A yellow-and-green-striped space tug drifted
alongside and flashed its 'Follow Me' signal. Brad
nodded at Zolan who acknowledged the tug's
instruction. Adari trimmed the Raven's controls
and clamped a mag beam on the tug. She and the
tug driver exchanged salutations and prattled
navigational details as the escort moved off with
the Raven following like an elephant leashed to a
flea. Adari logged their destination: Slot 09 along
Coldfield marker 13K.
Their passage was slow. Despite the heavy traffic
of tugs, taxis, and other small craft the lanes
were orderly and the flow steady. Traffic thinned
as the ship drifted across surface-parked lots for
small vessels and disappeared entirely as the Raven
closed on its mooring towers.
The escort rattled off the coordinates and the
Raven fixed her position. Adari released the
mag-beam. The tug slipped around to starboard
and mag-nosed the clumsy vessel into its slot. A
command from the tug and mooring beams glowed
at the fore-and-aft towers to immobilize the Raven.
Adari and the tug driver exchanged rough civilities
and the escort was up and away.
"Lock down, fore and aft," Brad intoned. "Safety
check mooring beams and vital connections. Secure
all internal hatches and passages. Set environment
controls at minimal levels for an indefinite stay.
Report."
He keyed the order into the log, added the time
of entry, and keyed the record closed using his
suspended Space Master's code.
Myra assembled records required by port officials.
Hodak and Adari consulted checklists as they
trooped from one compartment to the next; Hodak
opened and closed switches, turned wheels and
secured and sealed valves as Adari observed and
verified. She surveyed each station, mumbled,
"confirmed," and initialed the appropriate items
on her copy of the checklist.
Zolan closed down the deep space communications
system and inspected their suit's intercoms. Kumiko
drew six handguns from a rack, checked firing
controls and charges, and fitted the weapons to
suits.
Zolan called for a taxi.
##
"Lock-sealing the effective range on personal
weapons is the first order of business for all
newcomers."
The officious clerk in the Port Registration Office
was skinny, short, stooped and sallow; and he
squinted as if he had just emerged from darkness
into glare. The deep wrinkles around his mouth
twitched from cast-iron grin to scowl and back as
he pointed from Brad's holster to the waist-high
counter that separated them.
Brad drew his sidearm, checked the safety and
set it on the counter. His companions followed
suit. The clerk hefted each weapon in turn,
double-checked the safety, and positioned it
under a penetray scanner to check for illegal
modifications and, using a hand-held standard,
reset the range to Coldfield's limits.
"Five meters, max," he said as he worked, "and
minimum-effect level at all times. Set it any way
you want when you leave the dome, but reset it as
soon as you come back in. We do the first one for
the record; after that it's up to you. Penalty for
violation depends on circumstances; minimum is
a couple of sleeps in the brig."
He peered at them across the counter.
"We know who you are and where you came from,"
he said. "Keep out of trouble and you'll get by OK."
As he finished each weapon inspection he returned
it to the countertop, pointing the muzzle into
a shielded enclosure and stepped back behind a
barrier. The owner picked up the sidearm, rechecked
the safety and the setting, and slipped it back into
its sheath.
"Hope you were listening when I said we know
who you are," said the clerk, scowling, looking
from one to the other. "If you didn't hear me
the first time, I'll repeat it: keep out of trouble
and you'll get by OK. Y'hear?"
Brad scowled back, silent. Hodak grinned; Myra and
Kumiko nodded and vigorously pointed at themselves.
"I hate trouble," Myra said with solemn sincerity.
"Me too," Kumiko chimed in. "I hate trouble.
I really do."
Adari laughed, leaned over the counter, and
rumpled the little man's scant hair. He jerked away.
"Wouldn't think of it, Buster," she boomed.
She drew her hand back, looked at the palm,
and rubbed it on her suit as she turned away.
Zolan ignored the scene.
Hodak leaned over the counter and waved the clerk
closer.
"So you know where we're from, do you?" His voice
was a friendly growl and he got a curt nod in reply.
"Then you know we came here for sanctuary,"
Hodak said. "How do we get it?"
"Your entry permit is provisional; permanent party
status depends on how you adjust to our rules."
"This is the only place left to us," Hodak added
a whine to his voice. "We're not about to start
trouble and wear out our welcome." Switching to
a hoarse whisper, he added, "Look, man, we need
a place to put our stuff, and then we want to look
around. Maybe we can find action in our kind of
work that'll build up our credits. We've talked it
over." He thumbed to include his companions.
"We're available, and we can't afford to be choosy.
The Inner Region doesn't mean a thing to us. Know
what I mean?"
"Sure."
The clerk repeated his grin-scowl, snickered, and
slapped Hodak on the shoulder.
"What's the word on living accommodations under
the dome?" Adari cut in.
"Gotta register for permanent quarters, and you'll
need a permit to build a place of your own. They're
almost impossible to get. Try for 'temporary' until
you know your way around. Good place to start is
the Condor over on Con-man Slash."
"How do we get there?" Kumiko asked.
"Taxi to dome air lock 22," he replied. "Inside,
take the second transit strip. The off-ramps are
Smuggler's Alley, Faithhealer's Spread, Plunder
Cove, Bunco Crawl, and then Con-Man Slash.
It's in the center of town; you can't miss it."
He waved them toward the air lock. "On your way,
folks; you're cleared."
He watched them suit up and enter the air lock.
When he heard the whisper of the outer door, he
lifted a comm device, pressed buttons and spoke
hurriedly.