"Jane Lindskold - Endpoint Insurance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lindskold Jane)

name тАЬKingsleyтАЭ came up repeatedly, though matched with different surnames.
Admittedly, Kingsley is a popular Batherite personal name, in honor of Kingsley
Moisan, the charismatic leader who founded the original colony. What caught my
fancy was how often the request was made to a perfect stranger- and how often that
stranger seemed to have directions or guidance to offer.
I trailed after one of these parties, noticing that the bundles they carried seemed
particularly heavy. We worked our way through a maze of streets to where a row of
prefabs from the earliest days of the camp stood. They were well-kept, with a
minimum of tents and auxiliary buildings around them. I wondered if Gilbert City
zoning was trying to maintain some standards.
Inside the buildings lights glowed and sounds of domestic activity drifted from the
open windows. I heard a baby crying, the sizzle of something dropped into frying
oil, running water, laughter. All well and normal, even pleasant.
The refugees were directed inside a building near the middle of the street. I slipped
into the shadows between two buildings across the way, watching. While I lurked
there, two other guided parties arrived. Then a few people departed. Although they
had all the hallmarks of new arrivals, they were not the ones I had followed, so I
continued my vigil.
After a time, my group came out. Their guide was not with them, but otherwise, they
seemed much as before- even a bit more cheerful. They laughed and their steps were
light as they hurried toward a cross street that would take them to the registration
center.
Then it hit me. Their feet were light! Though they still carried their bundles, these
were clearly no longer as heavy. No chat with folks from home, no matter how
friendly, could have relieved the burden. Clearly an exchange had been made.
I pondered for a moment, wondering whether or not to follow the new arrivals. Then
I decided. These were probably just mules carrying goods. The real action lay inside
that building. I hunkered down in the shadows, preparing for a long wait.
A few more parties of bundle-bearing refugees came through, but not many. I
decided that this must be only one of several places where smuggled items were
being dropped off. To occupy myself, I tried to reconstruct the chain of events that
had gotten the goods to this point and decided that whatever had been brought here
wouldnтАЩt stay here long. Eventually, the houses grew quieter and lights were
extinguished-all but a faint glimmer low on the wall to one side of the house IтАЩd been
observing.
It was an odd place for light to show. For speed of construction these prefabs had
been erected without basements, but I was willing to bet that what I was seeing was
light from just such a subterranean room. The opening was completely shielded by a
neatly placed trash can. During the daytime, it would probably be invisible. Only the
light gave it away now.
My curiosity grew as I estimated the chances of sue-cessfully satisfying it. After IтАЩd
staked the place out for quite a while longer and traffic on the street had diminished
to nothing, I decided that IтАЩd never forgive myself if I didnтАЩt take a look.
Padding across the street, I gained the side of the house. Fortunately, the wall of the
structure on the other side of the narrow alley was windowless. If I stayed pressed
close to the wall alongside the bit of light and no one on the street-should anyone
pass at all-looked directly down the alley and noticed movement from behind the
trash can, I should remain unseen.
The source of the light proved to be-as I had deduced- a makeshift window cut into
the prefab material. The scrap had been skillfully shaped into a shutter that would