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full explanation would consume vital time. A sketchy outline would tell you
little." Half apologetically he added, "Dione has my consent to explain every
aspect of the project."
As he spoke, Ulmstead led Cranston to the door. "Two hours? It's important."
The request was half question, half plea. Cranston was too amazed at the
tornado of emotions a simple word had provoked in
Commander Ulmstead to balk. He nodded. The door closed.
Then he remembered again: Three dead crewmen, a marionette tumbling, attempted
murder in deep space.
A helpless fury gripped him and he stormed past Ulmstead's ever-present
secretary, her head bent at some task on her desk. Jason
Clarke's project was still a mystery to him. Add to that Ulmstead's violent
reaction over a name. And, from the commander's manner, he knew too well that
a return from the outpost wasn't necessarily a conclusion to the mission.
He knew as little about more than ever before.
Cranston strode to the hospital in heel-jolting strides. A cruising aircushion
taxi slowed, then speeded up as Cranston waved him off. He needed to walk some
physical action to work off his anger.
Night had descended on the Citiplex, and in this area only a few late workers
now scurried to their dwellings. The click of his footsteps echoed from near
deserted streets as his meeting with Ulmstead whirled through his mind.
He had little thought for anything else. Otherwise Cranston's senses might
have told him of the shadowed movements across the street, silent and swift,
that stalked him intently as yet a third shape flitted not far behind.
CHAPTER 10
Cranston's subconscious registered danger and wrenched his thoughts from his
meeting with Ulmstead. His stride remained steady. But his mind, now sharply
alert, evaluated the signals all around him.
A flicker of a shadow at his extreme right told Cranston that at least one
person was behind him. Logically, at least another was there to fit out a
team. And, probably, he could count on three.
Cranston smiled grimly. In his present mood he almost welcomed a fight. But
next time, he warned himself, he'd better crank in more lead time. As it was
they were beginning to close in. He mentally cursed his lack of foresight in
not carrying a weapon. He never had in a Citiplex. The habit of leaving his
lasegun aboard his starship had become a ritual. That was going to change.
He spotted a stairway, marked by a green light, inside the arcade of a
building: an entrance to the Citiplex's underground tubeway. A strategy came
to mind.
On the street, in the open, he could easily be encircled. But in a tunnel or
narrow passageway, his attackers would be more constrained.
Cranston darted for the stairway and descended into a long, narrow
vestibule, obviously given heavy use during the- working day but now empty. A
row of entranceways open for the crowds was now barred shut. A single stallway
at the end of the vestibule gave the only access to the tubeway platform a
flight below. The entrance resembled an air lock and fit one person at a time.
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Cranston moved into the boxlike stallway, jabbed his ideticard into a slot,
and pushed. The entrance revolved and he was inside. A computer would
automatically bill the charge to his credit account. He hoped he'd be alive to
pay it.
A string of light panels dimly lit the narrow passageway ahead. A few steps
away another stairway led down to the tubeway platform. He listened and heard
the scuffle of steps on the stairs. They'd reach the stairway in a moment.
Cranston quickly undid a thick belt circling his waist and wrapped one end
around his hand. The heavy buckle hung free.
If he didn't have a weapon, he'd improvise.
Darkness would be an ally. Cranston moved toward the light panels.
The belt whirred and the buckle hit the panels in quick succession. The
plastic covering of each cracked. Circuits broke and the electrofiuorescent
panels dimmed and died. Only the faint light through the now-barred
entranceway cut the gloom.
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