Read Online All My Sins Remembered by Joe Haldeman - Free Book Online
Authors: Joe Haldeman
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anyone.
Knowing that any guard would also be equipped with nightglasses, Crowell approached the building on a parallel street a block away and sat quietly behind the edge of a building for a half hour, watching the entrance.
Satisfied that the warehouse was unguarded, he crossed to the entrance and studied the lock. It was a simple magnetically coded padlock, and he opened it in a couple of minutes with a desensitizer and a set of picks.
When he closed the door behind him, the light level dropped below the nightglasses’ threshold and Crowell had to use his ultraviolet penstick to see. It was made for close work, but he could get around with it. Directed at his feet it made a bright spot surrounded by a vague circle about a meter in diameter. He couldn’t get any overall view of the warehouse, though, just a dim impression of crates stacked around.
He wasn’t looking for anything specific, and really didn’t have any great expectations. It was just another part of the routine, like going through the mines. He wished it had been possible to get around there without a guide, when it was empty.
Crowell walked around for an hour or so, examining every useless detail. At the other end of the warehouse he came to an open door.
Since it’s open
, he thought,
there can’t be anything worth hiding inside
. But he went in to check.
There was a wide trough along one wall. It proved to be filled with a mixture of sand and sawdust, probably from the native ironwood. The opposite wall was stacked high with plastic bags filled with the same substance. At the end of the room were a sink and a couple of large buckets. A shelf above the sink held several cans the size of half-liter paint cans. Evidently this was the place where they prepared the substance that kept the natives from slipping on the wet mine floors.
He inspected the sink and it was just a dirty sink. The cans above had been inexpertly lettered ANTISEPTIC. He picked one up and shook it: it was about three-quarters full of some powder. He flashed the light on the bottom and top, and on the top was a faint legend saying B ISMUTH N ITRATE C RYSTALS C.P. ½ K.G.
Crowell almost dropped the can in surprise. Evidently the original label had been eradicated, but a trace of it was visible in ultraviolet. He replaced the can and sat back against the sink. This accounted for the natives’ shortened life-span, and for the frantic activity in the mine; bismuth was a powerful stimulant and euphoric for them, as well as a cumulative poison. They must absorb it through their feet as they worked.
Now who would be responsible? The workers who mixed the bismuth nitrate into the sand-sawdust mixture probably didn’t know what was going on; otherwise why not just leave the cans blank? Were the cans altered before they were shipped in? That seemed likely, since everybody seemed to know about the bismuth theory. Better have a talk with Jonathon Lyndham, new Chief of Imports.
Outside it was just as dark as it had been when Crowell had first broken into the warehouse. He snapped the padlock and gratefully stripped the thin plastic gloves off his hands.
There was an almost inaudible click behind Crowell and to his left. The Crowell-mind reacted even before the Otto-mind could think “safety switch,” and Crowell rolled into a ditch on the side of the road. He was blinded as his nightglasses fell off, but looking up he could see a bright red pencil of light fan the road at waist level and flicker out. By then he had slid a miniature air pistol out of its pocket holster. He aimed at where the fading retinal afterimage showed the scarlet dot of a laser muzzle, and squeezed off four silent shots in rapid succession. He heard at least three of them ricochet from the warehouse wall, then the shuffle of a man running away.
Precious seconds finding the nightglasses, another second to sort out the images and see the man running, nearly a block away. Extreme range for this little popgun;
Knowing that any guard would also be equipped with nightglasses, Crowell approached the building on a parallel street a block away and sat quietly behind the edge of a building for a half hour, watching the entrance.
Satisfied that the warehouse was unguarded, he crossed to the entrance and studied the lock. It was a simple magnetically coded padlock, and he opened it in a couple of minutes with a desensitizer and a set of picks.
When he closed the door behind him, the light level dropped below the nightglasses’ threshold and Crowell had to use his ultraviolet penstick to see. It was made for close work, but he could get around with it. Directed at his feet it made a bright spot surrounded by a vague circle about a meter in diameter. He couldn’t get any overall view of the warehouse, though, just a dim impression of crates stacked around.
He wasn’t looking for anything specific, and really didn’t have any great expectations. It was just another part of the routine, like going through the mines. He wished it had been possible to get around there without a guide, when it was empty.
Crowell walked around for an hour or so, examining every useless detail. At the other end of the warehouse he came to an open door.
Since it’s open
, he thought,
there can’t be anything worth hiding inside
. But he went in to check.
There was a wide trough along one wall. It proved to be filled with a mixture of sand and sawdust, probably from the native ironwood. The opposite wall was stacked high with plastic bags filled with the same substance. At the end of the room were a sink and a couple of large buckets. A shelf above the sink held several cans the size of half-liter paint cans. Evidently this was the place where they prepared the substance that kept the natives from slipping on the wet mine floors.
He inspected the sink and it was just a dirty sink. The cans above had been inexpertly lettered ANTISEPTIC. He picked one up and shook it: it was about three-quarters full of some powder. He flashed the light on the bottom and top, and on the top was a faint legend saying B ISMUTH N ITRATE C RYSTALS C.P. ½ K.G.
Crowell almost dropped the can in surprise. Evidently the original label had been eradicated, but a trace of it was visible in ultraviolet. He replaced the can and sat back against the sink. This accounted for the natives’ shortened life-span, and for the frantic activity in the mine; bismuth was a powerful stimulant and euphoric for them, as well as a cumulative poison. They must absorb it through their feet as they worked.
Now who would be responsible? The workers who mixed the bismuth nitrate into the sand-sawdust mixture probably didn’t know what was going on; otherwise why not just leave the cans blank? Were the cans altered before they were shipped in? That seemed likely, since everybody seemed to know about the bismuth theory. Better have a talk with Jonathon Lyndham, new Chief of Imports.
Outside it was just as dark as it had been when Crowell had first broken into the warehouse. He snapped the padlock and gratefully stripped the thin plastic gloves off his hands.
There was an almost inaudible click behind Crowell and to his left. The Crowell-mind reacted even before the Otto-mind could think “safety switch,” and Crowell rolled into a ditch on the side of the road. He was blinded as his nightglasses fell off, but looking up he could see a bright red pencil of light fan the road at waist level and flicker out. By then he had slid a miniature air pistol out of its pocket holster. He aimed at where the fading retinal afterimage showed the scarlet dot of a laser muzzle, and squeezed off four silent shots in rapid succession. He heard at least three of them ricochet from the warehouse wall, then the shuffle of a man running away.
Precious seconds finding the nightglasses, another second to sort out the images and see the man running, nearly a block away. Extreme range for this little popgun;
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