There was a sullen silence. Even in their condition, it had to be clear to the troopers that they had painted themselves into a corner. Rance relaxed slightly. It was not just a question of giving them a way out. Renchett, at least, seemed to sense this.
"So what happens to us if we give up? What punishment do we pull?"
Rance glanced back at the squad leader. "Can I set the punishment on this, or do you want to turn it into a major beef?"
The squad leader wasn't immediately ready to play the game. "They've got explosives, and they messed up two of my women."
"No real harm's been done. You'll take them in and mess them up a bit and then I'll have them back on the ship in a pod. You don't want to lose me a bunch of my best fighters."
The squad leader was wavering. "I don't know. You know how many times I heard that?"
Rance sighed. "If it goes to superiors, nobody looks good."
"Listen, just get them out of here. We'll pick up the women who sold them the explosives." "You know who they are?"
"We've got an idea. A cross figure on the thumbprints will confirm it."
The idea that women subversives were manufacturing crude bombs on a recstar was a shock. Even that they were able to manufacture bombs at all. It was also a bad sign. Things had to be deteriorating.
"What will happen to them?" Rance asked.
"They'll be termed."
"It's a mess."
Rance turned back to the troopers. "Okay, here's the deal. Five standards in a pod, even if we jump."
Anyone in a punishment pod during a jump didn't live through it. Renchett was outraged.
"Five standards for getting drunk?"
"Five standards for being an asshole. You can proba- bly assume that the shore patrol will bust you up into the bargain before you get off this rock."
The squad leader allowed herself a grim smile. "You can count on that, too."
Renchett scowled. "I've been in recstar brigs."
"It's better than being greased, isn't it?"
Renchett turned to his companions. There was a muttered discussion.
"So what's it to be?" Rance asked briskly.
"We ain't sure. How do we know you're on the level?"
"Damn it. Renchett, you've had all the chances you're getting. You've got ten seconds to ground those charges and your weapons or I'll let the shore patrol open fire."
He turned on his heel and strolled slowly back to where the squad leader was waiting in her servo suit. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he appeared to have given up on the whole business.
"Fire on a ten count. I can't do anything with these morons."
Renchett quickly called after him. "Hold it, Rance. We'll take the five standards."
Rance looked up at the squad leader and jerked his thumb in the direction of the troopers. "You can take them down."
The men were quickly manacled and led off to the mobile cages. Rance gestured to the shore who had custody of Renchett.
"I want to speak to that one."
Up close, Renchett looked bleary-eyed and confused. Rance shook his head.
"Why do you have to always pull this shit?"
Renchett raised his chained hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know. I just get drunk."
Rance leaned close so the shore patrol couldn't hear.
"Tell me something. How did you manage to knock over the two servos?"
Renchett winked. "It's easy if there's enough of you."
The cages slammed, and the shore patrol moved out with its prisoners. Rance remembered the one time, as a raw and very drunk recruit, that he'd been in a recstar brig. Those women could be vicious. He'd only been punched around a bit and then left to sleep it off on the hard floor, but one particular troublemaker had been strung up by his wrists in front of the other prisoners and beaten semiconscious with a fiber knout. Rance walked over to the air lock. A shore was collecting the bombs and weapons. She was bending down, reaching for Renchett's knife.
"Mind if I have that?" Rance asked.
The woman straightened up with the knife in her hand. She looked at it.
"I don't know. I don't see why not."
She handed him the knife, hilt first. Rance took it and slid it into his belt. Renchett would be impossible if he lost that knife.
Back at the topmen's lounge, Rance found that Amansa was no longer there. There was, however, a woman sitting on her own at a table. Nobody else seemed to be laying a claim to her, so he approached her.
"Do you know a woman named Amansa?"
The woman, who had very black hair and large, slightly moist eyes, nodded.
"Yes, I know her. She left a while ago with one of you topmen."
"Mind if I sit down?"
"Go right ahead."
Before he sat, Rance pulled the knife from his belt and tossed it onto the table. The woman raised an eyebrow.
"And what's that for?"
Rance realized what the gesture must have looked like, and he smiled a little awkwardly.
"It's nothing. It belongs to one of my men. He was just taken off to the brig, and he'd be lost without it."
"Were yours the bunch that tried to break in on the worms?"
"You heard about that?"
"We've got the best grapevine in the galaxy. Did they really want to see how the dauquoi do it?"
"They were skunk drunk. I doubt they really knew what they wanted. You want a drink?"
"Sure."
Rance took a longer look at the woman. She was no great beauty, but she wasn't as teasingly undressed or as gaudily painted as the regular corridor whores. There was a certain aura of class about her. That pleased him, although he was aware that class was something regularly cultivated by the women who worked the places where the overmen and topmen hung out. It wasn't only a matter of status. There was also an unfortunate reality that an air of distance, mystery, or dark experience could be worn like a perfume to disguise the fact that they were at the wrong end of their youth. Rance considered it only right that this kind were the topmen's women. You didn't make topman in the first year out, either. Of course, there were topmen, and others besides, who compulsively chased the very young, or the illusion of very young. Fortunately, that was confined to another section of the rock.
"What's your name?" he asked her.
"Herma."
Herma drank small, fast shots of clear frozen spirit. She seemed to feel no need to instigate conversation. They sat for a long time just drinking and half smiling at each other.
"You're a very relaxed man, or maybe just detached."
"Either's good when you never know what's going to happen next."
"We always know what's going to happen next."
"Intuition?"
"Inevitability."
Rance laughed. "You've got to keep a loose mind."
Herma peered at him soulfully from under very long eyelashes. "I keep a very loose mind, believe me."
Rance decided that he liked her. "I rented a cubicle. Maybe we should take the conversation over there."
"That sounds like a delightful idea."
There were only two more interruptions by the shore patrol before the recall sounded the end of liberty. Both were minor skirmishes. It was always easier after the major troublemakers were out of the way. Without them, the others, who didn't have the same flair for destruction, were only able to keep up a dull roar. When Rance ran out of time with Herma, who fell victim to the built-in boredom factor, he moved on to Syua. He was just taking his leave of a woman called Mariette and going off in search of a drink when the alarms started howling. Rance was surprised. He had expected the liberty to last at least another standard. The men were surprised, too. There was an angry roar that almost drowned the recall sirens. In that first instant, it seemed that the men would kill before they'd go back to the ships. And then, almost unbelievably, the anger seemed to run out of energy. The roar died away, and a crushing despondency filled the environment like a physical force. The action folded in on itself, and the fun froze and withered in the cold moan of the sirens. It was over. The women were like puppets with their strings cut. The men were zombies, mesmerized by the sirens; they picked themselves up and shambled out into the corridors. Their shoulders were bp wed, and they seemed completely defeated. The women sim- ply stood back and let them go. No words or gestures were exchanged.