Free War World X: Takeover by John F. Carr Page B

eaten a meal there. Then he’d gone out to Kilroy’s place and paid to send a coded message, which received no reply after half a T-day’s waiting. Much annoyed, Sanchez had then strolled about Docktown studying the busy warehouses and shops. He’d struck up conversations with the assorted Fleet personnel in town and hadn’t seemed too impressed with the results. He had not approached any of the Harmonies, let alone gone into the enclave. At length he made his way to Harp’s Sergeant.
    Brodski was ready for him.
    Sanchez took a seat at the quiet end of the bar and waited until Brodski, moving slowly and leaning heavily on his cane, came close enough to talk to. “So you’re the famous Sgt. Brodski,” Sanchez opened.
    “Retired,” Brodski smiled. “And lucked into a fine retirement plan.”
    “Mostly by defeating Jomo’s army, I hear.”
    “Heh-heh. Well, not all by myself, I admit.”
    “With just a ragtag bunch of farmers? I’d say that’s pretty good strat-and-tac.”
    “Don’t sell farmers short. Anybody who survives here by farming is a pretty tough cookie.”
    “So I hear, so I hear.” Sanchez hitched closer. “So, where’s the real excitement in this town?”
    “Depends on what your pleasure is.” Brodski leaned nearer too. “For booze, euph-leaf and not-bad food, don’t move an inch. We also get the occasional music band, but the best place for that is the Dance Palace, up the road and to the left. If it’s female companionship you want, well, any lady wearing a red scarf—like that handsome gal over there by the front table—will be happy to oblige you. For a good game of cards, probably the bar at Starman’s Inn is your best bet. Cards and dice are about all you’ll find here; roulette wheels aren’t exactly worth the cost of importing all the way out to Haven. Cards and dice are portable, but they wear out and can’t be replaced locally. There’s the Sports Palace if you’re into watching big goons wrestle and punch each other around. A lot of the Marines like that. There’s no racetrack yet: not enough spare horses, and nobody’s imported greyhounds. That’s about it.”
    “Hmm. Where do the miners go to blow off steam?”
    “Not here to Castell City. They’re all over Redemption and Last Chance, or down river in Kenny-Camp or Hell’s-A-Comin’.”
    “Hmm.” Sanchez rattled his fingers on his beer-mug. “This is a pretty quiet town for a port. I haven’t even seen any drunks on the streets.”
    “They tend to stay inside, where it’s warm.” Brodski chuckled. “Besides, there isn’t much going on here when the ships aren’t in. This is mostly a farming town, with a little manufacturing thrown in. The mining, and most of the shimmer stone hunting, is down or up river. You can follow the Xanadu down to Kenny-Camp or go south up the Alf toward Redemption and Last Chance.”
    “Hmm. And that ‘euph-leaf’ doesn’t cause any problems?”
    “Nah. People smoke it and just bliss out. It doesn’t exactly encourage belligerence.”
    Sanchez frowned briefly and took a swig of his beer. “No problems with the Holy Joes, then?”
    “Nah.” Brodski loaded his pipe, silently thanking whoever had thought to import kinnikinnick—primitive tobacco—to Haven. “They finally figured out that there was more profit to be made by, ahh, ‘harmonizing’ with the newcomers. It doesn’t hurt that the Church has more off-world money than anybody else—except the mining companies, of course. You need something imported? Talk to Castell. The mining companies aren’t nearly as helpful.”
    “Ah, I take it nobody likes the companies, then.”
    “No way.” Brodski lit his pipe with a little more flourish than necessary. “They’re practicing something close to slavery, you know, with their ’indentures’. And everybody knows about how they broke up the miners’ strike ten years ago. And any miner can tell you not to trade shimmer stones—or anything else—at those