Free Trader's World by Charles Sheffield Page B

they could fabricate the bearings unless they do it in orbit."
    "You're apparently not the only people who think so." Mike moved his head to indicate a tight knot of four Chipponese guests, all talking excitedly. A few paces behind them, watching the group with equal attentiveness, stood Jake Kallario. When he saw Mike and Cesar looking at him he turned and sidled away into the crowd of visitors and Darklanders.
    By seven o'clock it was totally dark. The Trade Fair was closing. People began to move to the open square in front of the building. At eight o'clock the outdoor events would begin, a feast cooked on open fires and accompanied by native displays of acrobatics, fire-eating, and dancing. Vats of iced punch were being moved into position by serving men. Their size and composition suggested that Rasool Ilunga wanted his coronation to be remembered for spectacular intoxication.
    Mike stood on the edge of the square and watched the crowds. He could not get the image of those brilliant synthetic gemstones out of his head, and their memory tugged at something else, some elusive part of the briefing they had all received before they left the Azores. He leaned against a pillar, stared into darkness, and reviewed everything that had happened since they stepped off the aircar. He had little bits and pieces of an overall picture—but he would never see the whole thing here, at the coronation party.
    By 8:15 he knew what he needed to do. He slipped away alone, passing quietly through the crowd and walking in darkness back to their own building. The road was deserted. With the Chill spyglass in his pocket he climbed into an electric ground car and headed north.
    The tropical moon was half-full, and there was no sign of other traffic. Mike needed no lights—and wanted none. He increased the current. The car hummed the miles away, flitting like a black ghost along the gravel road. Within twenty minutes Mike had reached the thornbush barricade, supported by its wire fence.
    He ran the car off the road and parked in a thicket of dark shrubs. As he walked back to the barricade he examined it closely. Was it protected by some form of electronic surveillance? That was an unavoidable risk.
    When he came to the road he lay down flat. He parted a pair of wire strands on the fence and wriggled through. The bushes carried formidable thorns, and by the time he emerged from the other side he had bleeding scratches on face and hands; but there was no sign of an alarm.
    Most of the scrubby growth had been cleared on this side of the barrier. He stood up and walked slowly forward across an uneven surface covered with tough sawtooth grasses. There were plenty of lights ahead, clustered around the silver steeples. When he was still half a mile away, his progress was halted again. It was another fence, and the transformers along its top were an ominous sign. Mike grounded one strand of wire with a long stem of sawtooth grass. There was a puff of smoke, and the cindered grass fell to the ground.
    He retreated fifty yards to a hollow in the ground, lay down in it, and took out the spyglass. Its light-intensifiers provided an excellent image of the whole area beyond the electrified fence.
    He was looking at a rocket test facility. Over on the left were the structures to permit static firing tests, and on the right were the gantries for launches. There was considerable activity in both areas, with uniformed men and women bustling to and fro.
    The night insects had discovered Mike's exposed head and arms. He lay there, spyglass held to his eye, and did his best to ignore the bites. The activity in front of him was becoming more focused, concentrating around the facility for static firing. He could see covers being pulled back from a monster rocket, thirty yards across at its base.
    There was a sudden noise from behind him. Mike froze. Someone was hurrying past him, no more than twenty yards from where he lay. They went on until they encountered the second