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Ryoval s quarters.
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While he was at it, he looked for clothes. There wasn t much to choose from;
this clearly was not Ryoval s main residence. Just a private suite. The
garments were all too long and not wide enough. The trousers were impossible.
A soft knit shirt stretched over his raw skin, though. A loose jacket, left
open, provided some more protection. A Betan-style sarong, bath-wear, wrapped
his loins. A pair of slippers were sloppy on his left foot, tight on his
swollen, broken right foot. He searched for cash, keys, anything else of use.
But there was no handy climbing gear.
I ll just have to make my own safety ladder
. He hung the laser drill around his neck on a tie made from a couple of
Ryoval s belts, stepped into the bottom of the lift tube, and systematically
began to burn holes in the plastic side.
Too slow!
the black gang wailed. Howl howled inside, and even Killer screamed, Run,
dammit!
Lord Mark ignored them. He turned on the "up" field, but did not let it take
them. Clinging to his hot hand and foot holds, he pocked his way upward. It
was not difficult to climb, buoyed in the flowing grav field, only hard to
remember to keep his three points of contact. His right foot was nearly
useless. The black gang gibbered in fear. Mulish and methodical, Mark
ascended. Melt a hole. Wait. Move a hand, foot, hand, foot. Melt another hole.
Wait....
Three meters from the top, his head came level with a small audio pick-up,
flush to the wall, and a shielded motion sensor.
I imagine it wants a code word. In Ryoval s voice
, Lord Mark remarked blandly, observing.
Can t oblige
.
It doesn t have to be what you guess
, Killer said.
It could be anything. Plasma arcs. Poison gas
.
No. Ryoval saw me, but I saw Ryoval. It will be simple. And elegant. And you
will do it to yourself. Watch
.
He gripped his handhold, and extended the laser drill up past the motion
sensor for the next burn.
The lift tube s grav field switched off.
Even half-expecting it, he was nearly ripped from his perch by his own weight.
Howl could not contain it all. Mark screamed silently, flooded in pain. But he
clung, and did not let them fall.
The last three meters of ascent could have been called a nightmare, but he had
new standards for nightmares now. It was merely tedious.
There was a tanglefield trap at the top entrance, but it faced outward. The
laser drill disarmed its controls. He managed a crippled, shuffling, crabwise
walk into a private underground garage. It contained the Baron s lightflyer.
The canopy opened at the touch of Ryoval s ring.
He slid into the lightflyer, adjusted the seat and controls as best he could
around his distorted and aching contours, powered it up, eased it forward.
That button on the control panel - there? The garage door slid aside. Once
through, he shot up, and up, and up, through the dark, the acceleration
pummeling him. Nobody even fired on him. There were no lights below. A rocky
winter waste. The whole little installation must be underground.
He checked the flyer s map display, and picked his direction -
East
. Toward the light. That seemed right.
He kept accelerating.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The lightflyer banked. Miles craned his neck, and caught a glimpse of what was
below. Or what wasn t below. Dawn was creeping over a wintry desert. There
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appeared to be nothing of interest for kilometers around.
" S funny," said the guard who was piloting the lightflyer. "Door s open." He
touched his comm, and transmitted some sort of code-burst. The other guard
shifted uneasily, watching his comrade. Miles twisted around, trying to watch
them both.
They descended. Rocks rose around them, then a concrete shaft. Ah. Concealed
entrance. They came to the bottom, and moved forward into an underground
garage.
"Huh," said the other guard. "Where s all the vehicles?"
The flyer came to rest, and the bigger guard dragged Miles out of the
backseat, and unfastened his ankles, and stood him upright. He almost fell
down again. The scars on his chest ached with the strain from his hands bound
behind his back. He got his feet under himself, and stared around much as the
guards were doing. Just a utilitarian garage, badly-lit, echoing and
cavernous.
And empty.
The guards marched him toward an entrance. They coded through some automatic
doors, and walked to an electronic security chamber. It was up and running,
humming blankly. "Vaj?" one guard called. "We re here. Scan us."
No answer. One of the guards went forward, looked around. Tapped a code into a
wall pad. "Bring him through anyway."
The security chamber passed him. He was still wearing the grey knits the
Duronas had given him; no interesting devices woven into the fabric, it
seemed, alas.
The senior guard tried an intercom. Several times. "Nobody answers."
"What should we do?" asked his comrade.
The senior man frowned. "Strip him and take him to the boss, I guess. Those
were the orders."
They pulled his ship-knits off him; he was far too out-massed to fight them,
but he regretted the loss deeply. It was too damned cold. Even the ox-like
guards stared a moment at his raked and scored chest. They re-fastened his
hands behind him, and marched him through the facility, their eyes shifting
warily at every intersection.
It was very quiet. Lights burned, but no people appeared anywhere. A strange
structure, not very large, plain and - he sniffed -
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