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Updated: June 23, 2025
"Bring that machine gun, and what small arms you have. I think things are going to get sort of rough in Port Sandor, in the next twenty or so hours." I was beginning to think so, myself. The men who had gotten off the Helldiver, and the ones who got off Corkscrew Finnegan's Dirty Gertie and Nip Spazoni's Bulldog were all talking about what was going to have to be done about Steve Ravick.
I demanded. "Nah; they wouldn't even tell me the right time. Afraid it would excite me." So I told him; first who Bish Ware really was, and then who Ravick really was. He gaped for a moment, and then shoveled in more food. "Go on; what happened?"
Julio Kubanoff answered. "You getting everything I'm sending in?" I asked. "Yes. What's that two-em-dashed thing up ahead, one of the harbor dredgers?" "That's right. Hey, look at this, once." I turned the audiovisual down on the claw derrick. "The men on it look like Rodriguez & Oughourlian's people, but they say Steve Ravick sent it. What do you know about it?" "Hey, Ralph!
After that, Steve Ravick was president of the Co-op. He immediately began a drive to increase the membership. Most of the new members had never been out in a hunter-ship in their lives, but they could all be depended on to vote the way he wanted them to. First, he jacked the price of wax up, which made everybody but the wax buyers happy.
I could never remember an election in Port Sandor, or an election of officers in the Co-op. Ravick had a bunch of goons and triggermen I could see a couple of them loitering in the background who kept down opposition for him. So did Hallstock, only his wore badges and called themselves police. Once in a while, Dad would write a blistering editorial about one or the other or both of them.
He named another hunter-ship captain who had called the Javelin by screen. "We screened everybody else we could." That was the way they ran things in the Hunters' Co-operative. Steve Ravick would wait till everybody had their ships down on the coast of Hermann Reuch's Land, and then he would call a meeting and pack it with his stooges and hooligans, and get anything he wanted voted through.
The T.F.N. destroyer Simón Bolivar, en route from Gimli to pick up the notorious Anton Gerrit, alias Steve Ravick, had come out of hyperspace and into radio range. Dad had talked to the skipper by screen and gotten interviews, which would be telecast, both with him and Detective-Major MacBride of the Colonial Constabulary.
I tried, a few times, to warn some of these captains, but except for Oscar Fujisawa and Corkscrew Finnegan, none of them would listen to me. It wasn't that they had any doubt that Ravick would do that; they just wouldn't believe that any of their crew were traitors.
With all the Colonial Constabulary and Army Intelligence people got on Gerrit on Loki, simple identification will be enough. Gerrit was proven guilty long ago, and it won't be any trouble, now, to prove that Ravick is Gerrit." "Why didn't you arrest him as soon as you got the word from your friend from Afghanistan?" I wanted to know.
Dad had already gotten it, from fire-alarm center, but he hadn't heard that Devis was one of the deceased arsonists. Like me, he was very sorry to hear about it. Devis as Devis was no loss, but alive and talking he'd have helped us pin both the wax fire and the bombing of the Javelin on Steve Ravick. Then I went back and got in the jeep.
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