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appeared more like fog.
He could tell the taller of the two women kept looking at him, although he did
not need to turn to check, and his keen hearing could pick out some of the
phrases .
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". . . same eyes, same curly hair . . ."
". . . but her brother?"
". . . scary . . . when you think how old . . ."
". . . fascinating though . . ."
Ingmarr continued to work with the legal terminology on the console,
apparently oblivious to either his client or the rest of the office.
After a time, the stranger straightened in his seat and removed a thin folder
from inside his light jacket, which he had opened but not removed. He checked
the contents, then left it in his lap and returned his attention to a line of
skiers moving smoothly across the lake toward the town with practiced strides.
"Ser Corson . . . if you would like to check this out . . . and fill in the
necessary names and details."
"Fine."
The outsider slipped into the seat in front of the console, eyes running over
the displayed text.
Ingmarr noted the ease with which he operated the equipment, changing pages,
cross-
indexing, checking references.
"No problem . . . except here. Think you should add something about `with the
approval of the mother, Allison Ingmarr."'
The man in gray stood back from the console, still holding the folder that he
had brought.
"All right." Ingmarr sat back down and made the changes, scanning through the
text to insure that his client had supplied all the necessary information.
The smaller man stepped up as Ingmarr looked up from the screen.
"You'll need these."
"Which are?"
"The portfolio securities. In Corson's name."
Ingmarr took the folder without opening it.
"Let me run out the copies of this for authentication and registration."
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The stranger nodded and half-turned toward the winter scene outside.
As Ingmarr touched the last stud on the console, he stood, laying the folder
on the flat top of the equipment. He moved away front the console. Looming
over the stranger, he cleared his throat and flexed his shoulders as if to
assure himself that his muscles were loose.
"Who are you, anyway? As if I didn't know."
"I told you, MacGregor Corson."
"I don't believe that for an instant." The Scandian reached out for the
smaller man with a huge right hand and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Let go." The words were quict.
"Who are you? Why are you here'.-°
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Thud.
Ingmarr stared up from the carpeted floor into a yellow, hawkeyed glare. He
appeared stunned.
"Doing my best to hold to her wishes. Without disinheriting him. No more
questions."
Each word, though whispered, seared. Ingmarr stiffened, bill did not get off
the floor.
"You! . . . never believed . . ."
"Get the trust finished. Sooner the better." The stranger's light baritone
voice was calm.
"Agreed," conceded Ingmarr, rubbing his hand and then his shoulder. The
smaller man had handled him as if he were a doll, and for the first time, he
was beginning to understand his sister, her tears, and her fears. And her
reasons for having to trust the man.
Ingmarr stood up slowly and repeated himself. "Agreed."
Both men ignored the whispers from the other side of tile open office as they
moved toward the printing station in the middle of the office.
". . . like a child. . ."
". . . so fast . . ."
". . . has to be him . . ."
Outside, the wind picked tip, mid the snow fog thickened until the gray light
resembled twilight rather than midafternoon.
Inside, two women shivered in thin tunics while a tall man continned to
massage a sore shoulder, and it shorter blond mail began to authenticate a
legal document.
XXXI
GERSWIN LOOKED OVER at the innocuous set of plasteel shipping containers that
filled the small aft hold of the Caroljoy. Twelve bore labels indicating they
were high-speed message torps, and four bore labels indicating long range
torps.
Not that the labels were totally inaccurate, mused the commander. Someday they
might have to be used to send a message of sorts, but he had obtained them
now, when it was still possible, without too much difficulty.
The maiden voyage of the refurbished former scout had gone well, well indeed,
although it would have proved difficult, if not impossible, to have traced the
supposed private yacht through three separate identities, two military, and
four systems, not including Scandia. That diversion, on the return trip, had
been for other reasons, later than he would have wished, but accomplished
nonetheless.
His eyes lost their sharp focus for a minute as he recalled the snow-covered
firs of
Scandia, and, more distantly, a pair of eyes as clear as a cloudless winter
morning. He shook his head to bring himself back to the small hold.
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Gerswin checked the hold locks once again before extricating himself from the
hold and climbing back into the former crew room. Loading the shipping crates
from outside through the exterior cargo lock, an armed tender lock converted
for his purposes, had been far easier than inspecting them from inside the
ship. Small as the aft hold was, the forward hold was even smaller, containing
only emergency stores and an emergency generator and solar array.
There was less crew space under Gerswin's internal redesign than in the ship's
original configuration. As a scout, the former Farflung had carried a four man
crew under tight living conditions. Gerswin had reconfigured the newly and
officially registered Caroljoy (IPS452) as a single pilot ship, with emergency
capacity for two passengers on short hauls.
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The drives were not those of a scout, but of a small corvette, with total
power cross-
bleed between the corvette screens and gravitics. The extra power and range
had come at the cost of habitability and because Gerswin had installed higher
quality control and communications systems the lower weight and improved
reliability offset by the considerably higher price.
The commander sealed the hatch beneath him, which resembled another tiled
floor square of the cabinlike section of the ship, which contained the
fresher, wall-galley, and bunk. He stood.
surveying the trim and efficient interior.
"Stand down mode, full alert," he ordered.
"Stand down mode, full alert." A voice, feminine, but impersonal, answered the
commander.
He sealed the locks behind him, and stepped out into the hangar, which, as he
had rebuilt the Caroljoy from scratch, he had turned into a maintenance
facility capable of handling all but the largest of private yachts. The
equipment within the hangar could also have served virtually all Imperial
scouts and corvettes, although that capability remained the secret of the
commander.
He had not kept secret from his subordinates that, after Allison's departure,
his sole rice was his "hobby" building a private yacht from surplus scrap for
his eventual retirement.
Some of his officers had even visited the hangar and the Caroljoy at suitably [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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