White-garbed medics wanted my retina prints and a voice match. I was five feet ten and a half inches tall. The physical exam they put me through seemed perfunctory, but what could they find? Carlos Wu’s autodoc had rebuilt me almost from my DNA map. I’d never been in better shape.
I wanted to view Sharrol and Jeena. The doctors let me see them. They looked all right…well, dead, but otherwise…I was nerving myself to join them.
As if I’d left myself a choice.
What a mess. Poor Sigmund.
What would the local police make of that wound? They’d never seen a corpse like that, but they’d seen a vest like that. The punchgun had torn that kind of hole through a survival vest that had belonged to a Persial January Hebert, who’d sunk out of sight a year and a half ago.
Surely they’d make the connection. They’d come looking for the reclusive Persial January Hebert. Hebert had indulged in a sudden flurry of activity: a phone call here, a hotel room at the Pequod Hotel, a dinner with Ander Smittarasheed.
Without the punchgun Ander might bluff his way through.
But the weapon would nail him, would identify him. He couldn’t hold on to the gun without using it.
Would he even hesitate? A trained ARM facing colony cops? Fafnir is a “human” world. Ander was unlikely to guess how many police are kzinti.
I wondered how much damage Ander would do before it all caught up with him. There could be one fearful bloodbath if he tried to shoot his way free.
Nice for me. Ander dead was Ander silent. But—
Tens of thousands of years from now nobody would find the old ARM records of a wild hypothesis. Nobody would wonder if a trillion powerful aliens had left known space to take possession of the galactic Core. It might never matter, even if I was right…or be all to the good if I was wrong.
Either way, I couldn’t think of a way to stop him.
They were spraying my arm. I would be in a coma when they cooled me down and launched me. I wondered whose face would be looking down at me when I woke.
Larry Niven was born in 1938 in Los Angeles, California. In 1956, he entered the California Institute of Technology, only to flunk out a year and a half later after discovering a bookstore jammed with used science-fiction magazines. He graduated with a B.A. in mathematics (minor in psychology) from Washburn University, Kansas, in 1962, and completed one year of graduate work before he dropped out to write. His first published story, “The Coldest Place,” appeared in the December 1964 issue of Worlds of If. He won the Hugo Award for Best Short Story in 1966 for “Neutron Star,” and in 1974 for “The Hole Man.” The 1975 Hugo Award for Best Novelette was given to “The Borderland of Sol.” His novel Ringworld won the 1970 Hugo Award for Best Novel, the 1970 Nebula Award for Best Novel, and the 1972 Ditmars, an Australian award for Best International Science Fiction.
Larry Niven, Crashlander
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends