blaster sitting beside him in the copilot's seat with his feet on the control panel.
"Stay with those cruisers," Goodnight asked. "And don't let them spot us."
Vian looked coldly at Goodnight, nodded once without answering.
***
Below, on Gentric, another uniformed band tootled its way past Jasmine King.
She repressed a wince, remembering the old saw that military music is to music as military cooking is to escoffier.
Far overhead, she saw contrails as ships broke atmosphere.
She keyed a com. "Clear down here"�and keyed off, without waiting for a response.
"And what do we have here?" Goodnight asked, watching a screen as Vian's ships approached the planet of Gentric.
The Roh Bahtrine ships had altered their orbit.
Vian nodded at his navigator, who touched sensors on a board. "I'd guess," the navigator said, "they're resetting course back toward Gentric."
"The plot sickens," Goodnight said. "You might want to put your crews on full alert� And stay with our friends."
The few men and women who were watching oohed and aahed as four ships, two small destroyers and two liners, flew low over the repository, jetting colorful smoke as they did.
A few cheered, glad that the government was giving a show to the people on the way to the main displays in Masd's city center.
The smoke dropped lazily around the repository.
King saw no signs of disturbance as the anesthetic gas was sucked in by the repository's ventilators.
There still was nothing visibly wrong, but Riss muttered, "by the prickling of my thumbs," and made sure her service blaster was loose in its holster and her three little surprises�a hideout projectile gun, a shock grenade, and an evil little knife�were handy.
King saw the four ships land behind the repository and combat-suited men and women, wearing breather masks, run down the ramps, carrying small parcels that seemed inordinately heavy. No one else seemed interested.
Riss put small can-opener charges on the outer doors, touched them off, trotted inside, and put another set on the inner doors.
Two guards in a booth, three more on roving patrol, sprawled, snoring loudly.
She reached what Van Hald had described as the main vault entrance. It was closed, but the time lock had been set.
Riss spun the vault knob, a four-knobbed handle, and the door clicked open.
"You're going to blow that one, as well, aren't you?" Van Hald asked.
"Don't worry," Riss said. "We'll cover you. You and your cohorts'll look clean."
She went into the vault, repressing an urge to doff her helmet in reverence. There were still long corridors between piled gold ingots identical to the ones they carried.
"Let's schlep on down," she called.
Grok stood in the middle of the unloading bustle, frowning at his calculator. He hadn't even bothered to remove his suit or open its faceplate.
Suddenly, he grunted an "Ah-hah" and keyed his com.
Without preamble, to all Star Risk coms: "Hey, Rube," he �cast. "Plan B."
Van Hald, watching the team replace the gold and plutonium, was standing next to Riss. He heard the transmission from Grok.
"What was that?"
Riss didn't bother to answer, but slammed a hand into the side of his neck.
Van Hald gurgled, went down.
"Abort, abort," Riss shouted. She estimated the liners were half unloaded.
As they'd been ordered, the mercenaries changed tasks. All gold and platinum not already in the vault went back into the liners, and the ships' ramps began closing.
King heard the crack of sonic barriers, looked up, saw the seven Roh Bahtrine ships enter atmosphere. A missile curled from one, shot downward, and smashed into the ground between the road and the repository.
There were screams.
King, unhurriedly, went back to the boardinghouse and picked up a small case.
In it was another, far sexier outfit, and wipes to get rid of the cheese stink and cream.
She piled her electronics gear in her suitcase and hit a timer. It would tick down and melt everything in her case, without flames or that