The Reaches

at three klicks of altitude, though they'd have to run the weapon out before they brought it into action.

Gregg smiled grimly as he gripped a stanchion and braced one boot against a bulkhead. He was getting better at this. And there were amusement parks where people paid money to have similar experiences.

Guillermo stood across the narrow hull from Gregg. From his first landing, the Molt rode as easily as if his jointed legs were the oil-filled struts of shock absorbers.

'Guillermo,' Gregg called. 'Did your genetic memory cover space flight? Landings, I mean.'

'Yes, Mr. Gregg,' the Molt said. 'It does.'

Gregg wasn't sure precisely what Guillermo's status was. So far as Mostert was concerned, Guillermo was an unsold part of the cargo loaded at Punta Verde. The larger vessels still carried fifty or sixty other Molts. . who would be sold to the Feds here, if all went well.

To Gregg and the Peaches crewmen, the alien who'd taken over Bailey's duties in the course of the past four planetfalls wasn't simply merchandise. Gregg wasn't sure Guillermo had ever been merchandise to Piet Ricimer.

'What're them ships there?' Lightbody muttered as he peered at the viewscreen over his control consoles. 'They're not big enough to be the Earth Convoy.'

'Water buffalo,' Leon said. 'Liftships, laser-guided drones. The Feds' biggest ships boost to orbit with minimum reaction mass to keep the strain down. Liftships, they're just buckets to ferry water up to them.'

Island Able was a ragged triangle with sides of about a kilometer each. A complex of buildings and two very small ships-featherboats or perhaps merely atmosphere vessels-were placed at the northern corner, protected by an artificial seawall.

Grounded near the eastern corner were the water buffalo, ships in the 50-to-80-tonne range. Until the bosun explained what they were, Gregg thought the vessels' simple outlines were a result of the screen's mediocre resolution.

On the third, western, corner, the Feds had built a fort with four roof turrets. Even as bad as the viewscreen was, Gregg should have been able to see the barrels of the guns if they were harmlessly lowered.

'Captain,' he said, glad to note there was no quaver in his voice. 'I think the fort's guns are muzzle-on to us.'

'They might track the Tolliver, Stephen,' Ricimer said, 'but I don't think they'd all four track us. I don't think the turrets have their guns mounted.'

As he spoke, his hands played delicately with the thruster controls. The Tolliver rotated slowly on its vertical axis as it dropped. One or more of its attitude jets must be misaligned. Ricimer held the Peaches in a helix that kept the featherboat between the lobes of two of the flagship's huge thrusters.

The Tolliver settled close to the administration complex in a blast of steam and gravel. The featherboat hovered for a moment. When the flagship's cloud of stripped atoms dissipated suddenly like a rainbow overtaken by nightfall, Ricimer brought them in a hundred meters from the Tolliver. They flanked the direct path between the bigger ship and the Federation buildings.

It was probably not chance that the line at which the featherboat came to rest pointed her bow and plasma cannon at the fort a kilometer away.

Gregg and the Molt undogged the roof hatch. Steam billowed in like a slap with a hot towel. Jeude and Tancred remained at their gun, but the remainder of the crewmen got to their feet.

Gregg glanced at the viewscreen. Two Federation trucks drove close to the Tolliver, dragging hoses. 'What-' he started to say.

The trucks suddenly bloomed with a mist of seawater. It paled to steam as it cooled the landing site and the vessel's hull. The hoses stretched to intakes out beyond the line of Island Able's gentle surf.

'They think we're the Earth Convoy,' Ricimer said. It was only when he grinned broadly that Gregg realized how tense his friend had been beneath his outer calm. 'They don't let their admirals sit aboard for an hour or so while the site cools naturally.'

'They aren't going to bother with us, though, are they?' Dole grumbled. 'Not that it looks like there's much entertainment on this gravel heap.'

'I think if we suited up, Stephen,' Ricimer said, 'we could get to the Tolliver about the time they opened up for the local greeting party. Eh?'

'They got some platforms out a ways, fella told me on Jewelhouse,' Jeude called in response to Dole's comment. 'Not on the island, though. Not enough land.'

'Sure,' Gregg said. He thumped his armored chest. 'I'd feel naked getting off a ship without a hard suit, the way things have been going. The leggings won't make much difference.'

Guillermo opened the armor store and sorted out ceramic pieces, the full suit sized to Ricimer's body and the lower half of Gregg's. Ballistic protection alone didn't justify the awkwardness and burden of complete armor.

Piet Ricimer latched his torso armor over him, then paused. He looked around the featherboat's bay, even glancing at the suited gun crew behind him. In a clear, challenging voice, he said, 'Guillermo, when we get back home, I'll have a suit made to fit you. I don't like carrying crewmen who don't have a way to stay alive in case we have to open the bay in vacuum.'

'Too fucking right,' Dole said, responding for the crew.

'And I'll chip in on the cost,' Gregg said evenly, completing the answer of the question that nobody was willing to admit had been asked.

Ricimer's smile lit the bay. 'Leon, you're in charge,' he said. 'Stephen, let's go watch my cousin negotiate.'

21

Biruta

Five meters from the Peaches, the shingle was cool again. Gregg lifted his visor. Another Venerian ship dropped from orbit, but for the moment it was no more than a spark of high-altitude opalescence. The thunder of its approach had yet to reach the ground.

An airboat supported by three boom-mounted ducted props lifted from the administrative complex. Gregg tapped Ricimer's shoulder-armor on armor clacked loudly-and pointed. 'Look,' he said, 'they're sending a courier to the outlying platforms.'

Instead of heading off with a message that couldn't be radioed because of interference from starship thrusters, the airboat hummed a hundred and fifty yards across the shingle and settled again before the Tolliver's lowering cargo ramp.

Piet Ricimer chuckled. 'You wouldn't expect a Federation admiral to walk, would you, Stephen?' he said. 'The locals expect high brass with the Earth Convoy, so they've sent a ride for them.'

Four Federation officials descended from the airboat. They'd put on their uniforms in haste: one of them still wore grease-stained utility trousers, though his white dress tunic was in good shape.

The vehicle had only six seats. One of those was for the driver, who remained behind. Presumably some of the locals planned to walk back.

Gregg and Ricimer walked in front of the boat, following the officials to the flagship's ramp. The driver looked startled when he saw the two strangers were armed as well as wearing hard suits. Ricimer had a rifle, while Gregg carried a replacement for the flashgun that had failed at Punta Verde.

Ricimer eyed the driver through the windscreen, then raised a gauntleted index finger to his lips in a shush sign. The driver nodded furiously, too frightened even to duck behind the plastic bow of his vehicle.

'Administrator Carstensen?' called the leader of the local officials from the foot of the ramp. The Tolliver's dark cargo bay showed only shadows where the crew awaited their visitors. 'I'm Port Commander Dupuy. We're glad to welcome you to Biruta. I'm sure your stay will be enjoyable.'

'I'm sure it will too, gentlemen,' boomed Alexi Mostert. 'I'm absolutely sure that you'll treat me and my ships as if we belonged to your own Federation.'