"Er, no. Not a thing."
The girls handed in three sheath-knives, a revolver and ammunition from the other man that Brodski had shot. "They didn't have any money on them, Captain Makhno," Mary duly reported. "Just these things."
"That's all right, Mary. Now, everybody, get those women aboard and help push off."
They slid into the river at dead slow, without the superchargers engaged. When they made the lake proper, Makhno opened the throttles, pointed the nose of the Bitch south and relaxed to the rising whine of the superchargers. They'd reach Janesfort at just about Eye rise.
Nobody followed them.
"You are quite sure," Jomo asked coldly, "that the women are nowhere to be found in the city?"
"I assure you, mi Commandante, my men searched the city most thoroughly." DeCastro started to reach for a cigar, then thought better of it. The supply was running low.
"We even managed to search some of the buildings in Castell City proper, under pretext of looking for two women who were contagiously ill."
Jomo raised one eyebrow slightly in appreciation of that trick. It was almost impossible to get any cooperation out of the Harmonies.
"Therefore I must regretfully conclude, that the delectable Ahnli and Zilla have fled the city." DeCastro's regret was genuine, and not just for the loss of income. He had sampled Ahnli's charms last shift, and wanted more of her.
"Then where could they have gone?" Jomo glowered. "There have been no boats in dock for the past three turns, no carts or wagons for the past cycle, and I do not see those two slits going far on foot."
DeCastro shrugged elaborately. "They must have fled with the assistance of those admirers who proved so effective against our search party. The survivor of that encounter was not able to recognize the men in the poor light. They could have come from anywhere, in a concealed boat or wagon, and taken the women back with them: to an outlying farm, or to some collection of the miners and prospectors to the west, or-who knows?-perhaps to the legendary Island of Women. In any case, they have gone out of our reach."
Jomo's frown deepened. "We must discourage further such defections . . . and it is time we extended our reach beyond Docktown. We must have land and river transport, DeCastro."
"Of course." DeCastro interlaced his fingers in thought. "When the Last Resort returns with her latest catch, we can . . . persuade the owners to put the ship at our disposal. As for wagons, I cannot predict when another will come rolling into our reach. We may have to march our troops into farming country to look for one."
"Better to use the ship to take us to farms along the river," said Jomo. "Indeed, we will have to visit those farms eventually. Best to start planning now."
"Si, mi Commandante," DeCastro sighed, wondering how to persuade Jomo not to send him out on any such expeditions. DeCastro hated the wilderness, had spent all his life in cities, wished to be nowhere on the planet but nice, comfortable Docktown, getting rich off the spacer trade.
The trip upriver was long, wet, dark, and cold. Makhno took the opportunity to explain some of the facts of life at Janesfort, but the reception was mixed.
". . . Now we're into Central Forest proper. Behind the screen of woods, you'll find lots of farms-squatters, all of 'em, but what Castell doesn't know about doesn't hurt anybody else. The squatters along here are all friends of Jane. They're willing to help, but the real fortress is at the island . . . ."
The girls and women nodded acceptance, then huddled together in mute, miserable endurance.
The two men weren't nearly as patient. Brodski settled into griping and swearing; Van Damm joined him and looked sour.
That they'd be working for women, or that the trip was uncomfortable, was no damned excuse. Makhno grew steadily more irritated with both of them.
When they reached the north cliff-face of Jane's Island, Makhno took his own sweet time pulling up to the anchorage spot under the ledge-hidden hoist. Sure enough, while Brodski reached, cursing, for the camouflaged bell-rope, Van Damm spotted the rising pipe to the water pump.
"Weakness, that," he said, pointing. "Invaders could climb it."
"Not likely," Makhno teased, hiding his grin. "Too wet, too dangerous."
"Good troops could climb it," Van Damm insisted, taking the bait.
"Hell, I'd like to see you try," Makhno nudged.
"Fifty creds says I can."
"You're on."
Van Damm actually smiled, made a smooth leap out of the raft and caught the pipe. Makhno had to admit the guy was good, didn't even slip on the damp lower stretch of pipe, shinnied up fast and smoothly.
"You just lost fifty creds fast," growled Brodski, jerking on the bell-rope.
"Not yet I haven't," Makhno chuckled, his reply muffled by the bell. He watched as braid-wrapped heads peered down from the ledge, grinned as they turned to look at the stranger shinnying up the pipe.
Van Damm was better than ten meters up when he came abruptly nose-to-nose with a shotgun in the hands of Tall Lou. He yelled like a banshee, sprang away from the pipe, and went straight back down into the water, narrowly missing the raft.
Makhno managed not to laugh as he hauled the man back aboard, but he couldn't help grinning from ear to ear. Brodski, who'd been busy with the bell-rope and had missed the whole encounter, asked what the hell had happened.
"A woman with a shotgun," came Van Damm's reply. "I couldn't even see her until she poked it up my nose . . . . She was hidden by an overhang and a berm, dammit!"
"Yeah. They keep watch on all the approaches." Makhno snickered. "You should've gone up the hoist, like a proper guest."
About then the sling-hoist came creaking down to the raft. Van Damm shamelessly grabbed at it first, ducked into it and signaled to be hauled up. The windlass obligingly lifted him away.
"As I told you," said Makhno. "Jane's no fool."
"I'm beginning to get that impression," said Brodski.
The crew of the Last Resort never knew what hit them. One minute they were unloading a good catch of fish at Castell City dock, and then there came a crackling sound, and then they were waking up on the dock with ringing heads, bound hands, and a bunch of mean-looking Dock-town goons grinning down at them.
Deckhand Joey Brown looked toward Captain Feinberg, and got a bleak look in return. He wondered what these goons wanted to rob them of; all they possessed at the moment were their clothes, dry suits, tools, and a load of fish.
The crowd parted and another man marched through. He was chunky, swaggering, puffing a thick cigar. "DeCastro," Captain Feinberg muttered. "Damned if I'll visit his bar again."
"Se?ores," DeCastro announced through a cloud of odorous smoke. "Pray forgive this unorthodox greeting, but we have serious business to discuss. We need to hire the use of your boat and your estimable selves."
"What pay?" asked Feinberg, daring to stand up.
"The usual shares," DeCastro puffed calmly. "You will find that Se?or Jomo is most generous to those who serve him well."
"Jomo's in charge of this?" Feinberg gaped.
Shit," said deckhand Brown-and lay back down on the dock.
Makhno strolled down the line of exercising women assembled in the meadow below the fort, and considered once again that Jane had been very sharp in collecting her crew. After the initial gossiping and chattering, everybody agreed to work as a unit-and there was no dissension thereafter.
For once, almost all of them were assembled in one place. Granny, Falstaff and Donato were off minding the little kids, the radio and the cook-pot, but everyone else was here: Tall Lou with her short gray hair tossing at every stroke, big grumbling Latoya with her original fat diminished enough to show the respectable muscles beneath her coffee-dark skin, skinny Easter and batty-eyed Nona bending and dipping with teenage enthusiasm, Muda methodical as ever, Harp's daughters grimly enthusiastic, the ex-whores Ahnli and Zilla struggling to prove they were as good as anybody else, even Maria-Dolores working soulfully while keeping one eye on the baby sleeping at one comer of the meadow. And there was Jane herself, blonde and big-breasted and stocky, the perfect stereotype of a Chicago Polack, unselfconsciously working harder than the rest of them, setting an example, all quiet competence.
Deadly practical, all of them. All willing to farm and grow the hemp, all of them busy making a good living this past Earth-year, now all of them willing to fight for what they'd made for themselves.