"Do I have to guess? Because if I do, I'm going back to bed. . . ." She stifled a yawn.
"Ah. Well—Tau Verde IV is in a war zone, at the moment. It seems there is a planetary war in progress. One of the sides has the local wormhole exit blocked—not by their own people, it seems to be a
somewhat industrially backward place—they've hired a mercenary
fleet. And why has this cargo been moldering in a warehouse so long?
Because none of the big shipping companies will carry into a war
zone—their insurance lapses. That goes for most of the little
independents, as well. But since I'm not insured, it does not go for me." He smirked.
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Elena looked doubtful. "Is it dangerous, crossing the blockade? If you cooperate on their stop-and-search—"
"In this case, I think so. The cargo happens to be addressed to the other side of the fray."
"Would the mercenaries seize it? I mean, robotic combines or
whatever couldn't be classed as contraband—don't they have to abide by interstellar conventions?" Her doubt became wariness.
He stretched, still smiling. "You've almost got it. What is Beta Colony's most noted export?"
"Well, advanced technology, of course. Weapons and weapons
systems—" Her wariness became dismay. "Oh, Miles . . ."
"'Agricultural equipment,'" he snickered. "I'll bet! Anyway, there's this Felician who claims to be the agent for the company purchasing the equipment—that's another tip-off, that they should have a man
personally shepherding this cargo through—I'm going to go see him
first thing in the morning, as soon as the Sergeant wakes up. And
Mayhew, I'd better take Mayhew . . ."
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CHAPTER SEVEN
Miles reviewed his troops, before pressing the buzzer to the hotel
room. Even in civilian dress, there was no mistaking the Sergeant for anything but a soldier. Mayhew—washed, shaved, rested, fed, and
dressed in clean new clothes—looked infinitely better than yesterday, but still . . .
"Straighten up, Arde," advised Miles, "and try to look professional.
We've just got to get this cargo. I thought Betan medicine was
advanced enough to cure any kind of hangover. It's bound to make a
bad impression on this guy if you walk around clutching your
stomach."
"Grm," muttered Mayhew. But he did return his hands to his sides, and come more-or-less to attention. "You'll find out, kid," he added in a tone of bitter clairvoyance.
"And you're going to have to stop calling me 'kid,'" Miles added.
"You're my Armsman now. You're supposed to address me as 'my