Starrigger

any race. But they are not welcome off-road in the Terran Maze, nor are they loved in many other regions of the galaxy.

But he was with Corey Wilkes, undoubtedly on business, which afforded him some immunity. Nobody was looking at them but me and Darla. Wilkes caught sight of me, smiled, and waved as if we were at a church picnic. I gave him my best toothflash and stuck my nose in the menu.

'What are you having, Darla? It's on me.'

'Let me buy you dinner once. I've been working lately.'

'This is breakfast.' After a moment, I took the opportunity to ask, 'What have you been doing?'

'For the last month, waitressing to keep body and soul together. Before that, singing, as usual. Saloons, nightclubs. I had a really good group behind me, lots of gigs, but they threw me over for a new chanteuse. Kept my arrangements and left me with the motel tab on Xi Boo III.'

'Nice.' The waiter came and we ordered.

There were a few other aliens in the place. A Beta Hydran was slurping something viscous in the next booth with a human companion. Most restaurants on Skyway cater to alien trade, and that includes alien road facilities with regard to human customers. But the air of resentment against the Reticulan was palpable.

I looked around for familiar faces. Besides Wilkes, I spied Red Shaunnessey over in the corner with his partner, Pavel Korolenko. Shaunnessey winked at me. Red was vice-president of TATOO once, but came over to us when he had had enough of Wilkes. Some Guild members still distrusted him, but he had been a big help in the early days of the Guild's struggle. The fight wasn't over yet. We were still trying to wean drivers away from Wilkes when it was easier ? and safer ? for them to keep their mouths glued to TATOO'S bloated tit. I also saw Gil Tomasso and Su-Gin Chang, but they weren't looking in my direction. They were well off their usual route. A special run. Looking around again, I thought I saw a familiar face at a table near Wilkes and company, a tall, thin, patrician gentleman with a mane of white hair, but I couldn't place him. I had the feeling I knew his face from the news feeds. Probably a middle-to-upper-level Authority bureaucrat on an inspection junket.

By the time the food came, the edge had come off my appetite. If I had had any sense, I would have walked out at the first sight of Wilkes, and no one would have blamed me. But there's a primal territoriality in us all. Why should I leave? Why not him?

Red got up and came over. I introduced him to Darla, and I thought I caught a speck of recognition in his eyes. He declined a cup of sourbean, a native brew that tastes nothing like coffee and faintly like a mixture of cinnamon and iodine. He lit one of his nasty-looking cigars.

'Trouble, Jake,' he said. 'Trouble all over the starslab.'

I picked at my eggs Eridani. 'This I know. Anything new?'

'Marty DiFlippo.'

'What about her?'

'Just came over the skyband. She hit the tollbooths on Bamard's II.'

That hurt. I had known Marty well ? a good woman, good driver. She could pilot a rig better than most, always on schedule, always with a smile. She had been one of the handful of charter members the Starriggers Guild could claim. I looked out the window for a moment. I had a flashing fantasy of getting lost in the riotous vegetation out there, rooting somewhere in the moist jungle earth. No more joy or sorrow, just light and water and peace. I looked back at Red. 'What are the cops saying? Any witnesses?' There is no other evidence available when the cylinders swallow a person. In fact, the question was stupid, as there is no other way to prove mat it happened at all. Every year, travelers set off on Skyway and are never seen again, hundreds of them.

'There was a rig behind her when it happened,' Red told me. 'Said her left rear roller went out of sync on her just as she hit the commit marker. She couldn't straighten up in time, and… that was that.'

'Who reported it?'

'Didn't get his name. A TATOO driver, for sure, but not one of Wilkes' torpedoes. Just an average guy. Probably had nothing to do with it.' Red took a long pull of his cigar. 'It could have been an accident.'

'Hell of an inconvenient time for a sync loss,' I said, putting down my fork. There was no chance of my eating. Darla, however, was digging in, seemingly oblivious to our conversation. 'Or very convenient, depending on your point of view.' I considered a possibility, then said, 'We've never had witnesses before. Disappearances, no clues. How's this? A small, smokeless charge set on the traction-sync delegate ? the box is easily accessible, if you've ever looked ? detonated by remote control or by a gravitational-stress-sensitive fuse.'

'Sounds plausible,' Red said. 'I'd go for the fuse idea, though I've never heard of one like that. The driver was treated for flash bums and gammashine exposure.'

'So? Verisimilitude.'

'Yeah. I see what you mean about the delegate switcher. I'd never have thought of doing it that way. Seems to me, if you wanted to send a rig out of control on cue, you'd booby-trap the pulse transformer, or something even more basic.'

'Sure, but the hardware's harder to get to. Besides, all you'd be doing would be to send the rollers to their frictional base states, and they become like superslippery bald tires. Pretty hairy when you're taking a sharp curve, but on a straightaway it's really no problem. But knocking out the delegate switcher on a portal approach could be fatal. The rollers would go independent for a fraction of a second as they each go through their friction curves from base state to maximum traction until the backups cut in. I've heard of it happening. The rig goes into a dangerous fishtail, which in normal circumstances can be corrected by a good driver. But on a portal approach…'

Red nodded. 'I see.'

'That's why the driver thought it was the left rear. The rig probably swung its ass-end to the right. But in fact, it was all the front drive rollers coming to the peak of their grab-factor curves before the back ones did. The wind probably determined the direction of the spin, or some other factor.'

Red shrugged deferentially. 'You make a good case, Jake. But we'll never know.'

'I know. I've been with Marty, seen her navigate a portal approach with three bad rollers in an eighty-klick- per-hour crosswind. There wasn't much that she couldn't handle, except what I suggested.' Red nodded.

Now that I had won my case> I wished someone would argue me out of it. But both Red and I knew I was right. Accidents among Guild drivers were increasing, as was vandalism. Nobody was getting beaten up; that wasn't Wilkes' style.

'You got to remember, Jake,' Red said to break the depressed mood, 'we're still behind you. I don't know of anybody who wants to pack it in and go back to Wilkes. But if anything were to happen to you… well, merle.' He spat out a flake of precious earth-grown tobacco. (Those stogies of his must have cost fifty UTCs apiece.) 'The Guild would be finished, that's all there is to it. At least it would be as a workable alternative for the average independent starrigger.' He leaned back and shot out an acrid plume of smoke. 'Tell me, Jake. Why are you still on the road? With your salary as president, why, you could?'

'Salary? I've heard of the notion. I think I've cashed two paychecks so far. The third's still in the glovebox, where it goes bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.'

Red was surprised. 'Really? I didn't know.' 'Besides, there's Sam. I couldn't very well sell my own father, could I?'

Red didn't comment, just looked at his cigar. Something thin with watery blue eyes was tapping me on the shoulder. One of Wilkes' gunsels.

'Mr. Wilkes would like to see you, if you please, sir.' Red coughed once and looked at his watch. 'Jake, I'd stay, but we gotta roll. I don't think he'll give you any trouble here.'

'Sure, Red. Sure. See you around.'

Wilkes' table was over against the far wall. Besides him, and the Rikkitikki, there were three gunsels, including the one who'd fetched me. I didn't like the odds, but it was unlikely that Wilkes would start anything in a crowded restaurant- or so I thought. I tend to think too much.

He was playing with the last few crumbs of an omelette, smiling at me, those curious gray teeth sliding around behind thin lips ? he had a way of working his mouth constantly, a tic, I believed. He wasn't an unattractive man. Long blond hair, broad features, eyes of cold green fire, all mounted on a powerful frame. A natty dresser, as well. His kelly-green velvet jerkin was tailored and was in fact very tasteful, going especially well with the white puffed-sleeve blouse.

'Jacob, Jacob, Jacob,' he sang wistfully, still smiling. 'Good to see you, Jake. Have a seat. Get him a seat, Brucie.'