Brad
nodded at Zolan who acknowledged the tug's
instruction. Adari trimmed the Raven's controls
and clamped a mag beam on the tug. She and the
tug driver exchanged salutations and prattled
navigational details as the escort moved off with
the Raven following like an elephant leashed to a
flea. Adari logged their destination: Slot 09 along
Coldfield marker 13K.

Their passage was slow. Despite the heavy traffic
of tugs, taxis, and other small craft the lanes
were orderly and the flow steady. Traffic thinned
as the ship drifted across surface-parked lots for
small vessels and disappeared entirely as the Raven
closed on its mooring towers.

The escort rattled off the coordinates and the
Raven fixed her position. Adari released the
mag-beam. The tug slipped around to starboard
and mag-nosed the clumsy vessel into its slot. A
command from the tug and mooring beams glowed
at the fore-and-aft towers to immobilize the Raven.
Adari and the tug driver exchanged rough civilities
and the escort was up and away.

"Lock down, fore and aft," Brad intoned. "Safety
check mooring beams and vital connections. Secure
all internal hatches and passages. Set environment
controls at minimal levels for an indefinite stay.
Report."

He keyed the order into the log, added the time
of entry, and keyed the record closed using his
suspended Space Master's code.

Myra assembled records required by port officials.
Hodak and Adari consulted checklists as they
trooped from one compartment to the next; Hodak
opened and closed switches, turned wheels and
secured and sealed valves as Adari observed and
verified. She surveyed each station, mumbled,
"confirmed," and initialed the appropriate items
on her copy of the checklist.

Zolan closed down the deep space communications
system and inspected their suit's intercoms. Kumiko
drew six handguns from a rack, checked firing
controls and charges, and fitted the weapons to
suits.

Zolan called for a taxi.

##

"Lock-sealing the effective range on personal
weapons is the first order of business for all
newcomers."

The officious clerk in the Port Registration Office
was skinny, short, stooped and sallow; and he
squinted as if he had just emerged from darkness
into glare. The deep wrinkles around his mouth
twitched from cast-iron grin to scowl and back as
he pointed from Brad's holster to the waist-high
counter that separated them.

Brad drew his sidearm, checked the safety and
set i