第14节

struments of war. This

was where the real power lay - in the technological superiority of the

Federation. He could not ignore the forces Mr Snow had unleashed upon

The Lady from Louisiana. Forces that had almost wrecked the

wagon-train and which he himself had seen Clearwater summon

inexplicably out of thin air. But had not the old wordsmith confessed

that a single bullet from a Skyhawk had almost killed him before the

clan's attack on the wagon-train had gotten underway?

As they sat waiting for the concrete curtain in front of them to rise

on its battery of huge hydraulic rams, each as thick as a man's body,

the thought now uppermost in Steve's mind was to get through the

inevitable interrogation as quickly and cleanly as possible and be

reassigned to overground duty aboard The Lady. He did not yet know how

he would react if he were sent into action against the Plainfolk clan

who had held him prisoner but it was not something that Steve saw any

need to lose sleep over. The dilemma, insofar as one existed, would

eventually be resolved, as always, to his best advantage...

With the inner ramp door closed safely behind them, the Red Rivermen

deplaned and while Wyman logged their arrival with the ramp control

office, Lundkwist, Minelli and Reardon hauled Steve out of the Skyrider

and checked he was still securely hooded and chained.

Lundkwist saw a group of six Deputy Provost-Marshals walking towards

them from the far end of the ramp access bay. They wore the usual dark

blue jumpsuits and white helmets similar to a wingman's bone-dome but

the visor - of mirrored silver - had a curved bottom edge like a pair

of sunglasses. The helmets had 'PM' painted on the front in big red

letters and a band of the same colour going right around it. This

white-red-white sandwich had led to a Deputy Provo being known as a

'meat-loaf'; a derisive title bestowed by certain groups of Trackers

who, despite the constant exhortations, were less responsive to the

laws of the Federation than they might be.

Emerging from the ramp control office, Wyman hurried over to where

Lundkwist and the others were waiting with Steve. 'Good news, guys,

they're rustling up a cup of java for us in the ramp control office.

I've been in touch with Big Red One. We've got permission to cancel

out for an hour before the return trip."

'Great,' chorussed LUndkwist, Reardon and Minelli.

'Okay, this way, mister." Steve felt two people take hold of his arms

and march him forward. He knew Lundkwist was on his left from the

supportive squeeze she gave him.

Rick Wyman led the way towards the DPs, handed over the hooded

defaulter with the minimum of ceremony then turned his back and walked

away, followed by the other Red Rivermen. Nobody looked back in case

the gesture was misinterpreted. Provos were bad news.

Steve felt the sudden hostile atmosphere just as surely as he had felt

the enveloping concrete. Bodies closed in on either side and behind

him. Someone kicked at his heels, forcing him to almost lose his

balance. Several hands slammed into him, pushing him back upright and

he was simultaneously assaulted by a chorus of hard-edged voices.

'Stand up straight, you cee-bee bastard!" 'What are you - a sack of

lumpshit? I' 'Beaver-lickin' Mute-sucker!" 'Get your gammy ass into

gear!" 'Okay, move it!" He was seized roughly by both arms.

The tip of a Provost rubber truncheon was rammed sharply into the base

of his spine just above his ass sending a sickening wave of pain

flooding through his back. Steve stumbled forwards.

'Pick it up, pick it up!" yelled a harsh voice. 'Head up, get those

shoulders back!" The jabbing tip of the truncheon began to beat time

on his ki!neys.

'Left-right-left-right-left-right-left I' When the hood was pulled off,

Steve was still standing, but only just. His back was on fire and his

thighs felt rubbery. He looked over his shoulder and saw the door

closing behind him. Glancing down, Steve saw that an additional chain

had been looped over the one linking his knee shackles. He was now

padlocked to an anchor point in the floor of a small office, facing an

empty desk with a swivel chair behind it. Apart from the usual

ventilation grilleS, the fawn-coloured walls were completely bare.

There was nothing to indicate where he was or what the function of the