What in hell did that mean? He looked at the paper for some possible hidden clue. There was none. It was just the ordinary paper they kept by the sleepbeds to satisfy the paranoia of those who were convinced they would think of something absolutely vital between the time when their brains were taped and the time when the somec flowed into their veins, emptying all memories from their minds. Memory slips, they called the papers, and Hop had never used one before.
Now he had used one(or is it my handwriting?) and not only that, he had gone to the bother of putting it in a rather effective, if undignified, hiding place.
Apparently, when he had written it, he had thought it was vital.
But if (if) there was a plot to kill Jazz Worthing (alias Meal Ticket) how in hell had he found out about it between the taping and the somec? It was strictly illegal for anyone but the nurses to come into the tape–and–tap; that was in the contract — it was imperial law, for heaven's sake, forget the contract.
And who would try to kill Jazz Worthing, the Empire's most successful starship pilot, not to mention the star of the five best–selling loops in trade history (I made the boy a star, he'd be nothing without his agent); killing him would not only hurt the Empire's war effort and tear down morale, it would also leave the fans disconsolate —
And thinking of the war effort, what about it? Hop went to the history sheets that hung from the wall. He was proud of the fact that he had a five year summary, a reminder of his high somec rating.
The news was basically good. The Empire was still intact, more or less, win a little, lose a little but the war is far from home.
Then, practical as always, Hop checked the gossip sheets and spent an amusing five minutes as he dressed, reading over what happened while he was under. Of course, most of the people he had never met — their somec schedules never coincided and so he knew of their escapades only from the sheets —
The flight schedules showed that Jazz was coming in only three days. Hop glanced up at the calendar on the wall (they never bother with clocks in the Sleeproom) and realized that he had been wakened almost three months early.
Damn.
Oh well, it could have been three years, that had happened before, and it was a small enough price to pay for his twenty percent of all of Jazz Worthing's revenues. Without Jazz, Hop Noyock wouldn't be on somec at all.
Somebody trying to kill Jazz? Asinine.
(If I find them, I'll tear them apart, the bastards.)
Hop met Jazz the minute the smoke had been pumped out of the landing hall. The two kilometer–long ship always took Hop's breath away (either that or the long climb up the ramp), just as the ridiculous narrow tube that held all the payload made him laugh. It looked like it was tacked onto the huge stardrive as an afterthought. The tail wagging the dog. A hammer to drive a needle through nothing.
Over the ship stretched the huge girders that supported the roof, now looking like fine lace in the distance. Only here, in the ship cradles, were there large doors in the metal roof that sheathed the entire planet of Capitol.
Hop watched as, far below the audience, gates were opened and the crowds flooded in. Jazz's arrival was big news on Capitol. Hop felt the old resentment as he watched the crowd fill all the available space around the base of the cradle. He had made a fortune by charging admission to Jazz's arrivals — but some of his competitors, sponsoring less popular pilots, had managed to convince the government that it was illegal to charge admission for entry to public government facilities — and they had even made Hop give back the money he had already made on it. Damn poor losers, that's all they were.
And then the door of the ship fell open and out stepped Jazz Worthing. Two hundred meters below, the fans started screaming so loudly that the sound could be heard even above the roar of the machinery that was testing the stardrive. Hop Noyock threw out his arms and made the theatrical gesture that had been seen by billions at the end of every Jazz Worthing loop. He strode to the tired–looking pilot and embraced him.
"Jazz Worthing, Capitol is grateful that you're home safe and victorious again."
"Nice to be back," Jazz said, smiling slightly, his bright blue eyes flashing in the dazzling lights. He was several centuries old, and looked younger than twenty. One last pat on the back, and then Hop reached down and flipped off the loop recorder. Jazz relaxed as soon as the taping was finished. He tensed again, though, when Hop whispered in his ear, "Somebody may be trying to kill you. Don't leave the crowds."
"Hop, I don't even want to see the damned crowds."
"No one'd dare try anything in the crowds. We'll talk in a minute."
Hop led Jazz to the railing and showed him off to the cheering fans. Their roar of approval was quite stirring. Hop felt quite stirred.
"Hop, what the hell is going on?" Jazz asked.
"I don't know," Hop said. "Bow for the bastards, Jason, give them their money's worth."
Jazz looked at Hop in surprise. "You don't mean the government's letting you charge admission again?"
"No, no, figure of speech, little figure of speech, you know."
"I just want to go home and go to bed, Hop. Don't give me any trouble about it or I'll fire you."
Hop shrugged. "If you get killed, I'll be out of a job anyway."
Jazz sighed and listened as Hop told him about the note.
"I especially like your hiding place," Jazz commented as they walked down the winding ramp.
"It's my body's only built–in pocket."
"How are we doing?"
"Financially? Latest audit was five years ago, and it said about seventeen billion."
"I left about forty years ago. What would it have been worth then?"
"Eleven billion. Inflation's getting worse."
"That note. Are you sure you weren't just playing a joke?"
"On myself? Ha ha, what a riot."
Jazz set his lips tightly. "Why would anyone want to kill me?"
"One of the other captains?" Hop suggested, lightly.
"We're all friends. We all like each other."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Hop shrugged. "One of their managers then. Out to wipe out the competition."
"Do you believe that?"
"Hell no. It sounds more like treason. Must be something involved with the government, or how could the information have reached me in the Sleeproom? Somebody thinks your death would help or hurt some faction in the government. I wish you'd stay out of politics."
The ramp seemed to go on forever. The roar of the stardrive test grew softer; the roar of the crowd grew louder. "Are you sure," Jazz asked, "that you didn't already know the information, and put it together after you were taped?"
"I've been racking my brains. Nothing. I didn't know anything about any threat on anybody's life. I don't know anybody with a motive. I was told, after the taping."
"Damn."
"How are the loops from this trip?"
"Oh, some good stuff. My fleet got caught in an ambush near Kapittuck and we fought our way out without losses. Very dramatic. Some good close–ups, too, you'll be in gravy for the next five or ten wakings."
"So will you," Hop said.
"Sure," Jazz answered. "And I have so much time on Capitol to enjoy it."
(Don't complain, you bastard. When I started working for you three centuries ago we were both in our teens, subjectively speaking, and now count my gray hairs. I wake up every five years, while you coast through life waking only three or four times a century, staying young forever — )
"You look great, Hop," Jazz said.
"You, too, Jazz old man," Hop said, using the obscenity freely.
They reached the bottom of the ramp, where police were struggling to hold the crowd back from charging up to meet them. "Here are the lions," Jazz said, and then they waded into the crowd of outreaching hands and hungering eyes.