Andrews pursed his lips thoughtfully. ?That won’t be necessary, Mr. Clemens. Just ‘com me. I’ll take care of the rest.?

?As you say, Superintendent.?Clemens grinned thinly. 48 IV—

M

I W I eat. Some of it familiar, some not. Dull rust red struck through with flashes of bright crimson. Small carcasses dangling from old hooks. Huge slabs tipped with protuberant suggestions of amputated limbs, outlined in frozen fat.

Nearby, chickens and cattle, oblivious to their eventual fate. A lone sheep.?Live meat.

Most of the abattoir was empty. It had been built to handle the daily needs of hundreds of technicians, miners, and refining personnel. It was far larger than the caretaker prisoners required. They could have left more space between supplies, but the vast rear of the huge chamber, with its echoes of draining blood and slicing and chopping, was a place they preferred to avoid. Too many animate ghosts lingered there, seeking form among milling molecules of tainted air.

The two men wrestled with the cart between them, on which rested the unwieldy carcass of a dead ox. Frank tried

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to guide it while Murphy goosed forward motion out of the rechargeable electric motor. The motor sputtered and sparked complainingly. When it finally burned out they would simply activate another cart. There were no repair techs among the prison population.

Frank wore the look of the permanently doomed. His much younger companion was not nearly so devastated of aspect. Only Murphy’s eyes revealed the furtive nature of someone who’d been on the run and on the wrong side of the law since he’d been old enough to contemplate the notion of working without sticking to a regular job. Much easier to appropriate the earnings of others, preferably but not necessarily without their knowledge. Sometimes he’d been caught, other times not.

The last time had been one too many, and he’d been sent to serve out his sentence on welcoming, exotic Fiorina.

Murphy touched a switch and the cart dumped the clumsy bulk onto the deeply stained floor. Frank was ready with the chains. Together they fastened them around the dead animal’s hind legs and began to winch it off the tiles. It went up slowly, in quivering, uneven jerks. The thin but surprisingly strong alloyed links rattled under the load.

?Well, at least Christmas came early.?Frank straggled with the load, breathing hard.

?How’s that??Murphy asked him.

?Any dead ox is a good ox.?

?God, ain’t it right. Smelly bastards, all covered with lice. Rather eat ‘em than clean ‘em.?

Frank looked toward the stalls. ?Only three more of the buggers left, then we’re done with the pillocks. God, I hate hosing these brutes down. Always get shit on my boots.? 50

Murphy was sucking on his lower lip, his thoughts elsewhere. ?Speakin’ of hosing down, Frank…?

?Yeah??