He apparently picked up on my uncertainty. "Aw, come on, Jordie old buddy," hesaid, sounding hurt. "Don't tell me you don't remember your old drinking pal."
And in that moment, it all came disgustingly back. James Fulbright, small-timegunrunner and smuggler, the only person I'd ever met who was either too stupidor too stubborn for me to break of using the hated nickname Jordie. I'd beentrying to negotiate a deal with his group when Uncle Arthur had fixed me upwith Brother John instead. The drinking bouts that had been a centerpiece ofFulbright's negotiations had been one of the definite low points in my life.
"Hello, James," I sighed. "Small Spiral, isn't it?"
"Small as you'd ever want," he agreed, grinning with a mouthful of uneventeeth.
Rumor had it they'd started out perfectly straight, but that every time onewas knocked out during a brawl he'd had it put back crooked just to make himselflook meaner. "Waiting to make a call, huh?"
"Yes," I said, bowing to the inevitable. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Oh, I think you can do better than one measly drink," he said. "How much cashyou got on you?"
I stared at him, warning bells belatedly going off in the back of my mind.
Fulbright was still smiling, but I could now see the hard edge beneath thegrin.
He was definitely not here just to cadge drinks. "What are you talking about?" demanded quietly.
"I'm talking about a shakedown," he said, lowering his voice to match mine.
"What'd you think? All for your own good, of course. So. You got ten grand onyou? That's what it's gonna take, you know. At least ten grand."
For a good three seconds I just stared at him, wondering what in hell wasgoingon. There he sat, alone, both hands on the table, his right casually holding a folded piece of paper, his left open and empty. His sleeves were too tight tobe concealing a quick-throw gun or knife, and there was no way he could beat meto a standard draw with his jacket zipped and mine half-open. It was possible hehad a backup somewhere in the room already targeting me; but even drawing aweapon in here would be begging for trouble, and starting a firefight would beeven worse. And why pick on me in the first place? "Maybe you don't know I'mnot running independent anymore," I said at last. "I'm connected with a pretty bigorganization. They wouldn't think much of this."
His smile went a bit more brittle. "Yeah, well, whoever they are, I canguarantee they won't lift a finger to help you on this one," he said. "Believeit or not, Jordie, I'm your only friend in this room right now." With a smoothmotion, he flipped open the paper in his hand and swiveled it around to faceme.
I glanced down. And found myself looking at my own Mercantile Authority filephoto.
I looked up at Fulbright, startled. "Go ahead," he said encouragingly. "Readit."
I looked back down at the flyer. It was an urgent request for informationabout the current location of one Jordan McKell, pilot/captain of the Orion-classfreighter Icarus, registry and configuration unknown. It didn't say why McKellwas being sought, but included two contact numbers, a local Dorscind's Worldphone number and a StarrComm vid connect—the latter, like Brother John'snumber, one of the anonymous types that gave no indication of which world it wasconnected to.
It also promised a reward to the one who fingered me. A straight five thousandcommarks.
"I don't know what you've done now, Jordie," Fulbright said softly, "butyou'rein one hell of a lot of trouble. Everyone in this place probably has one ofthese things by now—the guy was passing them out like free fruit sticks. Theonly reason you're still walking around is that that's such a lousy picture."
He grinned. "That, plus no one figured you'd come to a sleazepit like this.
I'd guess that's what's tying up the StarrComm lines—everyone's calling theirbuddies to pass the word."
"Probably," I murmured. But someone thought I might come to a sleazepit likethis; whoever was at the other end of that phone number, at the very least.
Someone was very intent here about covering all the bases, and from allindications he was covering them very well. And unlike the Lumpy Brothers, that same someone knew the name of the ship I was flying. "Tell me, was thiswalkingfruit-stick tray a bipedal alien with long arms and lumpy skin?"
Fulbright's forehead creased slightly. "Naw, he was a human. Short and kind ofwimpish—your basic accountant type."
"Doesn't sound like he really belongs in a place like this," I suggested. "Yousure it's not a scam of some sort?"
"At a hundred commarks a crack?" Fulbright scoffed. "Who cares?"
I frowned. "A hundred? The flyer says five thousand."
"That's the finder's fee," Fulbright said. "The guy's been handing out ahundred with each flyer. Just to make sure it gets read, I guess."
I felt cold all over. Five thousand commarks to find me—that could be anything, from anywhere. But for the hunter to be passing out additional thousands ofcommarks in cash just to generate interest meant something very big indeed wasgoing on.
And the only thing that had saved me so far was that abominably poor photo inmyMercantile file. That, and the fact that the one person here who did recognizeme was angling for a higher bounty. "Okay," I said to Fulbright. "Ten thousandit is. But I don't have it on me. We'll have to go back to the ship."
His eyes narrowed, and in the twitching of his eyebrows and lips I couldpractically read his line of reasoning: that if he was able to get a good lookat the Icarus, he might be able to peddle the description for another fewthousand from the unidentified accountant type. "Okay," he said, unzipping hisjacket and stuffing the flyer into an inside pocket. He stood up, giving me aglimpse of a gray handgun holstered at the left side of his belt, and noddedtoward the door. "Sure. Let's go."
We headed out of the taverno, crossed the lobby, and out the StarrCommbuildingdoor.
Halfway across the lobby he surreptitiously pulled his gun from itsholster and stuffed it and his right hand into his side jacket pocket. Formerdrinking buddies or not, he obviously didn't trust me very far. "Which landingcradle are you in?" he asked as I headed toward the nearest slideway, whichhappened to be headed north.
"You can read the number for yourself when we get there," I grunted, lookingsurreptitiously around for inspiration. This particular slideway didn't seemwell populated, and it didn't take a genius to see why: instead of being takento the main bulk of the docking squares, we were headed toward what appearedto be a maintenance area.
A fact which wasn't lost on Fulbright. "I hope you're not trying to pullsomething on your old pal, Jordie," he warned, stepping up close behind me andpressing the muzzle of his gun into my back. Even through the concealingjacketmaterial I imagined it felt very cold. "Because I wouldn't like that. Iwouldn't like that at all."
"You don't think I'd put a hot ship down in one of the regular cradles, doyou?"
I countered, looking down at my feet. The slideway was mainly solid, but justahead on our right was one of a number of holes where small patches of thematerial had worn off or torn away at the edge of the moving belt. Thisparticular tear was roughly triangular, leaving a gap about ten centimeterslongand five wide through which I could see the grillwork of the underlyingsupportand drive system zipping past. Every half second or so a bright blue lightwinked past, probably a glow that helped mark the edge of the slideway atnight.
"So where is it?" Fulbright demanded.
"Patience, James, patience," I said, gazing down at the triangular tear andthe grillwork underneath and doing a quick mental calculation. It would be tight, not to mention destructive, but it should work.
I half turned my head and gestured toward my jacket. "My phone's vibing," Itold him. "Okay if I answer it?"
Out of the corner of my eye I caught his frown. "Leave it," he ordered.