Deeper and deeper. They wanted to know things she couldn't answer—like what her credit balance was and where receipts were that proved she'd been spending cash since she left Ernestine.
They wanted to know stationer references. She gave Nan and Ely.
Desperately she said she'd been living with Nan. Nan might cover for her. It was the only thing she could think of.
God, if they asked her the specific address… Nan lived in Green, she remembered Nan and Ely talking once. She could remember that.
Estimated income this month, they asked. She counted. She wrote, 25 cred.
Counting what she'd gotten off Ritterman, off the dock-worker, off Ely. She was going to lie, but she'd spotted the next question, with a possible out, a possible escape from all the traps.
Other source of support, it asked.
Nan Jodree, she wrote. Room and board, even exchange, for cleaning and errands.
She looked at the time. 1710. She sweated. The last answer put her legal, she knew it had to—if Nan backed her, and she had some belief that Nan would, then they couldn't hold her on the likeliest charge, free-consuming, which was what they'd want to use to keep her here while they checked the other things.
If it was legal on Thule to do private work.
If Nan wouldn't panic and or just answer some trick question and hang her, never knowing.
They took the form, they looked at it, and then they asked her to step into an interview room—"To answer a few questions," they said.
"I answered!"
"Ms. Yeager," the men said, holding the door.
So they had her sit down at a table, they sat on the other side and they asked her questions, like What happened to your face, Ms. Yeager?
Fight with a drunk, she said, the same as she'd told Terry Ritterman.
Where?
Green dock, she said.
When?
She had to be honest about that: the eye made it clear, and it was possible Rico might remember the date she'd shown up. She said, "Last week. I don't know what day."
"Wednesday?"
"I dunno. Could have been.—Look, I got to call my ship. I got a right to call my ship…"
They said, "What's Nan Jodree's address?"
And she said, suddenly thinking like a merchanter, "I got a right to call my captain."
"What's his name?" they asked.
"Wolfe!" she said, the first answer she'd had absolutely no doubt of.
But then they went back to the first questions.
"I don't have to answer you," she said. "I answered you once. Call my captain."
"Do you want to go before the judge?"
Civil law. Alliance law. Stations and civil rights and judges and hospitals where they could get the truth out of you. Where nobody could keep from spilling everything they'd ever done or thought about doing. "I don't have to talk to you without my captain knowing."
"Come on," they said, "you're not crew yet, you aren't logged out of station records."
"I'm Loki crew, I've got a right to notify my captain!"
"No, you don't," they said. "You can call in a lawyer, that's the only thing you're allowed."
"Then I'm calling Loki's legal staff."
That stopped them. They went outside and consulted, maybe what to do next, maybe what their choices were or whether they had to do that: she had no idea.
They kept arguing about something; then three of them walked off and left her there, in that cubbyhole of a room with one large window. One stayed standing by the door.
She didn't know what they were up to now. Maybe checking with Nan.
Maybe finally making that call to Wolfe, who could not be happy about getting a call like that from a-new hire-on.
They had never searched her. That meant, she supposed, she wasn't quite under arrest yet. That meant she still had the little razor. She thought about it while she sat there. She thought that Wolfe was about one jump away from Mallory herself, if Wolfe got onto her case—if they got a court order to question her under trank and found out what she was; but there was no chance of that, no chance unless maybe they rushed an indictment through at the last moment, between the board-call and the undock, when Loki had to be away, on whatever business was so urgent they'd prioritied out an honest freighter and created hardship on stations down the line.
She pould see the outside clock through the window. She saw the time pass 1745, and 1800 and 1830, and she got up finally and tried the door, to talk to the man outside, but it was locked. She bashed its metal face with her fist.
"I got a board-call to answer!" she yelled; then, with no answer at all, not even any interest on the man's part, she walked back to the chair and sat down, raked a hand through her hair, and came the closest yet to complete panic.
She hoped—hoped if nothing else, they'd called Nan, and Nan or Ely had backed her, and Nan or Ely was going to come through that door and take her side, do something clever, get her clear. At least they could call Wolfe for her, if no one else would.
But it wasn't Nan or Ely who stood there when they unlocked the door. It was uniformed Security.
"Bet Yeager," one said, "you're under arrest."
"For what?" she asked, all indignation.
"For the murder of one Eddie Benham, the murder of one Terrence Ritterman…"
"Terry isn't dead!" she yelled back. She'd primed herself for that one while she'd been sitting here. "I picked up my stuff at his place this afternoon! I don't even know any Eddie Benham!"
"You picked up your belongings there. The duffle out front? You said you were staying with a Ms. Jodree."
"I was. I was staying there. I left my stuff with Ritterman, I borrowed a fifty from him, I was trying to pay it back!"
"Mr. Ritterman's dead. You didn't go in the bedroom?"
"No, I didn't go in the bedroom! What call would I have to go in somebody's bedroom?"
"That's one of the questions we want to ask you, Ms. Yeager."
"I want my lawyer!"
"Turn out your pockets on the table, please."
She thought about refusing, she thought about taking out a couple of security men, which came down to the same thing it had on the docks. She emptied her pockets, and it came down to a one cred chit and the razor. She laid them on the table.
They took her down the hall and put her in Detention. She did not argue.
She sat there staring at the door, making up her mind that Nan was going to come after her at any minute, they would surely have talked to Nan by now, and Nan was going to come down here and handle the station legal people the way a stationer knew how to do.
And she'd tell Nan it wasn't the way it looked, she'd tell Nan everything—at least the part about Ritterman and the other man, and Nan would understand that, Nan would back her story about not being a free-consumer—And the Thule stationmaster would give her a personal apology and a thousand cred too, of course he would, that was the way station justice worked, every one in the Fleet knew that, the way they knew there was thanks from stationers for favors done or a memorial to the Fleet's dead or a shred of support from the merchanters who had persistently smuggled war supplies and intelligence either side of the Line, then cried piracy because the Fleet supplied itself the only way it could—with no damn help from the stations, none from the merchanters, none, at the last, from Earth.