Fleet of the Damned (Sten #4). Allan Cole
a much-used kerchief and honked into it. Then he looked at the kale fields again. He noted some blackened areas in the distance; this was just one of many Tahn farms, he understood, that had been hit by roving gangs of Imperial settlers.
“Wouldn’t help with the withering, but one of my fellas sure as hell would take the yellow out.”
“Mister,” the farmer said, “you’re either a damn fool, or—”
The salesman laughed. “At my age,” he said, “I’ve gotten used to a lot worse things than being called a fool.”
“Listen, old man,” the farmer said. “You’re Imperial. Don’t you know better than to come near a Tahn place?”
The salesman snorted. “Pish, man. You’re talkin’ politics. Never gave a damn about politics. Only thing I got in common with politicians is what I sell. Matter of fact, fertilizer’s a lot more useful. And my stuff don’t stick to your boots, either.”
He turned to the cargo compartment of his gravsled. Instantly weapons came up. The salesman just pulled several small bottles out of a carton. He held one out for the farmer, his face total innocence.
“My calling card,” he said.
Cautiously, the Tahn farmer reached over the fence and took one of the bottles. He looked at the printing on the side. The salesman figured that the time was ripe for introductions.
“Ian. Mahoney,” he said. “Fine cider and fertilizer… Go ahead. Try it. Whipped that batch up myself. A little raw, but it’ll do the job.”
The farmer opened the bottle and sniffed. The sweet smell of apples drifted out. And underlying it, there was the sharp odor of alcohol.
“It’s nothing serious,” Mahoney said. “Maybe seventy-five proof or so. Take a honk.”
The farmer sipped, then sucked in his breath. It was good stuff all right. Without hesitation, he chugged down the rest of the bottle.
“That’s damn fine cider,” he said.
Mahoney snorted. “You oughta see my fertilizer. Nothing clotting organic in it. All pure, sweet-smelling chemicals. Great for the plants, and you don’t have to worry about the kids getting ringworm—long as you keep ’em away from your cattle.”
The farmer laughed. Mahoney noted the weapons being lowered. Then, with some relief, he saw the Tahn wave his hulking children over to him in a friendly gesture.
“Say, mister,” the farmer said. “You got any more of that cider?”
“Sure thing.”
And with a honk of his nose, a grin, and a scratch of his behind, Major General Ian Mahoney, commander of the Imperial First Guards Division, reached into the back of his gravcar to buy the boys a drink.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IT WAS A COUNTRY inn—large, gleaming white, with exposed stained beams of expensive wood. The gravcars lined up outside were all reasonably new and worth many, many credits. For kilometers around, the farmland was sleek and water-proud. The name of the place was the Imperial Arms Inn.
Bloody figures, Mahoney thought as he reached for the door.
He heard voices shouting from within in heated debate.
“Clottin’ low-life Tahn. Up to me, police’d clear out every one of them.”
“Clot the police. We gotta take care of our own business. A being oughta kill his own snakes. I say we all get together one night and—”
Mahoney was spotted instantly as he walked inside. A church-hall hush fell over the room. Mahoney automatically honked into his handkerchief—cursing mentally to himself that he had ever dreamed up that touch—and strolled over to the bar.
He eased his bulk into a stool. “Shot and a beer, friend,” he told the bartender.
All around him, every person was listening intently to each word he said. The bartender filled up a mug and placed it before him. A second later, a shot glass chinked beside it.
“Traveling through?” the bartender asked, sounding way too casual.
“Sure am,” Mahoney said. “But real slowly, today. Hell of a hangover.”
He took a sip of his beer and chased it with the full shot. The bartender refilled it.
“Party too hard, huh?”
Mahoney groaned. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said. “I happened by the McGregor place, yesterday. You know the spread—maybe thirty klicks out?”
The bartender nodded, as did the rest of the room. Everyone knew the McGregors.
“They just married off their last kid,” Mahoney said. That was far from news to the crowd in the inn. “I showed up just at reception time. Hit it right off with those nice people. They made me stay and filled me right up with all I could eat and drink.” He snorted through his increasingly reddening nose. “’Course, they didn’t have to twist my arm much.”
Mahoney felt the room relax. A moment later it was all a-babble again. The bartender even bought him the next shot. Mahoney sipped at it and peered about the bar, just one friendly face looking for another.
A well-dressed, overstuffed man strolled over to him, carrying his drink. He sat down beside Mahoney.
“You look like you might be in sales,” the man said.
Mahoney laughed. “Hell, does it change a fellow that quick? Farmed two-thirds of my life. Now I’m into sales. Sorta.”
“What do you mean by sorta?”
Mahoney instantly warmed to the man. He began dragging out circulars and brochures.
“Fertilizer plants is my game,” he said. “Look at these boys. Small, cheap, and you get an output for anything from a kitchen garden to a big sucker of a farm.”
The man seemed genuinely interested. “Say, maybe we could use something like that.”
Mahoney peered at him through his old man’s bushy eyebrows. “No offense, but you don’t seem the farmin’ type.”
“No offense taken,” the man said. “I’m into hardware. Got thirty-two stores and growing.”
“Say, you are a find. Let me tell you about these little guys.” Mahoney went into what he called his dancing-bear act. It took many drinks and the good part of an hour. Other men joined the conversation.
And soon Mahoney was handing out bottles of his “calling card.”
By now his mission had taken him to eleven or more Fringe World planets in nearly that many systems.
He had his cover story fine-tuned. Now he was winding up on the Empire’s capital world for the Fringe System: Cavite.
Mahoney was passing himself off as an elderly farmer who had spent most of his life tending a large, rich spread on one of the key Imperial agricultural systems. He was also a habitual tinkerer, constantly inventing little devices to solve problems that irritated him.
Fertilizer was one of his big bugaboos. Mahoney could go on for hours about the rotten quality and expense of the average fertilizer—and he frequently did, to the dismay of casual dinner guests. Anyway, Mahoney the farmer had invented the dandy little fertilizer plant, then put his own money up to found a small company.
Presently, he was acting as his own advance man, touring agricultural areas to brag about his wares. The fact that he wasn’t asking for any money out front but was merely asking people if one of his salesmen could visit in a month or so eased the suspicions of even the overly hostile settlers of the Fringe Worlds.
Mahoney also thought his homemade cider was a nice touch, as was his old man’s chatter, with his knowledge of farming trivia and the ability to bore just about anyone. His only regret