
“I hope not. He’s been helpful, after all, and . . . and what, exactly, is that ?”
There was no apology in Andrew’s voice as he held up the weapon he had been about to toss into his bag. “It’s called an M-3 gauss pistol—a standard Navy sidearm.” With which your father spattered his brains over his office , flashed through his mind, only to be sternly suppressed. “It has a number of highly desirable qualities. One is that it’s manufactured entirely from materials that can get past ordinary customs scanners, which is why I was able to bring it from Earth without having to answer any awkward questions. Another is that it can be used inside a space vehicle without jeopardizing hull integrity.”
“But . . . do you really expect to need it?”
“I have no way of knowing what to expect. So I’ve done my best to be prepared for all eventualities.”
She held his eyes with hers—eyes oddly at variance with her overall appearance, for they were that curious light shade that could seem blue or gray or green depending on the lighting. Some unacknowledged Cossack ancestor who had gotten in a bit of raping in the course of a pogrom, Andrew imagined.
“You know a lot that you’re not telling me,” she finally said. “That was obvious from some of the things you said to Persath. I kept my mouth shut at the time because I didn’t want to queer the deal. For that, I think you owe me one. I wish you’d take me into your confidence. And please don’t give me any military chickenshit about ‘need to know.’”
“It’s actually not as chickenshit as it may seem. More often than not it operates for the protection of the person lacking a need to know. As you’ll recall, I told you I can’t be responsible for your safety. That doesn’t mean I’m eager to expose you to potential danger unnecessarily.”
“All right. I’ll accept that for now. But sooner or later I’m going to want to know everything you know.”
“Yes, I know you will.” Andrew did know it, and he dreaded it so much that he was still in denial about the prospect. A glance at the clock saved him. “And now it’s time to get up to the landing flange and meet the air-car Persath is sending.”
Persath hadn’t wanted them to use public transportation, in which the two humans would have attracted attention, and Andrew wasn’t quite prepared to write this off as paranoia. So an air-car awaited them, piloted by a completely uncommunicative Lokaron chauffeur. (Tizathon law required air-cars over urban areas to be under sentient control as well as being hooked into the computerized traffic-control network.) He took them over the seemingly endless alien cityscape until the towers thinned out and the extensive open expanse of the spaceport appeared. They passed beyond the vast commercial facilities for ground-to-orbit shuttles and finally came to rest alongside the private vessels of the super-rich.
One of the things Andrew had always found appealing about the Lokaron (at least those of Gev-Harath and cultures derived from it, like Gev-Tizath) was that they didn’t make any sophomoric noises about having “outgrown ornamentation.” The vessels that stretched away into the distance were inherently attractive, with the streamlined look of ships intended for atmospheric transit. But that look had been enhanced with a dazzling variety of colorful designs programmed into their liquid-crystal skins, giving them almost an enameled appearance, pleasingly “retro” to human eyes. Some of the color combinations seemed gaudy, but Persath’s ship was tastefully understated: mostly medium-gray, with a decorative pattern of sweeping lines in gleaming dark green lined with sliver trim.
Persath was waiting alongside it and dismissed the chauffeur. His jitters were manifest. “Good. You are here. We have clearance. Let us proceed
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