Joe Kivelson was grumbling about his broken arm; that meant that when
a fight started, he could only go in swinging with one fist, and that
would cut the fun in half. Another reason why Joe is a wretched shot
is that he doesn't like pistols. They're a little too impersonal to
suit him. They weren't for Oscar Fujisawa; he had gotten a
Mars-Consolidated Police Special out of the chart-table drawer and put
it on, and he was loading cartridges into a couple of spare clips.
Down on the main deck, the gunner was serving out small arms, and
there was an acrimonious argument because everybody wanted a chopper
and there weren't enough choppers to go around. Oscar went over to the
ladder head and shouted down at them.
"Knock off the argument, down there; you people are all going to stay
on the ship. I'm going up to the _Times_; as soon as I'm off, float
her out into the inner channel and keep her afloat, and don't let
anybody aboard you're not sure of."
"That where we're going?" Joe Kivelson asked.
"Sure. That's the safest place in town for Mr. Murell and I want to
find out exactly what's going on here."
"Well, here; you don't need to put me in storage," Murell protested.
"I can take care of myself."
Add, Famous Last Words, I thought.
"I'm sure of it, but we can't take any chances," Oscar told him.
"Right now, you are Fenris's Indispensable Man. If you're not around
to buy tallow-wax, Ravick's won the war.
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