The long interval, between the second and third acts, found him silent. He could feel Basil's gaze, but refused to meet his eyes.
"What did you think of her?"
"Who?"
Basil grabbed his elbow. "
Her
, you idiot. Bethya. Isn't she gorgeous?"
"She's an actress," Goonar said, pulling his arm away. "She's got to be. Are you thirsty?"
Basil heaved a dramatic sigh; Goonar headed for the refreshment booths. When they both had drinks in hand, Basil backed him into a corner.
"She's coming with us," Basil said. "Actually, the whole troupe is. They're worried about the borders."
"An acting troupe?"
"They'd rather perform here than there," Basil said, jerking his head to the side where, Goonar supposed, he'd already determined the Benignity to be.
"So—you pointed me out as a Terakian." Which meant she had seen money and influence and maybe competence . . . those glances had been directed at his position, not at him.
"No. But she does know my face. Why—did you think she was looking at you?" Basil's indulgent tone stung, as perhaps it was meant to.
"No," Goonar said. And to himself, silently,
I know.
In the third act, with the cross talk between faithful and unfaithful lovers and their various temptresses, Goonar tamed his wayward heart and put his mind to considering just how the troupe and its supplies could best be packed aboard the ship. He reached for his handcomp once, but caught himself before flipping it open. But the climax, when the mysterious stranger has won the heart of the village beauty, when her former suitor attacks the stranger, and is killed by him, and the girl must choose whether to go or stay . . . that held him fascinated by a story he had known since childhood. What would she choose? Again she seemed to be looking at him—at Basil, he reminded himself—and again he could not help responding. She was someone to fight for, to kill for if necessary.
After the show, on the street, Goonar strolled along savoring the memory of that look. He could always pretend it had been meant for him.
"Come on," Basil said. "We have to hurry."
"Why?" Goonar said. "We have two days before we lift."
"Not any more," Basil said. "I put us on the short list."
Goonar stopped short, careless of the crowd. "What!
You
put? Who's captain of this ship, anyway?"
"Goonar, please! Not here. I'll explain, but there wasn't time. Seriously." Basil for once looked more worried than truculent.
Goonar walked on, lengthening his stride to keep up with Basil. "So, just how long do we have?"
"As soon as they're loaded. I offered to help, but they said they'd rather . . . tear down, I think they said . . . themselves. Less obvious."
Goonar managed not to stop again by an act of will; he wanted to shake Basil upside down. "In other words, we're carrying fugitives." Terakian & Sons did not carry fugitives; it was a rule made long ago for good reason.
"Not . . . officially."
"Not officially carrying, or not officially fugitives?"
"Goonar . . . please, just let's get off the street."
That was beginning to sound like a really good idea. Goonar glanced up the street, at the status board for the city's spaceport tram, and moved faster.
The tram deposited them at the main terminal, where they cleared the first level of security and boarded the 'port tram, which took them to the private bays. Once they were in the Terakian compound, Goonar turned on Basil.
"Are we bringing them up on a family shuttle?"
"No, they're taking a bigger shuttle—one of the duals—but we need to prepare, I thought."
"Basil—"
"I know, I know." Basil spread his hands and tried to look contrite, an expression that sat uneasily on his face. "Terakian and Sons does not carry fugitives, does not involve itself in local politics, does not interfere in legal actions—"
"So explain." Goonar tapped out the code on the shuttle's access hatch, and the pilot's voice came over the intercom.
"Yes, sir?"
"Heading up early, Jas. Goonar and Basil—" He went on with the family codes.
"Opening up." The pilot popped the hatch, and Goonar climbed in. Basil followed, but said nothing until they were both seated and strapped in. "Five to clearance," the pilot said. "There's a Benignity diplo shuttle coming in, and that bumps the departures back a bit."
Goonar stared at Basil, who flushed.
"A
Benignity
diplomatic shuttle. Does this have any relation whatsoever to the fact that we're running off with a troupe of singers and dancers from—where are they from?"
"Various places," Basil said. "They're talent, you know—they come from all over."
"And?" Goonar said.
"Well . . . they aren't fugitives. Exactly. It's just that they don't want to be. If they're not at the theater, then . . . it won't be an issue."
"And if they are?"
"I don't know," Basil said. "None of them are citizens of the Benignity, and none of them have committed a crime. They're just . . . maybe . . . people the Benignity would rather have stay there."
"Captives?"
"Of a sort. Maybe. I don't know. I just know they wanted to be out of here before the Benignity diplomatic mission arrived and got settled."
"And they knew it was coming?" Goonar asked.
"Apparently," Basil said. He still looked embarrassed, which Goonar knew from experience meant he hadn't yet told all he knew. Goonar felt tired; dragging facts out of Basil had exhausted better men than he.
"Please, Basil," he said. "I'm the captain now; I have to know. Are we going to be pursued by Benignity warships? By Familias warships? Are we transporting stolen property? State secrets?"
Basil glanced out the window as the shuttle rolled forward slowly and pursed his lips. "I don't think we'll be pursued by anyone—certainly not before we can make it into jump." Goonar did not think that "not before we can make it into jump" was anything like "not pursued" but he waited for the rest of it. "As far as I know, there is no stolen property. I made that clear to her, and she said there was nothing," Basil said. "State secrets—I didn't ask about that, because if they are running with data, she wouldn't tell me anyway."
"So—do you think they'll be out of the theater before the Benignity gets there?"
"I think so, yes." Basil leaned forward. "If all went well, they weren't that far behind us; she said they'd be packing as the play went on."
"I assume by 'she' you mean Betharnya," Goonar said. "Is she the . . . what, the owner of the troupe or something? I thought she was just the leading lady."
"She's the manager, yes. As well as the female lead. Something happened to the manager they had before."
"When?" Goonar asked. "Where?"
"I think . . . on tour in Vorhoft."
"Which just happens to be in the Benignity—Basil, if you weren't my cousin and partner, I would cheerfully brain you."
"I know—"
"Delay," the pilot said, over the intercom. "That pigdung Benignity shuttle has asked Traffic Control for a hold for some reason."
Basil made a noise that Goonar easily interpreted, and the same thought was running through his own mind. He flicked down the seat com screen, and patched into the pilot's download of the local net. Ships at station, seven. Lucky number, seven—sometimes. But there'd been more than that when they docked four days ago. Ships insystem, incoming, three. He relaxed slightly. Ships outbound, eleven. He frowned, and checked the departure times.
"Did you notice this?" he said to Basil, pointing to the screen.
"What? No . . . wait . . . there should be more docked upstairs."
"Right. And look at the departure times . . . compared to the first scan record of the Benignity diplomatic mission."
"Ouch." Basil leaned forward. "Chickens scattering before a hawk."
"And you have us on the ground—away from the ship—a nice fat chicken, with the hawk already stooping." Goonar knew who would be blamed if Terakian & Sons lost by it—he was the captain, after all, and he was supposed to be in control. But before his uncle reduced him to mincemeat—if he survived to be minced—he could take a few chunks out of Basil.
"Sorry," Basil said, in an absent tone. "Did you know the Stationmaster up there is a Conselline agent?"
"No—and if you think that bit of information is going to distract me—"
"The ships that left—they're all Conselline Sept flags."
Goonar scolded himself for not seeing that first. "You're right. So—does that mean the Consellines are playing some game with the Benignity, or what?"
"I don't know, but Betharnya might. If we can get her safely away."
"Fat chance now," Goonar said. But at that moment, the pilot said, "Hold's unlocked. They've moved us up past a scheduled shuttle—they've got a red light on something. Ready for immediate takeoff?"
"Yes," Goonar said. The shuttle bumped over the guide strips in the taxiway, and swung onto another approach lane to the main runway. Far off to the right, he could see the main terminal, surrounded by the winking lights of other shuttles and long-haul aircraft. As they turned again, he saw something behind them. To the pilot, he said, "Something's on our tail, Jas . . ."
"I know," Jas said. Then, to Traffic Control, "Orbital shuttle outbound, Terakian and Sons, two passengers, ID 328Y. Auto shuttle outbound, Terakian and Sons, cleared cargo, manifest 235AX7."
"Check, 328Y. Cleared."
The cabin intercom clicked off. Goonar looked at Basil, who turned to look out the window.
"Basil . . . what do you know about an auto shuttle shadowing us?"
"I hope," Basil said, now studying his nails, "that it's a cargo shuttle."
"Failure to declare passengers is an offense under local and Familias law, Basil," Goonar said. Their own shuttle rolled forward, on the right-hand margin of the runway. He leaned to look out the left-hand windows. Sure enough, the other craft had come up beside them, the safest launch for an autopilot shadow. And far less visible from the main terminal.
"I know."
"Are there passengers on that shuttle, Basil?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
No use arguing until they got to the Station. If they did. Goonar leaned back as acceleration shoved him into the seat. Jas pulled both ships up into a steep climb once they were off the ground, then directed the cargo shuttle—unlit and almost invisible—to a safe distance.
They cleared atmosphere without any problems that Goonar knew about—and he had patched in to the pilot's communications. On approach to the Station, he heard Jas's bland explanation to Traffic Control.
"The boss has us on the short list, so I thought I'd just autopilot the cargo shuttle up. Otherwise I'd have to ferry Reuben down to bring it . . ."
"Some day one of you guys is going to crash one of those auto shuttles and kill us all."
"Not this day," Jas said. "I'm going to dock 'er right onto the
Fortune
. No danger to the Station at all."
"What about her papers?"
Jas reeled off the same manifest number and clearance codes.
"All right. Just be careful."
"You won't feel a thing."
* * *
Once aboard
Fortune
, Goonar headed straight for the bridge. As he'd expected, Station Security wanted to inspect the autopiloted shuttle and its cargo. This was standard, and probably had nothing to do with the Benignity diplomatic mission, or even the Benignity liner docked on the far side of the station. Goonar made the predictable protests—they'd already cleared customs down below, this was costing him time and money, he might lose his launch spot. This too was standard. If he didn't protest, at least a little, they'd notice that change in behavior. When he judged the right moment had come, he gave in semi-graciously.
The Station Security team came first to the bridge, where he handed them the hardcopy of the manifest, assigned a junior officer to lead them back to the cargo shuttle, now tucked into its bay. "And no dillydalling," he said to the young woman. "We've got a slot to keep."
He spent the next hour on departure paperwork—one of the loaders had failed to clear a repair bill, and he had to authorize transfer of funds to cover it. Another loader still wasn't aboard . . . Georg, as usual. Which meant he was deep in a philosophical discussion somewhere; Georg could handle drink and women, but not the thrill of finding another person who wanted to talk about Will and the Oversoul. Goonar knew from experience that Station Security wouldn't have a clue where such a discussion might be going on; he himself had to figure it out. Universities were always a good bet, but this Station had only a technical school and a two-year arts school. Sure enough, Georg turned up in a coffee bar next door to the arts school. Goonar flagged a Station Security patrolman and asked him to get Georg on his way.