[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Venn in a nearly undiplomatic manner. But at length, he was issued a different
quaddie patroller who did indeed escort him and Roic to the spot where Garnet
Five had been so uncomfortably cached.
The dimly lit utility corridor had a flat floor and squared-off walls, and
while not exactly cramped, shared its cross section with a great deal of duct
work, which Roic had to bend to avoid. Around an obliquely angled turn, they
found three quaddies, one in a Security uniform and two in shorts and shirts,
working behind a stretched-out plastic ribbon printed with the Graf Station
Security logo. Forensics techs at last, and about time. The young male rode in
a floater broadly stenciled with a Graf Station technical school
identification number. An intent-looking middle-aged female piloted a floater
that bore the mark of one of the station clinics.
The shorts-and-shirt man in the tech school floater, hovering carefully,
finished a laser scan for fingerprints along the edge and top of a large
square bin sticking out into the corridor at a convenient height to bang the
shins of the unwary passerby. He moved aside, and his colleague moved into
place and began to run over the surfaces with what looked to be a standard
sort of skin cell- and fiber-collecting hand-vac.
Was that the bin where Garnet Five was hidden? Miles asked the quaddie
officer who was supervising.
Yes.
Miles leaned forward, only to be waved back by the intently vacuuming tech.
After extracting promises to be informed of any interesting cross-matches in
the evidence, he strolled up and down the corridor instead, hands scrupulously
tucked in his pockets, looking for... what? Cryptic messages written in blood
on the walls? Or in ink, or spit, or snot, or something
. He checked the floor, ceiling, and ducts, too, at Bel-
height and lower, angling his head to catch odd reflections. Nothing.
Were all these doors locked? he asked the patroller who shadowed them. Have
they been checked yet? Could someone have bunged Bel - dragged Portmaster
Thorne inside one?
You'll have to ask the officer in charge, sir, the quaddie guard replied,
exasperation leaking into his service-issue neutral tone. I only just got
here with you.
Miles stared at the doors and their key pads in frustration. He couldn't very
well go down the row trying them all, not unless the scanner man was finished.
He returned to the bin.
Finding anything? he inquired.
Not - The medical quaddie glanced aside at the officer in charge. Was this
area swept before I got here?
Not as far as I know, ma'am, said the officer.
Why do you ask? Miles inquired instantly.
Well, there isn't very much. I would have expected more.
Try further away, suggested the scanner tech.
She cast him a somewhat bemused look. That's not quite the point. In any
Page 92
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
case, after you. She gestured down the corridor, and Miles hurriedly confided
his worries about the doors to the officer in charge.
The crew dutifully scanned everything, including, at Miles's insistence, the
ductwork above, where the assailant might have braced himself in
near-concealment to drop upon his victims. They tried each door. Fingers
tapping impatiently on his trouser seam, Miles followed them up and down the
corridor as they completed their survey. All doors proved locked... at least,
they were now. One hissed open as they passed, and a blinking shopkeeper with
legs poked his head through; the quaddie officer interrogated him briefly, and
he in turn helped rouse his neighbors to cooperate in the search. The quaddie
woman collected lots of little plastic bags of nothing much. No unconscious
hermaphrodite was discovered in any bin, hallway, utility closet, or shop
adjoining the passageway.
The utility corridor ran for about another ten meters before opening
discreetly into a broader cross-corridor lined with shops, offices, and a
small restaurant. The scene would have been quieter partway into third shift
last night, but by no means reliably deserted, and just as well lit. Miles
pictured the lanky Firka lugging or dragging
Bel's compact but substantial form down the public way... wrapped in something
for concealment? It would almost have to be. It would take a strong man to lug
Bel far.
Or... someone in a floater. Not necessarily a quaddie.
Roic, looming at his shoulder, sniffed. The spicy smells wafting into the
corridor, into which the eatery cannily vented its bakery ovens, reminded
Miles of his duty to feed his troops. Troop. The disgruntled quaddie guard
could fend for himself, Miles decided.
The place was small, clean, and cozy, the sort of cheap cafe where the local
working people ate. It was evidently past the breakfast rush and not yet time
for lunch, because it was occupied only by a couple of legged young men who
might be shop assistants, and a quaddie in a floater who, judging by her
crowded tool belt, was an electrician on break. They stared covertly at the
Barrayarans - more at tall Roic in his not-from-around-here brown-and-silver
uniform than at short Miles in his unobtrusive gray civvies. Their quaddie
security guard distanced himself slightly -
with their party but not of it - and ordered coffee in a bulb.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
