‘Restrict him to his stake,” Joel said, rising to his feet, an expression of genuine concern on his round face, “and you’ll save all of us a lot of aggro. He’s a wild card, and you can’t be sure where he’ll bounce up next.”
Paul grinned at the storesman. “I’d be glad to, Lili, but the mandate doesn’t permit that kind of action.”
Joel snorted derisively, hesitated a moment longer, and then, shrugging in his inimitable fashion, left the office.
Paul did not forget the conversation, but the morning brought more pressing concerns. Despite the best efforts of Fulmar and his engineering crews, three more sleds had failed airworthiness tests. That meant using more ground crews, the last line of defense and the most enervating for people already worked to the point of exhaustion. Neither Paul nor Emily recognized the significance of three separate reports: one from the veterinary lab, saying that their supply rooms had been rifled overnight; another from Pol Nietro, reporting that Ted Tubberman had been seen in bioengineering; and the third from Fulmar, saying that someone had made off with one of the exhaust cylinders from the dismantled shuttle.
When Joel Lilienkamp’s angry call came through, Paul had little trouble arriving at a conclusion.
“May his orifices congeal and his extremities fall off,” Joel cried at the top of his voice. “He’s got the homing capsule!”
Shock jolted Paul out of his chair, while Emily and Ezra regarded him in astonishment. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, Paul. I hid the carton in among stove Pipes and heating units. It hasn’t been misplaced, but who the hell could know that carton #45/879 was a homing capsule?”
“Tubberman took it?”
“I’ll bet my last bottle of brandy he did.” Joel spoke so fast that his words slurred. “The fucker! The crap-eater, the slime-producing maggot!”
“When did you discover it gone?”
“Now! I’m calling from Building C. I check it out at least once a day.
“Could Tubberman have followed you?”
“What sort of a twat do you think I am?” Joel was as apoplectic at such a suggestion as he was about the theft. “I check every building every day and I can tell you exactly what was requisitioned yesterday and the day before, so I fucking well know when something’s missing!”
“I don’t doubt you for a moment, Joel.” Paul rubbed his hand hard over his mouth, thinking rapidly. Then he saw the anxious expressions of Emily and Ezra. “Hold on,” he said into the handset, and reported what Joel had said.
“Well,” Ezra replied, a look of intense relief passing over his gaunt features. “Tubberman couldn’t launch a kite. He can barely maneuver a sled. I wouldn’t worry about him.”
“Not him. But I worry a lot about Stev Kimmer and Bart Lemos being seen in Tubberman’s company lately,” Paul said quietly. Ezra seemed to deflate, burying his head in his hands.
“Ted Tubberman has had it,” Emily said, placing the folder she had been studying onto the table in a precise manner and rising to her feet. “I don’t give a spent chip for his position as a charterer or the privacy of his stake. We’re searching Calusa.” She gave Ezra a poke in the shoulder. “C’mon, you’ll know what components he’d need.”
They all heard the sound of running feet, then the door burst in and Jake Chernoff erupted into the office.
“Sir, sorry, sir,” the young man cried, his face flushed, his chest heaving from exertion. “Your phone – ” He pointed excitedly at the receiver in the admiral’s hand. “Too important. Scanners at met – something blasted off from Oslo Landing, three minutes ago – and it wasn’t a sled. Too small.”
As one, Paul, Emily, and Ezra made for the door and ran to the interface chamber. Ezra fumbled at the terminal in his haste to implement the program. An exhaust trail was plainly visible, on a north-western heading. Cursing under his breath, Ezra switched to the Yoko’s monitor, which was tracking the blip. For a long moment they watched, rigid with fury and frustration. Then Ezra straightened his long frame, his hands hanging limply.
“Well, what’s done’s done.”
“Not completely,” Emily said, her voice harsh as she separated each syllable in a curious lilt. She turned to Paul, her eyes very bright, her lips pursed, and her expression implacable. “Oslo Landing, hmmm? That capsule was just launched. Let’s go get the buggers.”
Leaving Ezra to monitor the capsule’s ascent, Paul and Emily left at a run. The first three big men they encountered on their way to the grid were commandeered to assist. Paul spotted Fulmar and told him to pilot Kenjo’s augmented sled.
“Don’t ask questions, Fulmar,” Paul said, peremptorily seconding two more burly technicians. “Just head us toward Jordan, and everyone keep their eyes open for sled traffic.” He reached for the comm unit as he shrugged into his harness. “Who’s in the tower? Tarrie? I want to know who’s in the air above the river, where they’re going and where they’ve been.”
Fulmar took off in such a steep climb that for a moment the noise blanketed any answer Tarrie Chernoff gave.
“Only one sled above the Jordan, sir, apart from that – other flight.” She choked on her words and then recovered the impersonal reserve of a common officer. “The sled does not acknowledge.
“They will,” Paul assured her grimly. “Continue to monitor the traffic in that area.”
Tubberman was just stupid enough to be obvious, but somehow Paul did not think that such stupidity was a trait of Stev Kimmer or whomever else Ted had talked into such an arrant abrogation of the democratic decision of the colony.
Tubberman was alone in the sled when Fulmar forced him to land in the riverside desolation of the ill-fated Bavaria Stake. He was unrepentant as he faced them, folding his arms across his chest and jutting his chin out defiantly.
“I’ve done what should have been done,” he stated in pompus righteousness. “The first step in saving this colony from annihilation.”
Paul clenched his fists tightly to his sides. Beside him, Emily was vibrating with a fury as intense as his own.
“I want the names of your accomplices, Tubberman,” Paul said through his teeth, “and I want them now!”
Tubberman inhaled, bracing himself. “Do your worst, Admiral. I am man enough to take it.”
The mock heroic attitude was so absurd to his auditors that one of the men behind Paul let out a short bark of incredulous laughter, which he quickly cut off. But the one burst of derision altered Paul’s mood.
“Tubberman, I wouldn’t let anyone touch a hair of your head,” Paul said, grinning in a release of tension. “There are quite suitable ways to deal with you, plainly set out in the charter – nothing quite as crude or barbaric as physical abuse.” Then he turned. “You men take him back to Landing in his sled. Put him in my office and call Joel Lilienkamp. He’ll take charge of the prisoner.” Paul had the satisfaction of seeing the martyred look fade from Tubberman’s eyes, to be replaced by a mixture of anxiety and surprise. Turning on his heel, Paul gestured Emily, Fulmar, and the others back into their sled.
Tarrie reported no other vehicles in the area and apologized that traffic records were no longer kept. “Except for that . . . rocket thing, the pattern was normal, sir. Oh, and Jake’s back. Did you want to speak to him?”
“Yes,” Paul answered, wishing that Ongola were back in charge. “Jake, I want to know where Bart Lemos and Stev Kimmer are. And Nabhi Nabol.” Beside him, Emily nodded approval.
By then, Fulmar had covered the short air distance between Bavaria and Oslo Landing. The remains of the launch platform were still smoking. While Paul went with the others to search the area for sled skids, Fulmar carefully prodded through the overheated circle beneath it, sniffing as he went.