The Prison in Antares (17 page)

Pretorius was grateful that Proto didn't reply “Speak for yourself,” and the two of them walked out the front of the guesthouse and caught a public transport that took them the two miles to the spaceport.

“What about the rest of us?” asked Pandora.

“If we're going to pick up an alien ship, we're going to need supplies,” said Pretorius.

“I know, I know,” said Snake. “I'll take care of it.”

She began walking to the exit.

“Does she have any of the local currency?” asked Irish.

Pandora and Pretorius merely smiled.

“Why should this be any different than Deluros VIII?” he said. “I don't remember the last time she paid for anything. Hell, I'll bet
she
can't remember it either.”

“What if she gets caught?”

“Then if they know who she is, she'll be in a secure cell and I'll have to bail her out.”

“And if they don't know?”

“She'll pick the lock and be back here a few minutes later,” said Pretorius. “Now, what else are we likely to need?”

“Weapons?” suggested Irish.

He shook his head. “I'd like some weaponry on the ship, but there's no way it's going to win a battle against a fully armed military ship. As for personal weapons, it's my finding that anyone, human or otherwise, is usually more efficient with weapons they're familiar with than with those they've just picked up. Look at the Moltois. Their fingers are ten or twelve inches long, they've only got two per hand, plus what looks like a misshapen thumb. Any weapon that's made for them is going to take more adjustment on our part than we're going to be able to make with any degree of comfort or efficiency.”

“So what do we three do now?” asked Pandora.

Pretorius shrugged. “Grab some lunch, if we can find a joint that serves food we can metabolize.”

“I saw a restaurant that had a lot aliens in it,” noted Irish. “Just up the street a bit.”

“I hesitate to call that winding, uphill-downhill thing a street, but lead the way,” said Pretorius.

“Why would they create it like this,” said Irish as she led them out the door. “The ground is flat. Why build hills into the street?”

“You'd have to ask a Moltoi,” replied Pretorius. “You can go crazy trying to make sense of alien cities. Like over there, for example.” He pointed to a building. “Three stories high. In good repair. Windows on the third floor. No balconies, but platforms without railings, so if someone slips or trips he falls twenty feet to the ground. Of course, that presupposes that he can gain access to the third floor and its almost-balconies, because I don't see any doors or any other means of ingress.”

“I used to go crazy trying to make sense out of alien cities and structures,” said Pandora, “because they obviously made sense to the races that built them. In the end all you can do is shrug and say, ‘Well, they're alien.'”

“It does make you wonder why we get into wars with them,” added Pretorius. “Theoretically neither side should want anything the other side covets, but somehow that's never been the case.”

“I took a few courses in alien psychology before I specialized,” said Irish. “They had certain principles—generalities, really—and more exceptions than you can imagine.” She smiled. “I was originally going to train for Alien Contact. After a year I realized that it was all guesswork, and I decided to study something where I could realize tangible results.”

“Is that the place?” asked Pretorius, indicating a restaurant about fifty feet ahead.

Irish nodded. “Everyone on this world's an oxygen breather, but the clientele in this place seem less dissimilar to us and more diverse than most of them.”

“A Glenarite, an Atrian, a couple of Bortais,” commented Pretorius. “Yeah, they're close enough. If they like the food, we probably won't, but at least it won't kill us.”

They entered the restaurant, walked over to an empty table, and sat down.

“Damned uncomfortable chairs,” remarked Pandora.

“You won't be thrilled with the eating implements either,” said Pretorius with a grin.

A gleaming metal robot approached them. “I am your server,” it announced. “I am conversant in thirty-four languages and dialects.”

“Do you speak Terran?” asked Pretorius.

“Yes,” replied the robot.

“And do you take Democracy credits?”

“No, we do not.”

“How about Willow IV tardots?”

“I must check,” said the robot. It fell silent for a few seconds as it tied into whatever computer was controlling it. “Yes,” it announced, “we accept tardots.”

“I can't read your menu,” said Pretorius.

“One moment,” said the robot. It fell silent again, and suddenly the alien script was replaced by Terran.

They ordered the simplest dishes, those least likely to upset their digestive systems, and then surveyed their surroundings a little more thoroughly.

“I only see two citizens of the Coalition here,” noted Pandora. “I hope that doesn't imply that there are very few on Moltoi.”

“Why?” asked Irish. “I didn't think we'd want anything to do with them here.”

“Think,”
said Pretorius.

She stared at him, then lowered her gaze to the table for a few seconds. “Oh! Of course!” she said, looking up with a grin. “We need a Coalition ship. So naturally we'd like a broad selection.”

Pretorius returned her smile. “We'll make a saboteur out of you yet,” he said.

“I thought this was a rescue mission.”

“It is,” he replied. “But you'd be surprised how few of the enemy stand aside and let us rescue their prisoners.”

“Point taken,” said Irish, as the robot returned and set a tray of drinks on the table.

“What's this?” asked Pretorius.

“Flavored water,” replied the robot.

“Why flavored?”

The robot was silent for a few seconds as it contacted its control.

“Men do not like the taste of our unfiltered water,” said the robot. “If this is unsatisfactory, I can bring a concoction that is said to resemble lemonade.”

“You lost me at ‘concoction,'” said Pretorius.

“And me at ‘resemble,'” added Irish.

“We'll settle for the water,” said Pandora.

The robot retreated, but returned less than two minutes later with their meals.

“Not as bad as some I've had,” commented Pretorius, taking a taste.

“I hope we don't have to eat this stuff too often,” said Irish.

“If there's anything edible in this town, rest assured that Snake will find it,” said Pandora.

They finished their meals, lingered over their water for a few minutes, and were just about to return to the guesthouse when Ortega and Proto, who was once again appearing as a Man, entered the restaurant and walked over to join them.

“I knew you'd be at one of these hash houses,” said Ortega. “What's good?”

“You mean, what's less bad?” corrected Pandora.

“Are you eating too?” Pretorius asked Proto.

Proto shook his head. “I'd have to take my real form.”

“So what? We know what you look like, and so, I gather, does everyone at the spaceport.”

Proto made a face. “I'd have to eat on the floor, surrounded by your feet. I'd prefer to eat in my quarters, as usual. I'm sure Snake will provide for me.”

“As you wish,” said Pretorius. He summoned the robot, ordered the same meal for Ortega that he had had, and then turned to the two newcomers. “Well?” he said. “What have we got?”

“I think you're gonna love it, Nate,” said Ortega. “In fact, that's the real reason we're here. I could have waited for Snake to bring my dinner, but I knew you'd want to hear this.”

“I'm all ears,” said Pretorius.

“Nate, they're repairing a bunch of air shafts and ducts at the spaceport,” said Ortega enthusiastically.

“Who is?”

“A neutral race that adapted and evolved from a world the Antareans colonized millennia ago. We didn't see them when we landed, because they were working in the chlorine-breathers' section. But now they're moving to the part where we passed through Customs. And they were in the Customs building. Their ship's parked there, near the building and away from all the other ships.” He learned forward, grinning. “Don't you see? How do we go down two miles to the prison? We swipe their ship and their equipment. Even if they report it missing, news of it won't make it to the Coalition, and if it does, who'll think we stole it so we could break into the least accessible jail in the galaxy? And the Antareans aren't going to fire on neutrals they're related to.”

“You know, Felix,” said Pretorius, “sometimes I think there's hope for you yet. That's a damned promising first step.”

“What do you mean, first step?” demanded Ortega.

“These guys may come and go freely inside the Coalition, but no humans or human stock work for the Coalition,” noted Pretorius. “How do we disguise ourselves? Or do these guys wear such heavy, protected suits that all you can tell about them is that they're bipedal? I assume they're bipods. Will their protective suits function two miles deep?”

“That's all stuff to work out,” said Ortega gruffly. “The main thing is that we can get a safe ship and most of the equipment we need.”

“No argument there, Felix. But there are a lot of details to work out.”

“Including the most important of them all,” said Pandora.

“Oh?” said Pretorius. “And what is that?”

“Madam Methuselah was wrong about Nmumba being in the tunnel. I assume you're going to want to stop by McPherson's World, find out what went wrong, and find out if the real Nmumba
is
in that prison.” She paused. “How can we make sure your information is right this time?”

24

“Got some goodies,” announced Snake as she walked into the guesthouse's lobby.

“I never doubted it,” replied Pretorius. “Where'd you stash them?”

“They're out back, under a tarp. They'll keep until dark.”

“You're sure?”

Snake smiled. “There was a month's worth of dirt on the tarp.”

“Okay,” said Pretorius. “I've rented us a suite with a pair of bedrooms—one for the ladies, one for the gents. Come on, I'll show you where it is.”

“Has Proto decided whether he's a guy or a girl yet?”

“He's whatever we need him to be,” said Pretorius.

Snake nodded her agreement. “As long as there are no sensors around.”

They took an elevator to the third level, stepped out into a corridor, and walked about twenty paces to a door at the end of it. Ortega pulled it open.

“They're pretty primitive, aren't they?” remarked Snake.

“What are you talking about?” asked Ortega.

“Doors that don't recognize you and open as you approach,” she answered, “elevators instead of airlifts, and I saw a couple of vehicles that actually required a driver. Primitive world.”

“I'm sorry you disapprove,” said Pretorius.

“On the contrary,” she replied with a smile. “It makes it that much easier to plunder.”

“Let's hope that you've done all the plundering that's necessary,” said Pretorius.

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Felix and Proto found a ship that sounds perfect for us. Now that you're back, I'll be going over to the spaceport to see if I can buy it.”

“And if not?”

“We'll steal it, of course,” answered Pretorius. “But why put every police and military ship between here and McPherson's World on the alert?”

“So you
are
going back to Madam Methuselah's,” said Snake. “I was going to mention it to you.”

“Get in line,” said Pretorius wryly. He got to his feet. “Well, I might as well see if we can get it through legitimate means.” He looked around the room, and finally his gaze fell on Irish. “You come with me.”

“Me?” she said, surprised.

“You.”

“But I don't know anything about buying a ship.”

“Then it's time you learned,” he said, walking to the door. He opened it, waited for her to walk out into the corridor, and then followed her.

They took the elevator down to the lobby. Then Pretorius approached the desk, found out where to wait for public transportation, and a moment later he and Irish were gliding along a foot above the ground in an open-air vehicle.

It took them about five minutes to reach the spaceport. They got off the vehicle and looked around.

“That must be it,” he said, indicating a medium-sized ship with a capacity of perhaps ten adult beings of human or Moltoi size. “It's parked right behind Incoming Customs, and clearly it's not going anywhere, so that implies they're working right where they are.”

“I don't see anyone moving around,” noted Irish.

“Good.”

“Good?” she repeated.

“It means Felix was right, and that they're working in some shaft or enclosed space somewhere, and that means the tools and equipment are built for it. We'll use what we can, and the rest at least will give credence to our cover story that we're working on the shaft or some structure far beneath the surface.”

“
Is
that our cover story?”

“If we manage to get this ship, it is,” he answered. “Well, let's see who owns the damned thing and what it'll take to buy it.”

They walked behind the oxygen-breathers' Customs building and saw three humanoid aliens working inside a subterranean air shaft that clearly led to an underground level of the building. Finally one of the aliens, who had been lying on his stomach, manipulating something about eighteen inches below the surface, noticed them, stood up, and lumbered over. He said something that their t-packs couldn't translate, and Pretorius adjusted his mechanism to speak in Moltoi.