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Updated: June 17, 2025
Finally, however, he quieted down, and the boat swung him around, bringing the tail past our bow, and the ship cut contragravity to specific-gravity level and settled to float on top of the water. The boat dived again, and payed out a line that it brought up and around and up again, lashing the monster fast alongside. "All right," Kivelson was saying, out of the intercom. "Shooting's over.
Oscar went over to the ladder head and shouted down at them. "Knock off the argument, down there; you people are all going to stay on the ship. I'm going up to the Times; as soon as I'm off, float her out into the inner channel and keep her afloat, and don't let anybody aboard you're not sure of." "That where we're going?" Joe Kivelson asked. "Sure. That's the safest place in town for Mr.
I saw one of the teachers I'd gone to school to a few years ago, and Joe Kivelson's wife, and Oscar Fujisawa's current girl friend, and Sigurd Ngozori's secretary, and farther off there was an equally improvised coffee-and-sandwich stand. I grounded the jeep, and Murell and I got out and went over to the headquarters. Joe Kivelson seemed to be in charge.
Al Devis had been with us when we crashed the door out of the meeting room, but he'd fallen by the way. We had a couple of flashlights, so, after sending the car down to Bottom Level, we picked our way up the zigzag iron stairs to the catwalk, under the seventy-foot ceiling, and sat down in the dark. Joe Kivelson was fretting about what would happen to the rest of his men.
Of course, he could be on the lam from somewhere, but in that case why bother with all the cover story? Some of our better-known citizens came here dodging warrants on other planets. I was still wondering about Murell when somebody behind me greeted me, and I turned around. It was Tom Kivelson. Tom and I are buddies, when he's in port.
We all piled into the lorry, and Bish took it to an inconspicuous place on the Second Level and let down. Ramón Llewellyn and the others got out. Then we went up to Main City Level. We passed within a few blocks of Hunters' Hall. There was a lot of noise, but no shooting. Joe Kivelson didn't have anything to say, on the trip, but he kept looking at the pilot's seat in perplexity and apprehension.
I started to swing my gun for the chest shot Joe Kivelson had recommended as soon as it was run out, and then the ship was swung around and tilted up forward by a sudden gust of wind. While I was struggling to get the sights back on the monster, the ship gave another lurch and the cross hairs were right on its neck, about six feet below the head.
Captain Courtland, with his tight mouth under a gray mustache and the quadruple row of medal ribbons on his breast, was on the left. In the middle, the seat of honor, was Bish Ware, looking as though he were presiding over a church council to try some rural curate for heresy. As soon as Joe Kivelson saw him, he roared angrily: "There's the dirty traitor who sold us out!
And Tom Kivelson wasn't in the hospital with half the skin burned off his back, and a coin toss whether he lives or not." "Yes. I thought you were Tom's friend," Joe Kivelson reproached me. I wondered how much skin hanging Steve Ravick would grow on Tom's back. I didn't see much percentage in asking him, though.
They were old Regular Army, and they ran the police force like a military unit. "I'll bet Ware was working for Ravick all along," Joe was saying. That wasn't good thinking even for Joe Kivelson. I said: "If he was working for Ravick all along, why did he tip Dad and Oscar and the Mahatma on the bomb aboard the Javelin? That wasn't any help to Ravick." "I get it," Oscar said.
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