Jirik felt somewhat harassed himself, as a small tug shoved the Lass from the docking berth. He hurriedly plotted the orbital data, barely finishing as the tug disengaged. If he'd been any slower, he thought, the Lass would be drifting away from the station out of control. He decided that efficiency had its limits!
He nudged the Lass into her assigned orbit, and then called a final crew meeting before setting off for the planet.
"I'm afraid that I wasn't expecting this!" he admitted ruefully. "I guess that I had assumed that Wayoff would just be another rim world, like the others."
The others nodded agreement. "This thing about putting us into orbit," Valt asked, "Does it make things better or worse?"
"I'm not sure," Jirik replied honestly. "On the whole, probably better. At least we aren't grounded, where someone on foot could get to us undetected. Here, as long as we keep our sensors active, no one can sneak up on us!"
"True," Bran put in, "But we're a lot farther from help, too! If I were Cony, and I wanted to seize the Lass, I'd get her orbital data from Traffic Control, then arrange an attack when we were on the other side of the planet from the station. If it were done well, they could be maneuvering for jump before any help could arrive!"
Jirik nodded. "That was what I was worried about, too. That why I called this meeting. We need some contingency planning. The plans we had were based upon us being grounded planetside. Bran, what else would you do if you were Cony?"
Bran looked thoughtful. "Well, I haven't had a lot of time to think about it, but I suspect that I'd get a boat like ours, fill it with thugs, and pretend to be you coming back from the planet. They could mount a pretty good attack on the bridge from the lifeboat bay, especially since the bay and the bridge are so close together. We'd barely have time to get a distress call out, at all. They could even waylay you on the planet, and use our own boat; or kidnap you and make you bring them aboard."
Jirik shrugged. "That's easy enough. We'll just keep the lifeboat bay closed. If any boat approaches, ours or not, you don't open it unless you receive a code word that lets you know it's me, and that everything's all right."
Bran nodded. "That could work. Just don't forget the code! I know that I wouldn't open up just because I recognized your voice; they could have a good mimic!"
"Right," Jirik replied. "How about 'slingshot'? It's a kind of ancient weapon. The weapon hasn't been used for thousands of years, and no one but a weapons expert is likely to even know it. Anyway, It'll make a good code word."
"Now," he continued, "If any boat, including ours, starts toward the Lass, you hail them. If I'm not the one that replies, or if I don't use the word 'slingshot', you keep the old bitch buttoned up, and start yelling for help on all frequencies!"
The others nodded. "You can't go planetside alone, Captain," Valt said, "Who're you going to take with you?" There was an anticipatory gleam in his eyes, and his expression was hard.
"Sorry, Valt," Jirik replied, "But it'll have to be Bran. That damned Cony's not going to talk in front of witnesses, and that means that we may be split up. Bran's the only one of us that I'd trust to be able to handle any assassin single-handed.
Valt was obviously disappointed, but he grudgingly admitted that Jirik was right in his assessment of the crewmen. Tor looked crushed. He had obviously been hoping to be selected to accompany his captain.
Since the two left aboard had no need for subtlety, Jirik unlocked the weapons locker, and armed both Valt and Tor with Flechetters. The huge 5 centimeter bores of the weapons formed the launcher for nearly fifty miniature rockets, complete with stabilizing fins, which were slightly canted to induce a spinning motion to the small projectiles. One blast would clear the entire passageway, but the tiny rockets did not attain sufficient velocity to penetrate bulkheads or the hull. Valt, with his new appreciation of weapons, commented admiringly that with these they could defend the bridge against a small army.
The crew split up, Jirik and Bran to the lifeboat bay, and Valt and Tor to the bridge. "Now, remember," Jirik called to the others' retreating backs, "The word is 'slingshot'. And, Tor, Valt is in charge!"
The trip to the station, and the shuttle ride to the planet, were routine, if somewhat uncomfortable. As the passengers disembarked from the shuttle, Jirik and Bran stood and stretched, but hung back, and went out cautiously last, side by side. Neither of them particularly expected trouble at this early point, but both felt that their caution was justified.
They were unmolested as they made their way to the Ministry of Trade to arrange final delivery of their cargo and payment. They spent several hours with the ministry representative, as every bookchip and every expense was scrutinized and haggled over. Finally, the ministry representative pronounced, himself satisfied, and reluctantly handed over a letter of credit on the Bank of Wayoff for 1,250,000 credits. The man looked slightly disconcerted when Jirik merely glanced at it, folded it, and stuffed it into his tunic pocket. He offered to provide the spacers with a pair of bodyguards to accompany them to the bank, but Jirik politely declined, and he and Bran were ushered out.
Once on the street, Jirik's casualness vanished. The two hurried down the street to the Spacers Guild office, where they arranged to have the letter of credit changed into Alliance ten-thousand-credit notes, and stored in the Guild vaults until Jirik called for it. They knew that they were heading for a meeting with at least one, and probably more, terrorists, and wanted to take no chances. They had taken the precaution of bringing the entire crew's retinal prints, so that even if only one of them survived, that one would be able to withdraw their capital.
Jirik sighed with relief as they left the Guild office, but he knew that they still had at least one, and possibly several hurdles in their path. As they exited the building, a man who had been lounging against a ground car approached them as if on cue, asking if they had the time. As Bran explained that their ring watches hadn't been adjusted to local time yet, the man brushed Jirik, pressing a note into his hand, then nodded and walked off. Jirik and Bran walked casually to the wall of the building, where Bran shielded Jirik as he read the note that he had received.
If it were the terrorists, Jirik thought, then they were getting better. The note contained only the name of what Jirik assumed was a local club or restaurant, and the word "NOW!" in sprawling capital letters. They strolled unconcernedly down the street for two blocks, then hailed a groundcab that was just discharging a passenger, and gave the driver the name of the club, or restaurant, or whatever the hell it was. Jirik was edgy and irritable.
It turned out to be a restaurant, and a fairly high-class one, at that. Jirik's estimate of the quality of the terrorists went up another notch.
The actual contact and delivery were anticlimactic. Jirik and Bran went in the restaurant, selecting a table against the wall, facing the door. A few minutes after their meal was served, a stranger walked boldly up to their table, greeting them heartily by name, as though they were old friends. The man was nondescript, wearing a conservative business tunic, and carrying a notecase. After glancing around, the man sat down, and said, "I think that you have something for me; and I have the rest of your payment."
Jirik shrugged. "I have something for someone, but how do I know that it's you?"
The man looked irritated and sighed. "Let's not get into a trivid-spy act. Just give me the damned software and specs, I'll give you the case, and we'll be on our ways. All right?"