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They weren't going to have any more of him, and that was all there was to it. Joe Kivelson was grumbling about his broken arm; that meant that when a fight started, he could only go in swinging with one fist, and that would cut the fun in half. Another reason why Joe is a wretched shot is that he doesn't like pistols. They're a little too impersonal to suit him.
Power units don't blow, and if one did, it would vaporize the whole ship and a quarter of a cubic mile of water around her. No, that was old fashioned country-style chemical explosive. Cataclysmite, probably." "Ravick?" he asked, rather unnecessarily. "You know how well he can get along without you and Joe Kivelson, and here's a chance to get along without both of you together."
"We could stow the wax, if we didn't get too much, but if we stay out, we'll have to wait out the wind and by then it'll be pretty cold." "The longer we stay out, the more the cruise'll cost," Abdullah Monnahan, the engineer, said, "and the expenses'll cut into the shares." "Tell the truth, I'm sort of antsy to get back," Joe Kivelson said. "I want to see what's going on in Port Sandor."
There was a big crowd there, too, at the bar, at the game machines, or just standing around in groups talking. I saw Tom Kivelson and his father and Oscar Fujisawa, and went over to join them. Joe Kivelson is just an outsize edition of his son, with a blond beard that's had thirty-five years' more growth.
I hadn't anything to add to what Tom had told them already, but I was the Times, and if the Times says so it's true. "Well, I wouldn't want any drunk like Bish Ware shooting around me with a pistol," Joe Kivelson said. That's relative, too. Joe doesn't drink. "Don't kid yourself, Joe," Oscar told him. "I saw Bish shoot a knife out of a man's hand, one time, in One Eye Swanson's.
"Is that the Kivelson boy's father?" the Sikh asked me, and when I nodded, he lifted the phone to his lips again. "Captain Kivelson," the loudspeaker said, "your son is alive and under skin-grafting treatment here at the spaceport hospital. His life is not, repeat not, in danger. The men you are after are here, under guard.
"And that etaoin shrdlu traitor of a Ware!" Joe Kivelson added. "And Bish Ware," Oscar agreed. "They only have fifty police; we have three or four thousand men." Three or four thousand undisciplined hunters, against fifty trained, disciplined and organized soldiers, because that was what the spaceport police were. I knew their captain, and the lieutenants.
It was Cesário Vieira, another Javelin man; he's engaged to Linda Kivelson, Joe's daughter and Tom's sister, the one going to school on Terra. Then we had reached Tom and Joe Kivelson. Oscar grabbed Joe by the arm. "Come on, Joe; let's get moving," he said. "Hallstock's Gestapo are on the way. They have orders to get you dead or alive." "Like blazes!" Joe told him.
Finally, they picked their delegation: Joe Kivelson, Oscar Fujisawa, Casmir Oughourlian the shipyard man, one of the engineers at the nutrient plant, and the Reverend Hiram Zilker, the Orthodox-Monophysite preacher. They all had pistols, even the Reverend Zilker, so I went back to the jeep and put mine on. Ranjit Singh had switched his radio off the speaker and was talking to somebody else.
They were very careful to make sure they had enough for a legal quorum under the bylaws, and then they voted to accept the new price of thirty-five centisols a pound." "That's what I was afraid of," Joe Kivelson said. "Did they arrest any of my crew?" "Not that I know of," Bish said. "They made a few arrests, but turned everybody loose later. They're still looking for you and your son.
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