City of Baraboo

"If you call losing your ship trouble."

O'Hara stood. "Explain yourself."

Jon looked up at him. "I'll bet you a million credits against a handful of bolts that you don't hold title to the City of Baraboo."

"Not until I pay for it, I don't."

"And, when will you pay for it?"

O'Hara snorted. "I can't see how this is any of your business, sonny!"

"I'll tell you this much, grandpaw: unless you plunk down eighty million credits, cash on the barrelhead, you are going to lose your ship. A&BCE, using your reasons for a cover, are building an attack transport for the Nuumiian Empire. The plan is to sell them the ship, get the cash in hand, and be done with it before either the government, the people of Earth, or my union know about it. When they are presented with an accomplished fact, everyone will shrug and go home, and A&BCE will be ahead to the tune of a lot of credits. How does that grab you, grandpaw?"

O'Hara resumed his seat. "How do you know this?"

"I work at the yard. Right now the Baraboo is the stock frame for an attack transport. All those special fittings to turn it into a circus ship have not been installed. I did a little nosing around, though, and came up with something interesting. All those fittings necessary to turn that ship into a war vessel are waiting at the yard. My guess is that after selling it, the military fittings will be placed aboard and installed en route to Nuumiia."

"But A&BCE has an agreement with me!"

Jon nodded. "You deliver eighty million credits, and they deliver one ship. But you haven't paid anything yet, have you? I don't think A&BCE ever expected you to. But, building a circus ship is still a good cover story for building a warship." Jon leaned back in the chair. "What are you going to do?"

"Are you at liberty, sonny?"

"Am I in need of a job? I guess I will be after this. What did you have in mind?"

"That ship will need a crew."

Jon shook his head. "Don't you think you ought to get together with a lawyer—or an army of lawyers? You can't stop A&BCE with—"

"Now's my time to teach you something, sonny. We don't squawk copper. We'll handle it ourselves. Now, are you interested in that job?"

SEVEN

Jon Norden sat slouched in a chair watching the Patch burn up the hotel room rug with his pacing. The thin black-clad man clasped his hands behind his back, unclasped them and folded them over his chest, stopped, shook his head, then held out his hands. "I wonder if Mr. John ever stopped to think how much he asks of me?"

Jon smiled and shrugged. "I'm new here myself." "Bah!" Patch dropped his arms to his sides, then resumed his pacing. The thin man held his hands at the sides of his head, scowled, muttered an oath or two, then stopped in front of the room's paper-littered coffee table. He picked up the agreement O'Hara had made with A&BCE, glanced at it, then picked up the uncompleted registry certificate. He threw them back onto the table. "Bah!" He paced for a while longer, then stopped and faced Jon. "You see, Mr. Norden, the Governor has a dream. Humph! A dream. He isn't content making a living at running a show; he's got to make a route out of the entire Quadrant—maybe the Galaxy! And to do that, he wants to take on one of the biggest corporations on Earth, not to mention the biggest military force in the Quadrant." He held out his hands and shook them, "No! He wants me to take them on!" He frowned at Jon. "What are you doing here?"

"Mr. O'Hara said that I should help you however I can."

"Help? Help? What kind of help?"

Jon shrugged. "He said the ship will need a crew. I'm a fully ticketed ship's engineer."

"A crew? Doesn't the man know that he has to have a ship before he needs a crew? What does he plan to do—pirate the Baraboo?"

"It could be done."

"Eh?"

"I said it could be done. The crew at the yard could man the ship. We even have a shuttle pilot up there, Willy Coogan. He's got a master's ticket."

Patch sat down on the couch behind the coffee table and rubbed his chin. "Would they?"

"Would they what?"

"Pirate the ship."

Jon laughed, then shook his head. "Hey, I was kidding."

"But, would they do it? Could you get them to do it?"

"I don't know about you, buddy, but I don't plan to live out the rest of my days on one of the penal colonies. The Quadrant Admiralty Office would drop on us like a ton of steel."

The Patch leaned back in the couch, crossed his legs, and folded his arms. "Mere detail, my boy. Mere detail. If I could guarantee that no one goes to jail, could you get a crew to pirate—excuse me, to take possession of that ship?"

Jon frowned, studied his strange companion for a moment, then nodded. "It's possible. My union never has been hot on the idea of slapping up ships for the Nuumiians. But, how are you going to keep us out of jail?"

The Patch leaned forward, pawed at the papers on the coffee table, then pulled out a sheaf of papers from the pile. "Let's see what this show has for entertainment, first."

Jon squirmed uneasily in his chair for a moment, then leaned forward and held out his hands. "Wouldn't it be a better idea to get a lawyer working on this?"

The Patch looked up, glared over the top of the papers at Jon, then looked back at the papers. "Humph!"

Karl Arnheim looked at the hooded figure of the Nuumiian Ambassador seated in the chair opposite his. Even though the hood shadowed the figure's face, Arnheim could see those cold, dark eyes examining him as though he were a bug. The Ambassador held out an arm in Arnheim's direction, and the gray sleeve of the Nuumiian's robe slid back exposing a blue-green, four-fingered hand. "And, Mr. Arnheim, when may we expect delivery on the attack transport?"

"Six days, Ambassador Sum. Orders to install the fittings have been given, and the test run still needs to be done, but after that, it's yours. Is your crew ready?"

The Ambassador waved his hand, indicating the affirmative. "The crew is on one of our cruisers waiting in neutral space. You understand, Mr. Arnheim, that your crew must bring the ship outside the Solar Identification Zone?"

"Yes—"

Arnheim's office door hissed open. His secretary, face flushed and brow furrowed, entered at a half-run. "Mr. Arnheim, you—"

Arnheim stood. "What is the meaning of this behavior, Janice?"

The secretary nodded her head at the Ambassador, then turned to Arnheim. "I am sorry, but you should look at this right away!" She extended her arm, and in her hand was a sheet of white paper, and a slip of yellow paper.

Arnheim bowed to Ambassador Sum. "Please excuse me." He turned to the papers, and as he read, his eyebrows elevated with each sweep of his eyes. "Is this someone's idea of humor?"

Ambassador Sum stood. "If you would care to be alone, Mr. Arnheim..."

Arnheim held out a hand. "No... no, Ambassador Sum. This concerns you, as well. O'Hara... he has presented me with a check for eighty million credits." Arnheim waved the white sheet of paper. "He has assumed title to the ship, and has registered it." He turned to his secretary. "The printing on this check—it's still wet!"

Ambassador Sum placed his hands inside his sleeves. "I thought you said that this O'Hara couldn't possibly raise the money in such short order."

Arnheim frowned. "He can't. Look, the check is drawn on the First National Bank of the City of Baraboo. That's the name of the ship." Arnheim gave his head a curt nod. "They won't get away with this!" He reached out a hand to energize his communicator, but before his finger touched the button, the screen came to life. It was the superintendent of the A&BCE orbiting shipyard. "Yates! Just the man I wanted to see. About that ship—"