sealing his own suit. "Trusting bastards that they are."
He bowed to Riss, who turned to the four dozen men and women standing in a ragged formation.
"All right, crew," she ordered. "Time to go breathe vacuum and dot and carry."
"And for me to fade into the woodwork until the clients depart," Goodnight murmured.
Star Risk had deployed carefully.
Jasmine King was the first to leave. She'd altered her appearance to include mousy brown hair, very old-fashioned glasses, and a rare ability to walk knock-kneed that guaranteed there'd be no interested looks from any of the various other sexes.
Jasmine added a face cream that made her look as if she'd been attacked by nuclear acne, and, to make her disguise complete, rubbed a bit of very pungent cheese to the temple plates of her glasses for halitosis's sake.
She coupled that with a nasal voice and a recorder. King arrived on Gentric, announcing herself as a freelance correspondent for Alliance Public Broadcasting, doing a feature on Roh Bahtrine's upcoming Celebration Day, which guaranteed a further lack of interest.
Claiming to have little funds, she took a room in a boardinghouse on the outskirts of Masd, on the main parade route, that not coincidentally had an excellent line of sight on the National Repository.
She then made herself obnoxious by doing buttonhole interviews about what this forthcoming holiday Really Meant to the Man (or Woman) on the Street.
By the time the day arrived, no one, not even the most paranoiac policeman, would do anything except flee in the opposite direction when she approached, and no one had any interest in the bundled electronics that were supposedly part of her craft. She was the lookout.
The day arrived, and the citizenry of Masd grouped for a parade or, if pacifistic or easily bored, left for anywhere the roar of warships overhead wouldn't be heard.
There were parades and braying announcers and periodic military demonstrations and bands.
King pretended interest, actually kept using a very long lens to make sure nothing untoward was going on at the repository.
The hired guns made wisecracks about the bars of gold and platinum as they transferred them from the cruisers to the liners, although making sure none of them were heard by Van Hald, who was scuttling here and there.
Riss noticed Van Hald appeared nervous, could have attributed it to the utter illegality of what they were doing.
She could have� but did not.
Grok's suit made him even more impossibly large. He held in the background, making no effort to help, in spite of the occasional scowls from the loading crew, busy with a tiny calculator.
"That's the end of it," Van Hald announced.
"That's all?" Grok asked.
Van Hald took a moment, trying to read the alien's expression. Even without a space suit, that wasn't possible. He nodded jerkily, lips pursed.
"Very well," Friedrich said. "Let us go un-rob a bank."
"You can lift any time you're ready," Van Hald said.
Friedrich keyed a mike, spoke into it, and the liners closed their ports. Gasses swirled at their drive tubes, and the four Star Risk ships lifted clear of the moon, setting an orbit for Gentric.
The seven Roh Bahtrine ships did the same, apparently setting their course to one of the outworlds.
After a moment, Chas Goodnight came from his hiding place in a shed, and opened his com. "The game's afoot� which is very strange," he said without IDing himself. "Come and get me."
Five minutes later, ex-Admiral Vian's five patrol ships appeared around the moon's curvature.
On board one of the liners, Grok was still intent on his calculator. He growled, blanked the screen, and started over.
Van Hald came up. "Might I inquire as to what fascinates you so?"
"Expenses," Grok growled. "My expenses."
Riss was nearby, relaxing against a pile of gold bars.
Or so it appeared.
"Your orders?" ex-Admiral Vian asked Goodnight.
He couldn't quite bring himself to "sir" the sandy-haired man in mufti with the low-slung
He bowed to Riss, who turned to the four dozen men and women standing in a ragged formation.
"All right, crew," she ordered. "Time to go breathe vacuum and dot and carry."
"And for me to fade into the woodwork until the clients depart," Goodnight murmured.
Star Risk had deployed carefully.
Jasmine King was the first to leave. She'd altered her appearance to include mousy brown hair, very old-fashioned glasses, and a rare ability to walk knock-kneed that guaranteed there'd be no interested looks from any of the various other sexes.
Jasmine added a face cream that made her look as if she'd been attacked by nuclear acne, and, to make her disguise complete, rubbed a bit of very pungent cheese to the temple plates of her glasses for halitosis's sake.
She coupled that with a nasal voice and a recorder. King arrived on Gentric, announcing herself as a freelance correspondent for Alliance Public Broadcasting, doing a feature on Roh Bahtrine's upcoming Celebration Day, which guaranteed a further lack of interest.
Claiming to have little funds, she took a room in a boardinghouse on the outskirts of Masd, on the main parade route, that not coincidentally had an excellent line of sight on the National Repository.
She then made herself obnoxious by doing buttonhole interviews about what this forthcoming holiday Really Meant to the Man (or Woman) on the Street.
By the time the day arrived, no one, not even the most paranoiac policeman, would do anything except flee in the opposite direction when she approached, and no one had any interest in the bundled electronics that were supposedly part of her craft. She was the lookout.
The day arrived, and the citizenry of Masd grouped for a parade or, if pacifistic or easily bored, left for anywhere the roar of warships overhead wouldn't be heard.
There were parades and braying announcers and periodic military demonstrations and bands.
King pretended interest, actually kept using a very long lens to make sure nothing untoward was going on at the repository.
The hired guns made wisecracks about the bars of gold and platinum as they transferred them from the cruisers to the liners, although making sure none of them were heard by Van Hald, who was scuttling here and there.
Riss noticed Van Hald appeared nervous, could have attributed it to the utter illegality of what they were doing.
She could have� but did not.
Grok's suit made him even more impossibly large. He held in the background, making no effort to help, in spite of the occasional scowls from the loading crew, busy with a tiny calculator.
"That's the end of it," Van Hald announced.
"That's all?" Grok asked.
Van Hald took a moment, trying to read the alien's expression. Even without a space suit, that wasn't possible. He nodded jerkily, lips pursed.
"Very well," Friedrich said. "Let us go un-rob a bank."
"You can lift any time you're ready," Van Hald said.
Friedrich keyed a mike, spoke into it, and the liners closed their ports. Gasses swirled at their drive tubes, and the four Star Risk ships lifted clear of the moon, setting an orbit for Gentric.
The seven Roh Bahtrine ships did the same, apparently setting their course to one of the outworlds.
After a moment, Chas Goodnight came from his hiding place in a shed, and opened his com. "The game's afoot� which is very strange," he said without IDing himself. "Come and get me."
Five minutes later, ex-Admiral Vian's five patrol ships appeared around the moon's curvature.
On board one of the liners, Grok was still intent on his calculator. He growled, blanked the screen, and started over.
Van Hald came up. "Might I inquire as to what fascinates you so?"
"Expenses," Grok growled. "My expenses."
Riss was nearby, relaxing against a pile of gold bars.
Or so it appeared.
"Your orders?" ex-Admiral Vian asked Goodnight.
He couldn't quite bring himself to "sir" the sandy-haired man in mufti with the low-slung
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