Merchanter's Luck

“That do it?” Allison asked finally.

He punched for the total. 5576.2 came up on the screen. He shook his head in shock. “Can’t go that.”

“Five of us, remember? And the hardware. That’s not out of line. Put the card in, there.”

He shoved it into the slot. It registered. THANK YOU, the screen said. He stared at it like some oncoming mass.

Took his card back.

She patted his shoulder. “Haircut for us both,” she said. “And clean up. We’re meeting someone for di

“Who?”

“The rest of us, who else? And why don’t you get yourself a proper patch, while we’re at it? I looked in the directory. There’s this place does them to order, all computer set up. Anything you like, on the spot. It’s really amazing how it works.”

“Lord, Reilly—does it matter?”

“I’d think it would.” She touched the misembroidered nymph on his sleeve. “You could do yourself a class job. Or they’ve got the over-the-counter stuff. If you really want.”

That was low. He scowled and she never flinched. “Mind your business,” he said. “If I like the tatty thing it’s my business.”

“You’re really going to go blank like that. They’ll think you’re a pirate for sure.”

“I’ll just get me a handful of the tatty ones. Thanks.”

Lips pursed. So she knew how far she had pushed.

“The name’s not Stevens,” she said.

That’s what you’re asking, is it?”

“Maybe.”

That’s my business.” And after a moment: “I’ll get some blamed patch. I don’t care what. But no shamrock. I’ll promise you that.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He nodded, gathered up his packages, all of them but the stuff they had ordered on catalogue, that would see ship delivery when they made the loading schedule.

When.

Chapter IX

He had his doubts—had them following Allison to the patcher; and getting trimmed and shaved and lotioned at the barber—his first time, for a haircut that gave him a sleek, blond look of affluence. Doubts again in sleepover, spoiling the hour he snatched for sleep: his privacy, he kept thinking; the life that he had—It was a miserable life, but he controlled it; there was comp, with its peculiarities; and the sealed rooms that these Dubliners would demand to open. There were things they would hear and see that were worse than public nakedness to him; that undercut his pride, and rifled through his memories.

But it had to be, he reasoned with himself. He had never had such a chance. Never could dream of such a chance. He looked at Allison looking at him in the minor—and the warmth of that drove the chill away. “You look good,” she said, to the silver-suited image of him, and he faced about toward her with a surge of confidence that sent some feeling back into his hands and feet “Reckon so?” he asked.

“No question.”

So it fed him his courage back. He drew a deeper breath, reassessed himself and the pathetic ridiculousness, the childishness of the things stored in comp, the nature of the sealed compartments and the relics he lived among. So if she thought that, so if she felt that, then she would not laugh—and the others, these strangers they went to meet—she could handle. As long as she was with him; as long as she found nothing humorous in a man trying to be what he was not—who listened to voices instead of family, who had never had the strength to clear out all the debris of the past; who kept a secret voice that talked to a child who should have long ago grown up; excruciating things. A lifetime of illusions.

There was always the alternative, he reminded himself. He could wait for the military; in his mind he heard the laughter of the dockside searchers who might get into such privacies. Or the techs who might strip his mind down, when his scams caught up to him, discovering the twisted child he was. They would put it all together, taking it all apart; and the thought of that—of the questions; the exposure of himself—

He wore a patch, had sewn it on: LUCY, it said, white letters on a black, blue-centered circle; and that was as close as he dared come to the old one. It looked naked, too, without the swan in flight that belonged there. But someone might know Le Cygne, and Krejas; and he and Ross and Mitri had always agreed, in all the scams, to keep the Name out of it. So it was not possible now to go to station offices and say—I lied; change the name; put it the way it ought to be. That would finish everything.

And maybe, he thought, a lifetime would get him used to looking at the patch that way.

“Coming?” Allison asked him.

He walked into the restaurant arm in arm with Allison—one of those places he expected of Allison, ornate and expensive, where flash and fine cloth belonged, and stationer types occupied tables alongside spacers of the big ships, men and women with officers’ stripes: a lot of silver hair in the place. A lot of money. A waiter intercepted them—”Reilly,” Allison said; and the waiter nodded deferentially and showed them the way among serpentine pillars to the recesses of the place, deep shadows along the walls.

A silver company occupied the table he located for them, a company that rose when they arrived—Sandor did a quick scan of lamp-lit faces, heart thumping, hand already extending in response to offered hands and a murmur of courtesies—and found himself face to face with Curran Reilly.

No hand offered there. Nothing offered. “Curran,” Allison said, “Helm 22 of Dublin, my number two. Captain Stevens of Lucy. But you’ll have met.”

“Yes,” Sandor said, the adrenalin hazing everything else; and in belated time, Curran Reilly took the hand he offered, a dry palm clenched about his sweating one. A grip that he expected, hard and unfriendly like the stare. And other hands, then, earlier offeree?. “Deirdre,” Allison said, “number three”—a freckled, solid woman, dark-haired like all the Reillys, but with a grin that went straight to the heart, punctured his anger and half made up for Curran. Happiness. He was not accustomed to cause that in people.

“Neill,” Allison said of the third, another offered hand; a lank and bearded man with an earnestness that persuaded him Curran was at least unique in the lot. “Neill,” he murmured in turn, looked at the others. The waiter hovered, offering chairs. They settled again, himself between Allison and Deirdre, facing Curran and Neill.

“Would you like cocktails?” the waiter asked.

“Drinks with di

Nods all about. The waiter whisked forth a set of menus, and for a merciful time there was that amenity among them.

He was buying; he reckoned that. The prices were enough to chill the blood, but he nerved himself and ordered the best, maintained a smile when his guests did. It was, after all, one night, one time—an occasion. He could afford it, he persuaded himself. To please these people. To give them what they were accustomed to having. On their own money.

The waiter departed. A silence hung there. “Got everything in order?” Curran asked Allison finally.

“All settled.”

“Megan sends her regards.”

A silence. A glance downward. Sandor had no idea who Megan might be; no one offered to enlighten him. “I’ll talk to her,” Allison said. “It’s not good-bye, after all. Well be meeting on loops.”

“I think she understands,” Deirdre said. “My people—they know. They know why.”

“Everyone knows why,” Allison said. “It’s forgiving it.” She laid her hand briefly on Sander’s arm. “Ship politics.” To the others: “—We got the outfitting done. First class.”

“What kind of accommodations have we got?” Neill asked.

The adjoining table filled, with all attendant disorganization. Sandor sat and listened to Reillys talk among themselves, plans for packing, for farewells, discussion of what supplies they had kid in. “Private cabins and no du