Jeremy laughed suddenly. He wiped his sweaty palm on a handkerchief he snaked from the opening in his jacket that held his left forearm, withered by a Federation bullet in the shoulder joint. "Women are," he said in a light tone, "one of my areas of expertise."
Stephen sighed. "Oh, I'll be all right, Jeremy," he said. "Seeing an old friend. ."
He paused. "You give me hope, Jeremy. Maybe that's what I'm really afraid of. Hope."
"We'd best get back upstairs," Jeremy said. "Making our principals look important is part of the job too, after all."
He swallowed, touched his tongue to his lips, and said, "Stephen? Do you think Piet really will need boarding crews when the Feds come this time?"
Stephen shrugged. Jeremy gripped the bigger man's arm and turned him so that they were face to face. "Tell me. Stephen," he said.
"Not as much as Venus needs heroes on the ground here, Jeremy," Stephen said. "War's easy. You know that. Making life worth something-that's a lot harder."
Factor Moore of Rhadicund nodded and opened the door to the excited bustle of the Blue Rose Tavern.
BETAPORT, VENUS
July 19, Year 27
1351 hours, Venus time
Hergesheimer Dock was one of Betaport's oldest storage docks. The vessel nearest the entrance was dollied up for movement but the tractor operator, the ship's officers, and an official or two representing the dock were arguing beside the tractor. Everyone involved shouted at the top of his voice, but the volume drank all but a susurrus of echoes.
"There we go," Sal said. "Cradle Eight, not Cradle Three. I got out in the transfer dock when we brought her from Ishtar City, and handwriting isn't Harrigan's strong suit. The Clarence, formerly the Maid of Bellemont, formerly the Grace. Not a new ship, but I've gone up and down in her and she's well-found at the core."
Stephen crossed his hands behind the small of his back and wondered what it was he was supposed to be seeing in the utterly nondescript vessel before them. From any distance the Clarence could have passed as a twin to the Gallant Sallie.
Sal had asked Stephen to come here with her. He'd been planning to see her ever since he talked to Jeremy Moore, but he hadn't been sure how he was going to make the contact.
He didn't have a clue as to why Sal had brought him here, though.
"The main thing was that she could be had for a song," Sal continued. "The widow wasn't interested in keeping anything that reminded her of her husband-he died in a brothel, not a shipping accident-and the electronics were going to have to be replaced. That doesn't matter for our purposes, of course."
"You bought her?" Stephen said, a light dawning. Sal needed a loan to-
"You bought her," Sal said crisply. "To be precise, I bought her on your behalf, using the commercial letter of credit with which you'd provided me."
Stephen grew very still. "The letter of credit was to cover trading opportunities for the Gallant Sallie at times when I was unavailable," he said without affect.
"Was it?" Sal said, her chin sticking out in determination. "That's not what the document says. You can rescind it, but the purchase transaction is valid."
"I accept that," said Stephen. He hadn't seen Sarah Blythe in person since the squadron lifted from Winnipeg. . "Go on."
"I have a list of captains who I think will work the Clarence for quarter shares," Sal said. "That's after you upgrade the electronics to Gallant Sallie standards, of course. They're all solid men, but I haven't discussed the matter in case you might have a personal problem with one of them."
She handed Stephen a list printed on flimsy paper. He crumpled it into his palm. "I don't have personal problems with people," he said. He smiled like black ice over lava. "Not long term."
Sal nodded, her face tightly emotionless. "Actually, I think you'll be able to hire-take as partners-all six of them before too long. There are a lot of ships like the Clarence, like the Gallant Sallie was. They need upgrades. Most people haven't appreciated that the expansion of trade going on right now makes it cost-effective to upgrade even hulls as old as these."
"Sal," Stephen said, "if I wanted to be in the shipping business, I'd be managing Weyston Trading for my uncle right now. I-"
"No!" Sal said. She turned abruptly away and wiped her eyes. "No, Stephen," she said. "Weyston Trading's an established intrasystem operation. I could run it, Tom Harrigan could run it. What Venus needs-"
She looked at Stephen fiercely again, pretending to ignore the tears on her cheeks. "What Venus needs is trade, real trade, to Near Space and the Reaches. That's going to take somebody with imagination to lead the way, to show other people how much profit there is to be made there. Everybody will gain."
"I'm not-" Stephen said.
"You are!" Sal said. "You owe it to Venus and you owe it to yourself!"
Stephen looked at her for some moments without speaking. At last he said, "A strictly business operation, I take it?"
She blinked. "Of course."
He nodded. "All right," he said. "We'll incorporate as Blythe Spirits. You'll be managing director with a fifty percent share of the profits. Oh, and put yourself down for a five percent finder's fee on ships bought for the corporation."
"I-" Sal said. "That isn't. ."
Stephen smoothed the piece of flimsy so that he could read the names. He squinted. The illumination of Hergesheimer Dock had been marginal even when twice as many of the overhead lights worked. "Tell me about Captain Lou Montrose," he said.
"Stephen, I'm not a manager," Sal whispered.
"We're all learning new things, aren't we?" Stephen Gregg replied with a crooked smile. "We owe it to Venus or some such thing, I'm told."
Looking toward the flimsy, he went on, "What are you doing for dinner tonight?"
The tractor operator finally put his vehicle into gear. The joints of the dolly clanged, echoing through the dock like the bells of a great temple.
BETAPORT, VENUS
September 24, Year 27
2122 hours, Venus time
Sal heard the commotion outside the Blue Rose, but because she wasn't a Betaport native she couldn't judge how unusual it was. Nobody else in the tavern seemed to care.
Stephen threw his last dart into the rim. The ships' officers crowding the taproom groaned or hooted, depending on how their side bets lay.
Sal put her hand on Stephen's shoulder and said, "Some marksman you are!"
"Find me a board that throws back and see how I do," Stephen called, loud enough to be heard generally.
Guillermo stepped from Piet's office behind the taproom. At the same instant the door to Dock Street flew open and a sailor shouted, "Sir! Captain Ricimer! The Oriflamme's in from Asuncion and the Feds are coming out!"
Sal felt her rib muscles tighten. Her mind wasn't ready to consider what the news meant, but her body was already reacting.
All the light went out of Stephen Gregg's expression. He folded his retrieved darts into a strip of soft leather with the economical motions of a man whose fingers had reloaded any number of weapons, and who would shortly be reloading more.