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Downbelow: Africa landing probe, main base 2400 hrs. md.; 1200 hrs. a; local daylight Emilio leaned back in the chair and stared resolutely at Porey’s scowl, waited, while the scarred captain made several notes on the printout before him, and pushed it back across the table at him. Emilio gathered it up, leafed through the supply request, nodded slowly.
“It may take a little time,” he said.
“At the moment,” said Porey, “I am simply relaying reports and acting on instructions. You and your staff are not cooperating. Go on with that as long as you please.”
They sat in the small personnel area of Porey’s ship, flat-decked, never meant for prolonged space flight. Porey had had his taste of Downbelow air, and of their domes and the dust and the mud, and retreated to his ship in disgust, calling him in instead of visiting the main dome. And that would have suited him well, if it had only taken the troops away as well; it had not. They were still outside, masked and armed. Q and the residents as well worked the fields under guns.
“I also am receiving instructions,” Emilio said, “and acting on them. The best that we can do, captain, is to acknowledge that both sides are aware of the situation, and your reasonable request will be honored. We are both under orders.”
A reasonable man might have been placated. Porey was not. He simply scowled. Perhaps he resented the order which had put him on Downbelow; perhaps it was his natural expression. Likely he was short of sleep; the short intervals at which the troops outside were being relieved indicated they had not come in fresh, and Porey’s crew had been in evidence, not Porey—alterday crew, perhaps. “Take your time,” Porey repeated, and it was evident that he would remember the time taken—the day that he had the chance to do things his own way. “By your leave,” Emilio said, received no courtesy, and stood up and walked out. The guards let him go, down the short corridor and via lift to the ship’s big belly, where lift functioned as lock, into Downbelow atmosphere. He drew up his mask and walked down the lowered ramp into the cool wind. They had not yet sent occupation forces to the other camps. He reckoned that they would like to, but that their forces were limited, and there were no landing areas at those sites. As for Percy’s demand for supplies, he reckoned he could come up with the requested amount; it scanted them, certainly scanted station, but their balking and the stripped domes, he reckoned, had at least gotten the Fleet’s demand down to something tolerable. Situation improved, his father’s most recent message had been. No evacuation planned. Fleet contemplating permanent base at Pell. That was not the best news. It was not the worst. All his life he had figured on the war as a debt which had to come due someday, in some generation. That Pell could not keep its neutrality forever. While the Company agents had been with them, he had hoped, forlornly, that some outside force might be prepared to intervene. It was not. They had Mazian, instead, who was losing the war Earth would not finance, who could not protect a station that might decide to finance him, who knew nothing of Pell, and cared nothing for Downbelow’s delicate balances.
Where are the Downers? the troops had asked. Frightened by strangers, he had answered. There was no sign of them. He did not plan that there should be. He tucked Porey’s supply request into his jacket pocket and walked the path up and over the hill. He could see the troops standing here and there among the domes, rifles evident; could see the workers far off among the fields, all of them, turned out to work regardless of schedules or age or health. Troops were down at the mill, at the pumping station. They were asking questions among the workers about production rates. So far it had not shaken the basic story, that station had simply absorbed what they produced. There were all those ships up there, all those merchanters orbiting station. It was not likely that even Mazian would start singling out merchanters and taking supply from them… not when they were that numerous.
But Mazian, the thought kept nagging at him, had not out-maneuvered Union this long to be taken in by Emilio Konstantin. Not likely. He walked the path down over the bridge in the gully, up again, toward operations. He saw its door open, saw Miliko come outside, stand waiting for him, her black hair blowing, her arms clenched against the day’s chill. She had wanted to come to the ship with him, fearing his going alone into Porey’s hands, without witnesses. He had argued her out of it. She started toward him now, coming down the hill, and he waved, to let her know it was at least as all right as it was likely to be.
They were still in command of Downbelow.