Free The Blackcollar by Timothy Zahn

closed it behind him. "I rather expected you to show up," Dodds said, without turning.
    "I'm not surprised. You probably also know what I'm about to ask you to do."
    Dodds glanced once at the humming bug stomper and then turned to face Lathe. "You can explain it anyway, if you'd like."
    Lathe did so. "Well?"
    Dodds smiled crookedly. "If I refuse, who else would you get? Of course I'll go."
    "Good. Be sure to hang back until all the shooting's stopped. I'll set you up in a non-combat position with Haven—spotter or something. Can you fly a Corsair?"
    "Yes. But I'll need to know the system before I lift."
    "Don't worry about it," Lathe assured him, stroking his dragonhead ring gently. "You'll have it."

CHAPTER 6
    Closing the hotel door behind him, Caine tossed his bag the length of the room to land on the bed. All the anger, frustration, and— yes, admit it —the contempt had drained out of him on the ride back to Capstone. Mordecai had been no more talkative than he had been earlier in the day, and if he was friendlier it would have taken a micrometer to measure it. Maybe that had been for the benefit of hidden microphones, but Caine doubted it. The smaller man just didn't like him. In all fairness, Caine couldn't blame him. Dhonau's rash pledge of cooperation, inefficacious though it was, would still get the blackcollars in trouble if Galway found out about it. If, hell— when.
    Sighing, Caine went to the bed and began to unpack his bag. Dusk was falling outside; there wasn't much else he could do today except try to think up a new approach. Probably a waste of—
    The thought coasted to a halt, and he stared down at the clothes he had dumped onto the bed.
    His pills were missing.
    "Damn," he muttered, searching in vain through folds and sleeves. How had he forgotten—? Then he remembered: the blackcollars had packed for him. Swallowing another curse, he went over to the phone and dialed for the directory.
    Mordecai, it turned out, was one of the thirty percent of nongovernment Capstonians who had private phones. The blackcollar answered on the sixth ring. "Yes?" he said, and his face immediately went neutral. "Oh. What is it, Rienzi?"
    Caine explained the problem, feeling obscurely gallant for not mentioning whose fault it was. "I can't find any phone listed for the lodge. Do you know any way to get in touch with them?"
    "Yeah—by car or by foot." Mordecai exhaled noisily.
    "Meet me at the east gate in thirty minutes; I'll drive you back up there."
    "No, that's all right," Caine said hastily. "Look, I can probably get a refill in town somewhere—"
    "It's no trouble. Wouldn't want you put out on our account. East gate, thirty minutes." The screen blanked.
    Scowling, Caine scooped up his coat and left.
     
    The drive into the mountains was quiet agony. Mordecai never actually used the word "stupid," but Caine knew he was thinking it. It was a relief when they finally pulled up at the lodge.
    Lights were blazing through the curtains from the main hall, and as they walked to the door Caine could hear loud, slightly raucous voices. The homemade liquor was flowing freely tonight.
    Reaching for the door handle, Mordecai turned to Caine and put a forefinger to his lips. Frowning, Caine nodded. Mordecai pushed open the door and they stepped into the babble of voices.
    The room was deserted.
    Caine looked at Mordecai, swallowing his questions, to find the blackcollar studying his face. Whatever he saw seemed satisfactory, and he nodded to the long table they'd eaten dinner at. Moving silently to its edge, Caine glanced over its top and then squatted and peered at its underside. Five cassette players were fastened there, playing their hearts out.
    He stood up. From a door across the room Mordecai beckoned. Caine joined him, and the voices faded away as the blackcollar led them through a maze of darkened halls and down long stairways. They were, Caine judged, a good fifty meters underground when they reached a dim passage. At the