The Rock Rats

“Has it been that long?” Wilcox brushed his moustache with a fingertip. “But, eh … aren’t we running the risk of seeming impropriety? After all, with the hearing coming up—”

“No risk at all,” Humphries said smoothly. “This man is a loyal employee of mine, and the hotel people can be relied on to be discreet.”

“I see.”

“You can’t be too careful these days, especially a man in such a high position of trust as you are.”

“Rather,” said Wilcox, smiling as he watched the waiter open the first bottle of wine.

CHAPTER 34

Dorik Harbin looked around the spare one-room apartment. Good enough, he thought. He knew that in Selene, the lower the level of your living quarters, the more expensive. It was mostly nonsense: you were just as safe five meters below the Moon’s surface as you were at fifty or even five hundred. But people let their emotions rule them, just as on Earth they paid more for an upper floor in a condo tower, even though the view might be nothing more than another condo tower standing next door.

He had been tense during the flight in from the Belt. After leaving the crippled Shanidar with an HSS tanker, he had received orders from Grigor to report to Selene. They provided him with a coffin-sized berth on an HSS freighter that was hauling ores to the Moon. Harbin knew that if they were going to assassinate him, this would be the time and place for it.

Apparently Grigor and his superiors believed his claim that he had sent complete records of Shanidar’s campaign of destruction to several friends on Earth. Otherwise they would have gotten rid of him, or tried to. Harbin had no friends on Earth or anywhere else. Acquaintances, yes, several people scattered here and there that he could trust a little. No family; they had all been killed while he was still a child.

Harbin had sent a rough ship’s log from Shanidar to three persons he had known for many years: one had been the sergeant who had trained him in the Peacekeepers, now retired and living in someplace called Pennsylvania; another, the aged imam from his native village; the third was the widow of a man whose murder he had avenged the last time he had visited his homeland.

The instructions he had sent with the logs—a request, really—were to give the data to the news media if they learned that Harbin had died. He knew that if Grigor received orders to kill him, no one on Earth would likely hear of his death. But the faint possibility that Shanidar’s log might be revealed to the public was enough to stay Grigor’s hand. At least, Harbin estimated that it was so.

It would have been easier to keep his murder quiet if they’d killed him on the ship coming in, Harbin thought. The fact that he was now quartered in this one-room apartment in Selene told him that they did not plan to kill him. Not yet, at least.

He almost relaxed. The room was comfortable enough: nearly spacious, compared to the cramped quarters of a spacecraft. The freezer and cupboards were well stocked; Harbin decided to throw everything in the recycler and buy his own provisions in Selene’s food market.

He had his head under the sink, checking to see if there were any unwanted attachments to his water supply, when he heard a light tap at his door.

Grigor, he thought. Or one of his people.

He got to his feet, closed the cabinet, and walked six steps to the door, feeling the comfortable solidity of the electrodagger strapped to the inside of his right wrist, beneath the loose cuff of his tunic. He had charged the battery in the dagger’s hilt as soon as he had entered the apartment, even before unpacking.

He glanced at the small display plate beside the door. Not Grigor. A woman. Harbin slowly slid the accordion door back, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring aside if this woman pointed a weapon at him.

She looked surprised. She was almost Harbin’s own height, he saw: slim, with smoky dark skin and darker hair curling over her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless sheer sweater that revealed little but suggested much. Form-fitting slacks and soft, supple-looking boots.

“You are Dorik Harbin?” she asked, in a silky contralto voice.

“Who are you?” he countered.

“Diane Verwoerd,” she said, stepping into the room, forcing Harbin to swing back from the doorway so she could enter. “I’m Martin Humphries’s personal assistant.”

Diane looked him up and down and saw a tall, lean, hard-looking man with a fierce dark beard and a world of suspicion in his cold blue eyes. Strange, startling eyes, she thought. Dead man’s eyes. Killer’s eyes. He was wearing ordinary coveralls that looked faded from long use, but clean and crisp as a military uniform. A strong, muscled body beneath the clothes, she judged. An impressive man, for a hired killer.

“I was expecting Grigor,” Harbin said.

“I hope you’re not disappointed,” she said, heading for the couch across the room.

“Not at all. You said you are Mr. Humphries’s personal assistant?”

She sat and crossed her long legs. “Yes.”

“Will I meet him?”

“No. You will deal with me.”

He did not reply. Instead, Harbin went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine. She watched him open it, then search in the cabinet above the sink for wine glasses. Is he using this time to think of what he should say? Verwoerd asked herself. Finally he pulled out two simple tumblers and splashed some wine into them.

“I arrived only a few hours ago,” he said, handing her one glass, then pulling up the desk chair to sit facing her. “I don’t know where things are yet.”

“I hope this room is comfortable for you,” she said.

“It will do.”

She waited for him to say more, but he simply studied her with those icepick blue eyes. Not undressing her. There was nothing sexual in it. He was… she tried to find the right word: controlled. That’s it: he’s completely under control. Every gesture, every word he speaks. I wonder what he looks like beneath the beard, Verwoerd thought. Is he the ruggedly handsome type, or does the beard hide a weak chin? Ruggedly handsome, she guessed.

The silence stretched. She took a sip of the wine. Slightly bitter. Perhaps it will improve after it’s breathed a while. Harbin did not touch his wine; he simply held the glass in his left hand and kept his eyes riveted on her.

“We have a lot to discuss,” she said at last.

“I suppose that’s true.”

“You seem to be afraid that we want to get rid of you.”

“That’s what I would do if I were in your position. I’m a liability to you now, isn’t that so?”

He’s brutally frank, she thought. “Mr. Harbin, please let me assure you that we have no intention of causing you harm.”

He smiled at that, and she saw strong white teeth behind the dense black beard.

“In fact, Mr. Humphries has told me to give you a bonus for the work you’ve done.”

He gave her a long, hard look, then said, “Why don’t we stop this fencing? You wanted me to kill Fuchs and I failed. Now he’s here in Selene ready to testify that you’re behind the attacks on prospectors’ ships. Why should you pay me a bonus for that?”

“We’ll pay for your silence, Mr. Harbin.”

“Because you know that if you kill me the ship’s log will go to the news media.”

“We have no intention of killing you.” Verwoerd nodded toward his untouched glass. “You can drink all the wine you want.”

He put the tumbler down on the thinly carpeted floor. “Ms. Verwoerd—”

“Diane,” she said, before she had a chance to think about it.

He tilted his head slightly. “Diane, then. Let me explain how this looks to me.”

“Please do.” She noted that he did not tell her to use his first name.

“Your corporation hired me to scare the independent prospectors out of the Belt. I knocked off several of their