He donned a spacesuit and depressurized the cabin, waiting for the lights to tell him he could open the hatch. The cradle dock was built for the blocky, rectangular freighters rather than for the small passenger craft he had used, so there was really no way to mate boat to airlock. He noted two of the Warden shuttlecraft parked in the rear of the bay, but was surprised not to see any ship of unfamiliar design. Either the Altavar hadn’t arrived as yet, or it utilized a different and less obvious mode of transportation.
As soon as he was at the hangar-level airlock, a small tug emerged from a recess in the far wall and eased up to his ship, grabbing hold with a dual tractor beam and then easing it into an out-of-the-way parking space. He hoped he’d remembered to tell them that the thing would automatically take back off on command of the picket ship in an hour or two, then shrugged off the thought. What good was taking over an enemy ship like the picket ship if your spies were incompetents? He shouldn’t be expected to do everything.
The light turned green and he opened the hatch, stepped inside the chamber, closed and hit reseal behind him, and waited for the light on the inner door to ogen. He was reminded a bit of that dual airlock in Ypsir’s space palace. Sure enough, there was even a camera here, and some of those odd projections.
He barely had time to reflect on the implications when he was bathed in an energy field from those same projections, just as his counterpart had been back on Medusa. It was over quickly and caused him no unpleasantness; in fact, he felt no sensation out of the ordinary at all. He couldn’t help wondering what all that was about, then. An automatic precaution? If it were some kind of decontamination, it would have been better served if they’d waited until he took off the spacesuit.
The inner lock’s guide light turned green, and he opened it and walked into a fairly large locker room. He quickly removed his suit, then opened his small travel bag and donned rubber-soled boots, work pants, and a casual shirt. He checked the small transceiver’s power, then left it in the case along with a change of clothes and his toiletries, then picked up the bag and walked out of the locker room and down a small utilitarian hall to an elevator. He felt a bit light but not uncomfortably so; they were using a gravity field inside the place.
The elevator was of the sealed type, so he had only the indicator lights to show how far he was being taken. Not too far, as it turned out. While there appeared to be at least eight levels to the place, he went down only to the third one before a door rolled back.
Yatek Morah, wearing a shining black outfit complete with a rather effective crimson-lined cape, stood there to greet him.
He had been used to thinking of Morah as a large man, but, he found, they were both about the same size. The eyes hadn’t changed much, though, and were still hard to look at.
He stepped out of the elevator and did not offer his hand. Instead he stood there, looking at Morah. “So.”
“Welcome to Boojum, sir,” Morah responded, sounding fairly friendly. “Odd name, isn’t it? The outer planets and moons were named for some follow-up scout’s favorite fairy stories, I think. Rather obscure.” He paused a moment. “Speaking of obscure—just what do we call you?”
He shrugged. “Call me Mr. Carroll. That’ll do, and it’s certainly appropriate both to history and to our current situation.”
“Good enough,” the Security Chief responded, apparently not aware of the irony in name or tone. “Follow me and I’ll give you the grand tour. It’s not much, I’m afraid—this is a mining colony, after all, not a luxury spa. Oh, you might be relieved to know that that shower bath we gave you has an interesting effect. The Warden organisms, which are thicker than dirt on this rockpile, will totally ignore you. That should relieve your mind.”
He couldn’t help smiling at that. “As easy as that. Well, I’ll be damned.” He followed the man in black down the corridor.
Morah first showed him his room, a small cubicle less than a third the size of his module on the picket ship, but it would do. He thought about retaining his bag, then decided not to and tossed it on the bed. “Better let your people know not to touch that bag without me around,” he warned Morah. “A few things in there can be very unpleasant if you don’t know exactly how to talk to them.”
“Although this is nominally Ypsir’s territory, I am in complete command here,” the security chief assured him. “You are currently under what might best be expressed as diplomatic immunity. None of your things, or your person, will be touched; whoever touches them will answer to me.”
He accepted that, and they proceeded. “The Lords are staying along here, in rooms similar to yours,” Morah told him. “The others are sharing a dorm normally used by mine security personnel. I’m afraid there’s been a lot of grumbling as to the accommodations, but only Ypsir has a livable place here.”
“It’ll do,” he assured the other man. “IVe been in worse.”
A small central area between the single rooms and the dorm had been set up with a large conference table and comfortable chairs. “This is our meeting hall,” Morah told him, “and, I’m afraid, also our dining hall, although the food comes from Ypsir’s personal kitchen and is quite, good.”
The three people assembled in the room when they entered all turned to look at the newcomers. One of them looked so shocked he appeared to be having a heart attack. “You!” he gasped.
He smiled. “Hello, Zhang. I see nobody warned you.” He turned to the other two. “Doctor, I am most happy to see you here, and I’d like to thank you for all your help.” Dumonia bowed and shrugged. The third man he didn’t recognize at all. He was a tall, thin, white-haired man of indeterminate age. About the only thing that could be told about him was that he was certainly a Medusan. “And you are?”
“Haval Kunser, Chief Administrator of Medusa,” the man responded smoothly, putting out his hand.
He took it and shook it warmly, replying, “It’s very good to meet you. I know you only by reputation.”
He turned back to Zhang, who looked only slightly less stricken. “Are you going to drop dead or shoot me or relax and have a drink?” he asked his Cerberan counterpart.
“Well, what do you expect?” Qwin Zhang responded tartly. “I’m still not over the other two yet.”
His eyebrows went up. “They’re here, then?”
“Everyone is here,” Morah told him. “We can proceed after dinner if you like.”
“The Altavar.”
“Two levels down. Not only do they prefer it down there, but I’m afraid they stink like a three-day-old corpse. Our body odor is similarly offensive to them, so you can understand the separation considering the cramped quarters. I’ll certainly take you down and Introduce you if you want to verify that they’re here, but I think otherwise we should let them sit in by remote, for, ah, mutual comfort. Don’t answer until you’ve smelled them.”
He chuckled. “All right, I have no objection to the remote, although I am going to have to verify their physical presence. I’m afraid that some in the Council simply don’t believe in them.”
“Understandable. Through that door there, and we’ll meet the others.” They walked into a large room that looked more like a barracks than anything else, in which several people were sitting and talking or reading or writing. All heads turned as they entered, followed by Zhang and Dumonia, and he saw immediately that Zhang’s reaction was not going to be unique. Tremon, for one, was so startled he stood up and banged his head on an upper bunk.