I mulled at it for a moment, but I couldn't come up with any good reason tohave a group of latch grooves here. Still, considering how unorthodox the rest ofthe Icarus's design was, I wasn't inclined to waste too much brainpower on thequestion right now. The ship's specs should be in the computer; once we wereoff the ground, I could look them up and see what they were for.
On impulse, I pulled out the now useless guidance tag and tore it in half.
Loosely wadding up the pieces, I carefully stuck one into each of the lowertwo latch grooves, making sure they were out of view. The thin plastic wouldn'tblock or impede any connector that might be put into the slot, but the act ofinsertion would squash the plastic down to the bottom of the groove, leavingproof that something had been there.
I finished the rest of my inspection tour without finding anything else ofparticular interest. The wraparound tunnel/airlock we'd seen on the port sidehad no match on the starboard, as I'd thought it might, and there were noother entrances into the ship that I could see. By the time I returned to thestairway, there were four others and their luggage waiting with Jones: twomen, a Craean male, and—surprisingly enough, at least to me—a young woman.
"Ah—there you are," Jones called as I came around the curve of the smallersphere to join them. "Gentlefolk, this is our pilot and navigator, CaptainJordan McKell."
"Pleased to meet you," I said, giving them a quick once-over as I joined thegroup. "I sure hope one of you knows what's going on here."
"What do you mean, what's going on?" one of the newcomers demanded in ascratchyvoice. He was in his early twenties, thin to the point of being scrawny, withpale blond hair and an air of nervousness that hung off his shoulders like arain cloak. "You're the pilot, aren't you? I thought you pilots always kneweverything."
"Ah—you've been reading our propaganda sheets," I said approvingly. "Verygood."
He frowned. "Propaganda sheets?"
"A joke," I said, sorry I'd even tried it. Apparently, humor wasn't his strongpoint. "I was hired off the street, just like all the rest of you were."
I sent a casual glance around the group as I spoke, watching for a reaction.
But if any of them had had a different sort of invitation to this party, he waskeeping it to himself. "I'm sure we'll all have our questions answered as soonas our employer arrives," I added.
"If he shows up," the other man murmured. He was tall, probably around thirtyyears old, with prematurely gray hair and quietly probing eyes. Hismusculature was somewhat leaner than Jones's, but just as impressive in its own way.
"He'll be here," I said, trying to put more confidence into my tone than Ifelt.
Having a murder charge hanging over Cameron's head was going to severely cramphis mobility. "While we're waiting, how about you starting off theintroductions?"
"Sure," the gray-haired man said. "I'm Almont Nicabar—call me Revs. Engine certification, though I'm cleared to handle mechanics, too."
"Really," Jones said, sounding interested. "Where'd you journeyman on yourmechanics training?"
"I didn't go through an actual program," Nicabar said. "Mostly I just pickedit up while I was in the service."
"No kidding," Jones said. Apparently our mechanic was the terminally sociabletype. "Which branch?"
"Look, can't we save the social-club chat till later?" the nervous kidgrowled, his head bobbing restlessly as he checked out every spacer that came intosightalong the walkways.
"I'm open to other suggestions," I said mildly. "Unfortunately, as long as theentryway's locked—"
"So why don't we open it?" he cut me off impatiently, peering up at thewraparound. "A cheeseball hatch like that—I could pop it in half a minute."
"Not a good idea," Jones warned. "You can break the airlock seal that way."
"And that would leave our hull/EVA specialist with nothing to do," I said, turning to the Craea. "And you are, sir?"
"I am Chort," the alien said, his voice carrying the typical whistly overtonesof his species, a vaguely ethereal sound most other beings either foundfascinating or else drove them completely up a wall. "How did you know I wasthe spacewalker?"
"You're far too modest," I told him, bowing respectfully. "The reputation ofthe Crooea among spacewalkers far precedes you. We are honored to have you withus."
Chort returned the bow, his feathery blue-green scales shimmering where theycaught the sunlight. Like most of his species, he was short and slender, withpure white eyes, a short Mohawk-style feathery crest topping his head, and atoothed bird's bill for a mouth. His age was impossible to read, but Itentatively put it somewhere between fifteen and eighty. "You're far toogenerous," he replied.
"Not at all," I assured him, putting all the sincere flattery into my voicethat I figured I could get away with. The entire Craean species loved zero gee, whether working in it or playing in it, with the lithe bodies and compactmusculature that were perfect for climbing around outside ships. On top ofthat, they seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to the depressingly regularhull problems created by hyperspace pressure, plus the ability to evaluate thecondition of a plate through touch alone.
All of which meant they were highly in demand for hull/EVA positions aboardstarships, to the point where ship owners frequently tried to cajole, bribe, or otherwise steal them away from rivals in port. I wasn't sure how Cameron hadmanaged to get him to sign on with us, but a little ego-massage here and therewouldn't hurt our chances of keeping him here.
Unfortunately, our nervous type either didn't understand such subtleties orjustdidn't care. "Oh, give it a rest," he growled. "He saw your luggage, Chort—youcan tell there's a vac suit in there."
The blue-green scales edged with the pale red of surprise. "Oh," Chort said.
"Of course. There's certainly that, too."
"Don't mind him," I told the Craea, controlling my annoyance with a supremeeffort. "He's our certified diplomacy expert."
Jones chuckled, and the kid scowled. "I am not," he insisted. "I'melectronics."
"Do you have a name?" Nicabar asked. "Or are we going to have to call youTwitchy for the rest of the trip?"
"Har, har," he said, glowering at Nicabar. "I'm Shawn. Geoff Shawn."
"Which just leaves you," I said, turning to the woman. She was slim, withblack hair and hazel eyes, probably no older than her mid-twenties, with the sort oflightly tanned skin of someone who played a lot outdoors. Like Shawn, sheseemed more interested in the passing pedestrian traffic than she was in our littleget-acquainted session. "Do you cover both the computer and medicalspecialties?"
"Just computers," she said briefly, her eyes flicking to me once in quickevaluation, then turning away again. "My name's Tera."
"Tera what?" Jones asked.
"Just Tera," she repeated, giving him a coolly evaluating look.
"Yes, but—"
"Just Tera," I cut Jones off, warning him with my eyes to drop it. She mightjust be the shy type; but there were also several religious sects I knew ofwho made it a policy to never give their full names to outsiders. Either way, pressing her about it would be pointless and only add more friction to a crewthat, by the looks of things, was already rapidly reaching its quota.
"Means we're missing our medic," Nicabar put in, smoothly stepping in andfilling the conversational awkwardness. "I wonder where he is."