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  "Antique firearms. Exploded views, please. I will need all the information gathered from this session supplied to me on a crystal when I am done." Gunsel wondered if the image on the screen was a real librarian or a computer-generated personality. He guessed the latter, since Postlewait was so obsequiously polite, but he had to chuckle at the ingenuity of the programmer to invent such an oddball personality.

  "May I have an account number to which this service can be billed?" Postlewait asked.

  Art Gunsel started. "Since when did you start charging for your services?"

  "Forever," Postlewait replied. "This is not a free library."

  Gunsel shrugged and gave him the information needed. A menu flashed onto the screen.

  For the next several hours Gunsel lost himself in the library's exhaustive firearms catalog. The technical detail he found there fascinated him. Occasionally he transferred something to a crystal. He would master the science of ballistics and the art of gunsmithing on the long trip to Avionia. What he needed was the data to permit him to do that. Eventually he found what he wanted in the pages of an obscure magazine published monthly during the latter half of the twentieth century: the Schumer .22 caliber survival rifle. "Thank you, National Rifle Association, whatever you were," he whispered.

  The Schumer was ultralightweight, manufactured from aluminum and plastic. Gunsel would have to make every screw, every part for this rifle, from scratch. Should it have a collapsible stock? He would make one and see which model the Avionians preferred. Either way, the stock would have to be made out of durable high impact plastic with an aluminum buffer and recoil spring.

  In another publication he found instructions on how to make an efficient sound suppressor. But would the Avionian primitives want a noisy weapon, to intimidate their foes? He would make one anyway and, like the collapsible stocks, see how the Avionians reacted to the device. Perhaps he would design a "deluxe" model with collapsible stock and sound suppressor exclusively for the use of the—Cheereek, did they call themselves?—leaders, to distinguish them from the warriors.

  Next he turned his attention to gunsmithing tools. He would need an array of instruments so he could fix the rifles in the field.

  He studied ballistics, bullet, and cartridge specifications. He decided on a .22 caliber long-rifle standard velocity rim-fire brass cartridge for his rifle. The cartridges would require extractor grooves since his rifle would be semiautomatic. He would use a smokeless double-base propellant charge, nitrocellulose supplemented by nitroglycerine in a ratio of ten-to-forty percent—he would determine the exact mix once he was en route to Avionia and had time to experiment. He found that smokeless power is produced by colloiding nitrocellulose with special solvents followed by a drying process and that the nitroglycerine bonded with the nitrocellulose and would not separate in storage. That would be an excellent feature for ammunition to be used and stored by the warriors of a fifteenth century culture.

  Because the reference articles were, almost literally, ancient history, all the tables were in yards and inches and feet per second, so he had to make the conversions in his head. He decided on a forty-grain bullet fired from a barrel ninety calibers, or eighteen inches long, which was the optimum barrel length to develop the highest muzzle velocity, 1,150 feet per second, with a maximum range at sea level of about 4,800 feet. At a hundred yards that velocity would have dropped to 976 feet per second and hit with eighty-five foot pounds of energy, more than enough to wound or kill a man at that range. From what little he understood of Avionian physiology, that would be enough to kill them.

  He would have to design and construct the equipment needed to make bullets and cartridges and load them. He would have to learn how to manufacture the high-quality double-base gunpowder needed to propel the bullets and then make a machine to load the shells. He would have to craft several hundred magazines, all from scratch. That should be simple, he realized. All he needed was a light hollow metal box, a base plate on one end, a spring and a follower on the loading end, the whole thing big enough for five tiny brass cartridges. He decided to make three for each rifle. That way each warrior could ride into battle with fifteen rounds. If that proved insufficient, he could make more magazines and Patch could sell them to the Cheereek for exorbitant sums.

  He'd also need an indoor test range on board the ship, to test-fire the weapons as they came off his production line. The manufacturing process was complicated but everything he needed to know was somewhere in the data bases at the Fargo Main Library. And best of all, the starship would be equipped with a miniaturized, fully automated Dillon precision-tool factory suite.

  "Information is where you find it," Librarian Postlewait said as Gunsel placed his final order. "May I ask you, sir, why you are interested in these old firearms?"

  "Certainly. I'm an antique firearms enthusiast. I build them to original specifications and then with a few friends I run about in the woods, pretending to be a twentieth century American Libertarian. It's great fun."

  "Goodness," Postlewait exclaimed, "thank heavens those days are long gone! Well, sir, do play safely."

  "Oh, I will, Librarian Postlewait, I certainly will." On his way out of the library, Gunsel concluded that Postlewait had to be a real person; no computer programmer would ever create anything so hopelessly naive.

  Chapter 6

  Dr. Spencer Herbloc, distinguished graduate of several prestigious universities, sat groggily on the edge of his bed. His head throbbed and his stomach churned dangerously. He ran a shaking hand through the thinning hair on his bulbous head then sighed. He grimaced at the odor on his breath, foul with the fumes of the rotgut alcohol he'd consumed the night before. Apparently he'd fallen into his bed fully clothed. His shirt and trousers were crusted with dried vomit. "God, it must have been drunk out last night," he muttered. He groaned. Speaking made his head ache.

  Carefully working on his balance, he got painfully to his feet and staggered to the bathroom console set into the far wall of his tiny cubicle. The effort made his head spin; his stomach lurched sickeningly. He leaned with both arms on the basin, breathing heavily. The short trip across the room had exhausted him. "Water, cold," he croaked, wincing at the pain that shot through his head. Dutifully the lavatory system spewed cold water into the basin. Cupping his hands, he gulped mouthful after mouthful of the ice cold liquid. That doused the fire in the pit of his stomach but left him feeling bloated. He splashed water onto his face and over his head; he put his head under the tap and let the water run over him for a full minute. Finally, soaking wet, he staggered back to his bed and collapsed.

  He tried to remember the events of the evening. Up to midnight everything was still clear in his mind, the alcohol-induced euphoria, the admiring barflies, the beautiful prostitute named... named? He couldn't remember her goddamned name! He'd picked her up in the Fifth Reich Bierstube on Luna Station's fifth level. Dressed in second-skin stranglex pants and legionnaire boots, she'd been stunning, as her kind usually were to men who've had enough to drink. She'd prodded him playfully in sensitive places with her riding crop. Her costume had left her breasts bare, and they hung before his hungry eyes all night, as gloriously enticing as ripe melons. Throughout the evening Herbloc had tried unsuccessfully to get his lips on her enormous red nipples but she'd had no trouble fending off his increasingly drunken advances. She'd promised him a night of sensuous pleasure but he couldn't even remember leaving the bar with her.

  But, clearly he had left the bar. He groaned and reached for his wallet. It was empty! He'd had a thousand on him last night, what was left of the advance Patch had given him for expense money while they waited at Luna Station for Tweed's ships to be readied. Some of the money had gone to buy round after round of drinks for the barflies he'd attracted. But Whatshername had gotten the rest. He'd been rolled. It wasn't the first time. God protected drunks, not their wallets. He could feel no new bumps or bruises on his body so he hadn't been assaulted. She must've picked his pocket when he passed out s
omewhere. At least that was something. One night a whore in New Carnavon had cracked his skull wide open to get at his money.

  "Time?" he asked the clock by his bedside.

  "It is now six hours," a melodious voice answered. He sighed and tried to relax. He vowed, for the umpteenth time, never to touch alcohol again. But Herbloc knew from experience that with the aid of hangover drugs he would be halfway human again by noon and ready once more to break that solemn vow. Why, he wondered, with a universe of harmless euphoria drugs available, did he have to be an alcoholic?

  The buzzing of his door flashed through Herbloc's skull like a lightning bolt and jolted him almost upright. "Wh-Who is it?" he croaked.

  "Patch."

  Oh my God! What the hell was he doing there at this hour? Herbloc rolled painfully off his bed and threw a robe over his stained clothing. He shuffled to the basin and turned the water on. "Come in," he said around the toothbrush he crammed into his mouth.

  Sam Patch took two paces into the room and stopped. He wrinkled his nose.

  "I'm fine, sir, just fine," Herbloc mumbled over the running water.

  "Listen, you miserable gutsack, the ship will be ready by noon. Be on board, Herbloc, all your shit packed. If you aren't there I'll have my men come and get you, and once we're on our way, I'll have Sly teach you sobriety. The next drink you take on my payroll will have to be fed to you through your asshole. Now get yourself together, Doctor."

  Herbloc's insides churned horribly. He knew Patch would not kill him—not until the job was over. But Spencer Herbloc had no doubt that Sam Patch would maim him very painfully if that's what Patch thought was needed to keep him in line. He turned his head and gave Patch what he hoped was a smile of confidence and poise. But Patch saw only an idiot's leering grin, one with toothpaste dripping from the corners of the mouth, when Herbloc said, "Not to worry, old man! I've never missed a day's work in my life because of drink."

  Without warning, an enormous fountain of tap water and bile gushed up from Herbloc's stomach and cascaded out onto the floor, some of it splashing Sam Patch's shoes.

  Art Gunsel had never been happier than on the long flight to Avionia. The Dillon fully automated tool and die suite Tweed had installed on the small freighter Marquis de Rien was just what he needed. With the detailed drawings and hundreds of screens of text produced by his research, he had not been seriously challenged in his effort to reproduce the Schumer rifle or manufacture its cartridges.

  "Boy-o," Herbloc had said one day, picking up one of the tiny shell casings and examining it, "the Cheereek will be ecstatic over these things! They love shiny stuff."

  "As much as you love booze?" Gunsel answered, hunched over his workbench.

  "Humpf. Boy-o, a small toddy for the body is just what a man of advancing years requires to inure him to—to—" Herbloc gestured at the bulkheads. Somehow he had managed to smuggle a supply of whiskey on board the Marquis de Rien, but mindful of Patch's threats, he had gone easy on his drinking for several weeks. Patch's deputy, Sly Henderson, knew Herbloc occasionally took a nip from his supply, but so long as the scientist remained in control of himself, Henderson did not interfere with his drinking.

  "You just better watch out you don't piss Sam off, Doctor," Gunsel said.

  "Boy-o, we will see very little of the estimable Sam Patch on this voyage. He is leaving planetside operations to Mr. Henderson and keeping to the Lady Tee." The Lady Tee was the Bomarc executive-class starship Patch was using for himself. He did not plan to spend much time on the surface of Avionia. He certainly was not going to be there if anything went wrong.

  "We, my dear Artie" Herbloc continued, "are under the command of the indefatigable Sly Henderson, a man in my estimation who—"

  At that very moment Sly Henderson stepped into the machine shop. "Who what, Doctor?" Henderson asked.

  "Ahem." Herbloc coughed politely, his face reddening. "I was just saying to our estimable craftsman here how much we admire your management and leadership skills." He bowed slightly at the waist.

  "Shouldn't you be off somewhere, studying your Cheereek lexicon or something? Brushing up on your chirps and cheeps?"

  "Ah, no need to, my dear sir;" Herbloc answered. "It's all right here, boy-o, all up here." He tapped his head with a tobacco-stained forefinger.

  "Doctor," Henderson said, nodding toward the companionway, indicating that Herbloc should leave them alone, "that's an interesting aftershave lotion you're wearing. Is that a hint of vodka? Or is it gin?"

  Herbloc's face twitched in an embarrassed smile and he excused himself.

  Henderson shook his head and smiled. Heavyset, about sixty-five years old, when Henderson spoke he was clear and to the point. He had little tolerance for men who would not follow orders, and he was well known around the Confederation underworld as a man who could follow orders himself. Even if those orders were to kill someone.

  "Sly, why did you stick me with that overeducated winesack?" Art Gunsel glared up at Henderson from his workbench.

  "Without him we have no operation, Art. He's going to have to talk to the Cheereek for us. And since he's the only one who can, you'll need him when it comes time to train them on how to use the rifles. How many do you have now?"

  "Fifty-five. The sweetest little babies you ever saw. I'll have the rest by the time we make planetfall."

  Henderson stepped to the bench and picked up one of the completed rifles Gunsel was polishing. He hefted it and sighted along the barrel as Gunsel had told him how to aim it. He set it down and examined a full magazine. "These little things can kill a man?" he asked.

  Gunsel nodded. "Yeah, if you hit him in a vital spot. These little pellets, these ‘bullets,’ will leave this thing traveling at nearly four hundred meters a second. Herbloc says they'll go right through the Cheereek. But I made them out of soft lead, see, so they hit a bone and they'll flatten out to three times their size. Make a big exit hole. Also, you shoot them from far enough away and they'll start to tumble end over end. Make a big mess when they hit. Sly, I've been thinking. What if those Avionians decide to turn these things on us? Herbloc says these Cheereek are fighters."

  Henderson smiled. The Marquis de Rien had been equipped with an array of the most modern—and illegal—weapons. It carried Confederation military infantry weapons for Henderson and the people who had direct contact with the Avionians, and the ship itself had weapons that could easily beat off even the most determined assault by the Avionians. But Patch had been very clear that Henderson was to avoid any contact with the scientists from the station. To be successful, the operation had to be totally clandestine. "Don't worry about that, Art. We have them outgunned." He smiled again, more broadly this time. "How're you going to train the Cheereek to use these things?" he asked.

  Gunsel shrugged. "Well, guess we'll pick a few of the smartest and teach them and then they can teach the others. I'll hang around to advise, and if there're any malfunctions, fix them, of course. Sam said he expected we'd be out on this job a couple of years? Plenty of time to train the Cheereek."

  Henderson nodded his satisfaction. "Art, when it comes to training the Cheereek how to use the rifles, you are in charge. Herbloc will be your interpreter. But when it comes to trading with the Cheereek, Herbloc's the man. That's just the way it's got to be."

  Art Gunsel made a wry face. "Can't we just get along with sign language, Sly?"

  Henderson smiled. "We just might have to, if that old boozehead gives me any more of those ‘my dear fellows’ and ‘boy-os.’"

  Because Tweed had installed a full array of stealth gear on both of Patch's ships, the captain of the Marquis de Rien was able to guide them to an undetected landing a reasonable distance from where the nomadic Cheereek lived during what Herbloc jokingly called "their brooding season." Once the base camp was established, the Marquis de Rien would remain on Avionia until the operation was completed. Patch, in the Lady Tee, would ferry the gems back to civilization. Under anyone else, that arrangement might not h
ave been acceptable, but the men Henderson had recruited all knew Patch personally or by reputation, and they feared him.

  Henderson had recruited twenty-five men, including the five-man crew he needed to navigate and maintain the Marquis de Rien. They brought with them a variety of skills and talents. Some would process the gems in a lab on board the ship so they would be immediately marketable once Patch got them back to civilization. There was even a small dispensary staffed by a doctor and his assistant, who were trained and equipped to perform the most delicate medical procedures. And finally there were men to provide security.

  Since Herbloc was the only member of Henderson's team who had ever set foot on Avionia, the closer the Marquis de Rien came to making planetfall, the more important the scientist became to the whole operation. He briefed the crew on what to expect on the surface of Avionia. He proved to be a very good teacher—except for the fact that he was arrogant and peremptory, openly sneering at some of the questions the crew members asked. His superior attitude did nothing to endear himself to the hardened criminals, and it got worse the closer they came to disembarking.

  "We are stuck with each other, like Damon and Pythias, boy-o," Herbloc confided to Art Gunsel just before landing. "Yes, yes, me boy-o, like Achilles and Patroclus, that's us." He laid a flabby arm boozily across Gunsel's shoulders. Gunsel shook him off angrily. "Oh my," Herbloc exclaimed in mock surprise, "Hephaestus, artificer to the gods, is a moody little chap, isn't he?" But he removed his arm.