Tripoint

They talked about kids. He tried to imagine. About wives. He censored his arrangement with Beatrice. A couple of Downers waddled past, bound for somewhere. Transports lumbered along… Pell government was still talking about that transport rail system, the agent said, but the transport companies and the warehouses on Pell liked the status quo, on which they made money, and detested the rail, in which they endlessly debated all the share-plans the station could draft.

A couple of crew showed up, the early ones, Michaels and Travis, with slightly startled looks to see the captain standing waiting.

"Captain," Michaels said. "Need a word. " And Michaels diverted him aside from customs long enough to ask if he wanted anything. Michaels had basic good sense, in the essentials of discreet trouble-handling, and he would have left Michaels to take his watch down here, if it were slightly less explosive.

"I'll handle it," he told Michaels. "Just start the count. Develop a board glitch, we don't display until we're on last boarders."

"Done," Michaels said.

A group of eleven came in, techs, a couple of dockers… Corinthian'smonetary and liberty-time bonus for arrivals in the first hour of board-call got no few takers, but still, spacers were spacers, liberty-loves were hard to leave, and expect the real rush right down at the bottom of that first hour, and the last just right before the deadline, mostly the dockers, in that group, a few D&D's that took some dealing with, but if Sabrina didn't make it in the next quarter hour, she was going to find herself at the end of a long, long…

A closed taxi pulled up close, braked, and opened a door. No banker, no official got out, just, improbably—three Corinthianspacers, one Sabrina, in her usual fancy-business, Tink, in his bar-crawling gear, down to the bare arms and the tattoos and the earrings, and of course his threadbare duffle and the bagfuls of edibles. Last out, God, Tom Hawkins, sudden fashion queen, blue skintights, fancy black sweater, mod haircut, and a designer carry-bag, purple and orange—taste would out, evidently. Saby'd said he 'needed a few things.'

He set hands on hips and watched this apparition walk up to customs… got a questioning look from the agent, who surely couldn't do a confident ID on Hawkins' new side-fall haircut. He nodded, the agent pulled out the passport, delivered a sober lecture to Hawkins, probably about being sure about the passport, Hawkins nodded, seemed dutifully impressed and sober, and the agent gave the whole group a wave-through… you bought it atPell, customs wasn't interested, unless you just radiated shady deals. And nobody could know how to rate this taxi-load.

Hawkins and Saby cleared customs, while Tink was still chattering at the agent, offering him a candy or something, Tink was a walking sugar-fix. Meanwhile the passport headed for Hawkins' pocket.

Austin held out his hand. Smiled tightly.

Hawkins stopped so abruptly, evidently just now seeing him, that Sabrina ran into him.

Austin crooked a finger.—Hawkins meekly came and, to his outheld hand, delivered the passport.

"Stow your stuff with Saby," Austin said then, as they walked, as he pocketed the passport. "Log in with ops, no word to anybody what happened, do you copy? And I'll see youin my office thirty minutes to undock, on the mark, Mr. Hawkins.—Saby, you get him there."

—ix—

IT WAS HIM, DAMMIT, WITHSaby, and Tink, Austin was waiting the other side of the barrier, and Christian had not a question in his mind.

"He knew, damn him! He knew all along! Damn her! Damnher!"

"Damnation to go around," Capella said, leaning against the store-front. "We've still other strays to watch."

Redirection. In Capella, suspect it.

"You knew. You damned well knew!" He was furious. And Capella, having talked to Austin aboard, having had a chance to ask questions… came back with a grim look, a, "He's keeping the schedule," and, to his, "Why?"—"Thinks Hawkinses are as serious a threat, evidently."

Capella swore she didn't, personally, think Spritewas on a scale with their other problem. But the taxi was gone from the customs area, Tom Hawkins was walking up the ramp with Saby, who, dammit, owed him some loyalty, being his cousin, being who'd brought him up—

And it looked to him like a problem, a majorproblem, Hawkins in his new clothes and his new haircut—he hadn't recognized him. He'd thought he was some better-class recruit than they even usually got, somebody Saby had recommended.

But, no, it was a surplus, co

Somebody else's money. Corinthianmoney.

"Austin's damn clearance," he said. "Look at him!"

"Looks pretty good, actually," Capella said. "And Saby. My, my, my."

"You didknow!"

"I know now. Give up the quarrel, Chrissy-lad, it's over, it's won, this is why papa Austin said what he said."

"About what?"

"Just that he'd made up his mind. That Spritewas more threat than one Mr. Hawkins. Damn right. He had this one tied up and wrapped around his high-credit finger, just yank the string."

It didn't make sense to him, except that Austin had played him for a fool deliberately, Austin had spent whatever it took to make him look a fool not only to Saby and Tink, who were in on it, but in front of Capella, who might have been under orders, in front of the whole crew—people laughing behind his back, enjoying the joke.

He looked at Capella, searching for any hint of that laughter at his expense. He couldn't find any hint of it, but Capella wasn't easy to catch, no expression at all.

A handful of dockers arrived, Gracie Greene and Metz, Dan Blue, Tarash and Deecee, trouble, all of them, he watched them walk up to customs, and his gut was in an upheaval, thinking… they were going to hear about it, everybody who'd been out in the search after his brother had to have known, at some point, and here he stood, playing the fool, while his brother went into the ship on his own terms.

"Fuck it!" he said, and grabbed Capella by the sleeve, heedless of safety. "It's a couple of hours till ail-aboard, there's a bar, there's a restaurant…"

"I thought we were economizing," Capella said.

"Hell! I've got a k or so left, what do I fucking care? Fucking smart-ass Family Boy, on Austin's fucking credit, while I spend everything I've got? Fuck it, fuck it all, let's blow it, everything—"

"Chrissy,—"

"I said everything! What do I need? A father who fucking cares what I do? A cousin with one shred of basic loyalty? A partner who doesn't go screwing my brother? What's the matter with me, Pella, what's the matter with me?"

Capella delayed to look at him. Long. "Got all your parts," Capella said. "Things work."

"Don't be a damned ass!"

"Maybe you better work with what you got," Capella said, "what you stand in when you shower, hmn? It's all anybody's got."

Philosophy wasn't Capella's long suit. She threw it at him now and again, she whispered it in his ear when the ship made jump, she confused him when he was mad, and blew it off, which nobody else could do*.

"Dance," Capella said, "is a lot nicer than looking for stray brothers. Couple drinks, a few dances—long and dark after, Chris-person. Long and deep and dark. I'd dance, myself."