Patron of the Arts

“I didn’t think I’d need any.”

Johann looked into the middle distance and spoke slowly. “I don’t say you are, and I don’t say you aren’t, but I heard talk. The Robert Oppenheimer got in yesterday and there’s a lot of gossip going around.”

He paused, looking me over, and I indicated that he should go on.

“The talk is . . . that Brian Thorne has gone busted. It was only mentioned because he was the push behind the archaeological digs around here.” He was watching me for reaction, but I ignored him. So Huo had done more than gouge a few million. He had managed to shift everything. And Sandler either helped or was massively deceived. Probably the latter. They must have a good double, someone who had been in training for years.

Suddenly the full impact of it hit, emotionally as well as intellectually. I was busted, broke, and worse. I had killers after me and I was boxed up on a world almost without friends.

I turned back into an awareness of Johann’s inspection. I shrugged. “I’m Thorne. Braddock is just a getaway name, when I want privacy.” He shrugged back, indicating a neutral opinion. “I don’t blame you,” I said. “But I need to get back to Earth. Someone . . . several someones . . . are hunting me.”

Johann took another long look and shrugged. “I’d stake you, but I don’t think I have the cash. There’s something wrong with the net, too; we can receive but we can’t see, to send past the satellite. They ought to have it fixed in a day or so. I could get a message through to my bank and have the passage paid for at that end, but . . .”

“Never mind. Thank you. I’ll go see the Sunstrums.” He nodded agreement. I went out of the bar and was heading toward the sandcat lot when they tried again.

This time I was alert and ready. I took my time making an approach to the sandcat. I stood between two big fertilizer drums and studied the hiding places within sight of the quickest transportation back to the landing field. Everything seemed to be normal. Or as normal as I imagined it should be. There were two dusty drivers checking shocks on the second ore transporter and one lone miner doing some welding on a batter stripper with the Arlington Burl logo.

I edged out and walked quickly and purposefully toward the cat. I was reaching up toward the latch when the door sizzled and the paint boiled and popped.

Throwing myself sideways as I drew, I hit the ground in a roll and kept rolling until I was behind the next vehicle. Either they hadn’t set their laser right or they were a long way off, but I was alive. I jumped up and ran in a crouch past two more transporters and halted behind a trencher. I searched the probable area where they might be, but saw nothing.

My boots kicked up puffs of dust as I turned and sprinted for the nearest dome cluster, angling past it and running hard. There was an area between my shoulder blades that just seemed to wait for a laser bolt. My breath was coming hard when I pulled up between a repair dome and a parts storage building. I was also angry. I didn’t like running, I didn’t like getting shot at, I didn’t like not knowing who it was that was shooting. But since there wasn’t much I could do about it, I started walking toward the landing site.

It was full dark when I got there but there was one shuttle on the ground besides the gray-colored port lifter. I couldn’t read the name, but the logo was Spaceflight’s black-and-gold.

They were bound to have someone here, but I had to take that chance. I watched from under a big Caterpillar ore carrier until it seemed safe, then started running towards the Spaceflight shuttle. Far off to my left the fused sand surface of the field bubbled and collapsed in a long rip at right angles to my run. I broke stride, veering to the left to throw the shooter off, and vaulted the sudden slit bubbling before me. My telltale was pinging furiously and I was scared.

But panicking is a self-destructive state and the worse time to panic is during stresses that produce panic. So I kept running, zigging and zagging as I sought the shelter of the big solid shuttle. At least its bulk would slow down the burn of any hand-held laser.

I careened around the rear end of the shuttle and one of the blinker lights and part of a hatch control were cut off. The bits and pieces clattered to the fused sand as I jumped up on the opposite side of the shuttlecraft from the assassins.

I looked down to see one, two, three long rips appear below me on the surface of the field. They were firing under the landing pods, hoping to cut me off at the ankles. I took a fix, backtracking along the ruler-straight lines, then leaped up to fire over the back hatch. I sent several pulses into the darkness, then swept the arc before me with a dangerous expenditure of energy. There was a crash and a gurgling scream and I pulled back with a laser almost too hot to handle. The blue warning light was blinking and I didn’t dare fire it again for awhile. The entrance port of the shuttle was dogged shut and my pounding produced no response. I felt very much alone out there and scanned the darkness for flanking snipers.

Suddenly I was pinned by a bright cone of light. “What the hell is going on out there?” There was a roar of anger from the port shuttlecraft as the commander flooded the area with light.

You’ll be the death of me, I thought grimly as I remained motionless, hugging the steel of the shuffle. Turn that light off!