I pulled my gun and ducked behind a barrel as she started to run. The cop yelled and came after her. I snapped a shot over his head, and that drove him into cover. Over the shouts that rose, I could hear her footsteps fading out.
I followed her cautiously, sliding from behind one ashcan to another, keeping the cops down with an occasional shot. I made it out of the alley and into the street, then ducked into a doorway, kicked the lock loose, took the stairs two at a time to the roof, and got away over the housetops.
And all the time, I was wondering about Pat, the job that Transolar was going to offer me, and how she'd known about it.
II
Mort Weidmann was the same Captain Weidmann who'd left an arm in the cockpit of a K class scoutbomber that he'd flown through a formation of Marties while he almost bled to death. He looked very military in his blue and silver uniform. It wasn't a TSN uniform, of course, but even a Transolar Express rig makes an old soldier feel better.
He was another old friend of mine, like Thorsten. The three of us had been touched by the war, each in our separate ways. Mort was the one who didn't just feel a yearning for space, who didn't just ride on a TSN uniform because it was the one available way. Mort had loved the TSN itself, with a pride in the traditions that guys like Thorsten and me hadn't quite had. He'd been a better officer because of it—and the only one who couldn't have stayed.
And, as we'd gone our separate ways, so our ways of thinking had changed. Thorsten—well, he'd taken his choice, and some day I might have to go into the Belt and do something about it, but Mort's attitude hurt. He didn't have any respect for me—he couldn't have, for a man who'd resigned his commission and become a planet-hopper.
He stood at the window in his office, his phony arm tucked into a pocket, his moustache moving up and down as he talked to me.
"I don't know why they picked you, Ash," he said.