Click here to buy
w
w
w
w
w .
w
A B B YY.com
.A B BYY.com
to discharge a debt to him." Self-commissioned, about ten seconds ago . . .
"Somebody owes money to Arde?" asked the salvage operator, amazed.
Miles drew himself up, looking offended. "Not money," he growled, as though he never touched the sordid stuff. "It's a debt of honor."
The shuttleport administrator looked cautiously impressed; the
pilot officer, pleased. The security woman looked dubious. The
salvage operator looked extremely dubious. "How does that help me?"
he asked bluntly.
"I can talk Pilot Officer Mayhew out of your ship," said Miles, seeing his path opening before him, "if you'll provide me with the means of meeting him face-to-face." Elena gulped; he quelled her with a narrow, sideways flick of a glance.
The four Betans looked one to another, as if responsibility could be shuffled off by eye contact. Finally the pilot officer said, "Well, what the hell. Does anybody have a better idea?"
* * *
In the control chair of the personnel shuttle the grey-haired senior pilot officer spoke—once again—into his comconsole. "Arde? Arde, this is Van. Answer me, please? I've brought up somebody to talk
things over with you. He's going to come on board. All right, Arde?
You're not going to do anything foolish now, are you?"
Silence was his sole reply. "Is he receiving you?" asked Miles.
"His comconsole is. Whether he's got the volume turned up, or is there, or awake, or—or alive, is anybody's guess."
"I'm alive," growled a thick voice suddenly from the speaker, making them both start. There was no video. "But you won't be, Van, if you try to board my ship, you double-crossing son of a bitch."
"I won't try," promised the senior pilot officer. "Just Mister, uh, Lord Vorkosigan, here."
There was a moody silence, if the static-spattered hiss could be so described. "He doesn't work for that bloodsucker Calhoun, does he?"
asked the speaker suspiciously.
"He doesn't work for anybody," Van soothed.
"Not for the Mental Health Board? Nobody's going to get near me
with a damn dart gun—I'll blow us all to hell, first . . ."
"He's not even Betan. He's a Barrayaran. Says he's been looking for you."
Another silence. Then the voice, uncertain, querulous, "I don't owe any Barrayarans—I don't think . . . I don't even know any
Barrayarans."
There was an odd feeling of pressure, and a gentle click from the
PDF Transform
PDF Transform
Y
Y
Y
er
Y
er
B
2
B
2
B
.0
B
.0
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
w
w
w .
w
A B B YY.com
.A B BYY.com
exterior of the hull, as they came in contact with the old freighter. The pilot waved a finger by way of signal at Miles, and Miles made the
hatch connections secure. "Ready," he called.
"You sure you want to do this?" whispered the pilot officer.