Sten had proof—enough for him—that there had been a final meeting before Chapelle was put into play. How could he get backup, enough to take to the Tribunal? Mucketies needed servants when they played. Were there bartenders who had been around that night? Joygirls? Boys? Maybe barkeeps. But not sex toys—not even the Kraas would be that careless.
What else? He punched out of sports, and took a chance on who's who. He entered lovett.
His attention was fixed on the screen. Usual plaudits. Educational bg... interests... entered family banking empire on death of mother... Hmm. No entry... even in this jerk-off log of him being a sports loon.
Sten's concentration was broken as the library's door banged closed. Damn!
Three uniformed cops entered.
Sten crouched away from the terminal and down an aisle with stacked fiche on either side to a door.
It was locked. His fingers went into a fob pocket and came out with a small tool. Seconds later, the door was unlocked.
He went through the door and relocked it behind him. He heard a shout from the reading room.
Sten, even as he looked for an exit, blinked. This was one hell of a library. Huge vaulted ceiling. Row after row after row of stored fiche, vids, and even books.
He heard fumbling at the door and shouts to get the key. A body thudded against the door.
Sten's fingers curled, and his knife dropped from its sheath inside his forearm into his hand. He ran down into the stacks, loping easily like a tiger looking for an ambush site.
The cops, the security tech in front, got the door open and came into the chamber.
They saw nothing except a couple of robots filing material. They heard nothing. The security man whispered orders: Spread out. Search the whole room.
The cops started to obey perfunctorily. Clot, there they were, wasting time because some clottin' piece of drakh counterspook sees shadows on the wall and wanted them to bust the cops of some private puke. Then the reaction hit them. Maybe private puke—but one who could somehow go through a locked door.
"We'll stay together."
Two of them took out their guns. The third had a truncheon ready. '
"You first, hero."
A tiny, lethal-looking projectile gun appeared in the secret policeman's hand.
They went into the tiger's jungle.
Suddenly a tall case teetered and crashed sideways. The teeter gave one cop and the security thug time to flat-dive out of the way. The other two were caught by the heavy case and its cascading contents. The first case brought a second one across from it slamming down. They floundered and shouted. Somebody fired a round that whined up into the library's ceiling and ricocheted wildly.
There was a scuffle as the "tiger's" pads moved him away, deeper into the stacks.
The two went on, leaving their trapped partners to work their own way free.
One of the trapped cops was wedging his way through a snowstorm of papers, his leg still caught under the case, when he heard a quiet thunk... and the whiny scratch of somebody trying to take his last breath through a crushed windpipe.
Then there was a sliver of death at his throat. "Scream," Sten ordered. "Real loud."
The cop followed orders.
The scream was still echoing as Sten slit the man's throat, came up, and darted into another row.
The security goon and the surviving policeman ran up. They had a second for a shocked gape at the two corpses and the gouts of blood before shock turned into horror and a metal-bound folio discused in from nowhere, smashing into the cop's forehead. He collapsed bonelessly.
The security man went for the door, backing... whirling... trying to keep from screeching in horror and running into what he knew would be the tiger's final trap.
A fiche clattered on the floor. He spun—nothing. Then he whirled back, gun hand out. Sten stepped in behind him. The goon went limp as Sten severed his spinal cord. He let the body fall. Two flops and it was a corpse.
Now Sten had all the time in the world.
He found an exit and, nearby, an employee's washroom. He swabbed solvent, and the mustache came off into the disposal; and the makeup was scrubbed clean.
Then he went out the door.
Police gravsleds were howling toward the library. Sten trotted down an alley, then slowed. He strolled onward, glancing curiously as the official units whined past.
Just another citizen of Prime.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"John Stuart Mill, this is New River Central Control. We have you on-screen. Do you wish landing instructions?"
Mahoney's pilot keyed a mike. "New River Control, this is the Mill. Negative on that. Landing permission established at Private Port November Alpha Uniform. Will switch frequencies. Over."
"This is New River. I have your fiche on-screen. Switch to UHF 223.7 for contact with November Alpha Uniform. November Alpha will provide locator only, no control personnel at port. New River Control, clear."
The pilot swiveled his chair. "Five minutes, sir."
Mahoney nodded and keyed the intercom mike to the crew compartment. His ship was a barely camouflaged covert insert craft, renamed for the moment after an old Earth economist. Mahoney thought it a nice addition to the cover he was using.
The screen lit and showed ten beings, armed and wearing Mantis Team tropo-camouflage uniforms. All of them were not only ex-Mantis but soldiers Mahoney had used for missions back when he commanded Mercury Corps.
"We'll be down in about five, Ellen," he told the burly ex-noncom in the compartment.
"We heard, boss. Sure you want us to just stand by? We could have him out by his boot heels in a couple minutes."
"Just stay in a holding pattern. Either he's who I want, in which case he might have more firepower'n we do, or he's not. Do me a favor? You hear shootin', scamper right on in. I'm getting too old for another body reconstruct."
"Yessir. We're ready."
Mahoney reached over the pilot's shoulder and picked up the com mike. "November Alpha Uniform, November Alpha Uniform. This is the John Stuart Mill, inbound for landing."
A voice answered. "Mill, this is November Alpha. Landing beacon triple-cast, apex two kilometers over field. No winds on field. Land as arranged. Potential client plus two others only. Any other crew remain in ship. Please observe these minimum safety precautions. I will meet you at the main house. Out."
Mahoney clicked the mike twice to indicate that he understood. He grinned at the pilot. "Please, eh? Perhaps he is my boy."
The ship set down in the center of the small, paved field. The port opened, and Mahoney climbed out.
It was hot, dry, and dusty. To one side of the field stretched scrub desert and then low mountains. On the other were vast stretches of white-fenced, very green pastures. The air was very still. Mahoney heard a bird-chirp from a nearby orchard, and, from the pastures, the hiss of irrigation equipment.
He walked up the winding road toward the scatter of buildings. Pasture... white fences... barns there. Chutes. A breeding establishment? He saw a very old quadruped—an Earth horse, he identified—grazing in a field. No other animals.
He walked past metal-sided sheds, their doors closed and bolted. Stables. Empty. There was a low wall, and a gate standing open.
He entered and walked through an elaborate garden that looked as if it had gone too long without enough maintenance. There were three robot gardeners at work, and a human near them. The man paid him no attention.
Hard times, Mahoney mused. It takes credit to keep a horse ranch going.