| this is the mission director. What is your status?” “Harry, is that you?” “Dylan?” “It’s me. Thank God, Harry! I didn’t think I’d ever hear another human voice.” “Dylan, what happened up there?” “I don’t know. I’m in the lab. One of the EMUs was showing default. I climbed in to check it out. Then I heard… Jesus, Harry, it sounded like they were being strangled. And the commo gear was down—” “Dylan, hang on, okay? Try to stay calm. Is there anyone else in the lab?” “No.” “And you’ve had no communication with the rest of the crew?” “No. Harry, listen. What—?” “We don’t know, Dylan. That’s the long and the short of it. We got a garbled message out of Wallace but he couldn’t tell us what happened. It had to be something fast and extremely lethal. We’re thinking a bug got loose. Do you have anything like that on board?” Actually what I have is a shuttle that’s one big hot zone. But what he said was: “Christ, Harry! What are you talking about? Look at the manifest. The worst we’re carrying is Legionnaires’ and that’s still in the biofreezer.” “Dylan, you have to do this,” Landon said in a measured tone. “You have to go back into the orbiter and see… and tell us what you see.” “Harry!” “Dylan, we have to know.” “What if they’re all dead, Harry? What am I supposed to do for them?” “Nothing, son. There’s nothing you can do. But we’re |
a finely honed ten-inch blade with a sturdy leather handle. Now that he had a weapon, Howell proceeded to the docks, where the taverns and rooming houses were definitely not mentioned in the tourist guides. Howell knew that the bar was called La Pretoria, although there was no sign on the stone walls. Inside was a large, crowded room with sawdust on the floor and timbers lining the ceiling. Fishermen and boatbuilders, mechanics and sailors sat at long communal tables drinking grappa, beer, or cold, flinty Sicilian wine. Wearing corduroy pants, an old fisherman’s sweater, and a knitted cap, Howell attracted little attention. He bought two grappas at the bar and carried the drinks to the end of one of the tables. The man sitting across from him was short and thickset, with an unshaven face scarred by the sea and wind. Cold gray eyes regarded Howell through the haze of cigarette smoke. “I was surprised to hear from you, Peter,” he said in a hoarse voice. Howell raised his thimbleful of grappa. “Salute, Franco.” Franco Grimaldi— one-time member of the French Foreign Legion, now a professional smuggler— put down his cigarette and lifted his glass. He had to do this because he had only his right arm, having lost the left one to a Tunisian rebel’s sword. The two men tossed back their drinks and Grimaldi jammed the cigarette back between his lips. “So, old friend. What brings you to my parlor?” “The Rocca brothers.” Grimaldi’s fleshy lips creased |
