"Masquerading as a member of the crew."

The beard twitched slightly. "I think that very unlikely," he said, "since all of them are currently in custody on Meima."

I felt like the floor had just been pulled out from under me. "All of them?

You're sure?"

"Quite sure," he said, holding up another sheet. "Everyone involved was picked up in that one single night, even the crew of the private ship Cameron flew in on a few days before this all started. Cameron himself is the only one still at large, and the Meima authorities say it's only a matter of time before they run him to ground. They think they spotted him at a Vyssiluyan taverno last night, in fact, but he gave them the slip."

"Wait a minute," I said, frowning. "If they've already got the whole team, why don't they know what the cargo is? For that matter, why don't they have an accurate description of the ship? And they don't, because otherwise the fake IDs Ixil and I keep churning out sure wouldn't fool them."

"Good-you're using fake IDs," Uncle Arthur said. "I'd hoped you were being at least that clever."

"Yes, but why are they working?" I persisted, pa.s.sing over the question of whether or not there was an insult buried in there. "I trust you're not going to tell me that a bunch of plunder artists like the Patth are squeamish about the cla.s.sic forms of information gathering, are you?"

"In point of fact, the archaeologists are still in Ihmis hands," Uncle Arthur said. "The Patth are trying to get them, but so far the Ihmisits are resisting the pressure." He grimaced. "But at this point it hardly matters who has them.

Cameron took the precaution of having hypnotic blocks put on everyone's memory of certain aspects of the operation. Including, naturally, the Icarus's description and details of its cargo."

I nodded. Obvious, of course, once it was pointed out. Not especially ethical, and probably illegal on Meima to boot, but it was exactly the sort of thing Cameron would have done. "And without the release key, all they can do is batter at the blocks and hope they crack."

"Which I'm sure they're already doing," Uncle Arthur said darkly. "Not a pleasant thing to dwell on; but the point is that the maneuver has bought you some time."

"Yes, sir." So much for my embryonic theory that it was one of Cameron's people who had been trying so hard to keep us out of the Icarus's cargo hold.

"Unfortunately, it's also bought someone else some time, too."

"Explain."

I gave him a quick summary of the jinx that had been d.o.g.g.i.ng us ever since leaving Meima. Or since before our exit, actually, if you counted Cameron'sfailure to make it to the ship. "The incident with Chort and Jones might conceivably have been an accident," I concluded. "But not the cutting torch or the lad skulking between hulls with the handy eavesdroppers' kit. Having the Patth on our tail would have been plenty; but having this added in is way too much of a good thing."

"Indeed," Uncle Arthur said thoughtfully. "You have a theory, of course?"

"I have one," I said. "But I don't think you're going to like it. You said the Ihmisits thought they spotted Cameron on Meima yesterday. How certain are they of that?"

"As certain as any of these things ever are," he said, his eyes narrowing.

"Which is to say, not very. Why, do you think you know where Cameron is?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "I think there's a good chance he's dead."

There was another twitch of the beard. I was right; he didn't like it at all.

"Explain."

"It's clear that someone doesn't want us getting a look at the cargo," I said.

"I thought that that someone must be one of the archaeologists, but you've now told me that's impossible. So it's someone else. Someone who does know what's in there, and who furthermore has decided that having sole proprietorship of that knowledge will be valuable to him."

"It couldn't be Cameron himself?"

"I don't see how," I said, shaking my head. "When I first arrived at the Icarus there was a time lock on the hatch, which didn't release until after most of the crew had already a.s.sembled. I examined the lock later, and it had definitely been set the previous afternoon, well before the Ihmisits threw everyone out of the s.p.a.ceport and locked it down for the night. There was no way for Cameron to have gotten aboard before the gates opened again, and he certainly didn't get on after we were there."

"And you think that was because he was already dead?"

"Yes," I said. "One of the people he hired to crew the Icarus either knew something about it already or was sufficiently intrigued to take Cameron into a dark alley somewhere and find out exactly what was aboard."

"That would have taken some severe persuasion," Uncle Arthur murmured.

"Which is why I suspect he's dead," I said. "An interrogation that would have gotten him to talk would have left him either dead or incapacitated or drug-comatose. In either of the latter two cases, the Ihmisits or Patth would certainly have found him by now. In the first case..." I didn't bother to finish.

"You may be right," Uncle Arthur said heavily. "You will identify this person, of course."

"I certainly intend to try," I said. "It would help if I had some more information on this crew I've been saddled with."

"Undoubtedly. Their names?"

"Almont Nicabar, drive specialist, onetime EarthGuard Marine. Geoff Shawn, electronics. Has Cole's disease and a resulting borandis addiction. Any chance you can get some borandis to me, by the way?"

"Possibly. Next?"

"Hayden Everett, medic. Former professional throw-boxer twenty-odd years ago, though I don't know if it was under his own name or not. Chort, Craea, s.p.a.cewalker. Nothing else known."

"With a Craea almost nothing else needs to be known," Uncle Arthur put in."Possibly," I said. "I'd like him checked out anyway. And finally Tera, last name unknown. She may be a member of one of those religious sects who don't give their full names to strangers, but I haven't yet seen her do anything particularly religious."

"The practice of one's beliefs is not always blatant and obvious," Uncle Arthur reminded me. "A quiet look into her cabin for religious paraphernalia at some point might be enlightening."

"I intend to take a quiet look into all their cabins when I get the chance," I a.s.sured him. "Now: descriptions..."

I ran through everyone's physical description as quickly as I could, knowing that it was all being recorded. "How fast can you get this to me?" I asked when I was finished.

"It will take a few hours," he said. "Where are you now?"

"Potosi, but I have no intention of staying here any longer than I have to," I told him. "I don't know where we'll be heading next. Someplace quiet and peaceful and anonymous would be a nice change of pace."

"You may have to settle for anonymous," he said, his eyes shifting to the side and his shoulders shifting with the subtle movements of someone typing on a keyboard. "Is there anything else?"

"Actually, yes," I said. "We also seem to have a new group of players in the game." I described the incident with the Lumpy Brothers on Xathru, and the coronal-discharge weapons they'd been carrying. "Have you heard of either this species or the weapons?" I asked when I finished.

"A qualified yes to both," he said, his eyes still busy off camera. "You may recall hearing rumors about a failed covert operation a few years ago in which an elite EarthGuard task force tried to steal data on the Talariac Drive.

Weapons very similar to those you describe were used against them, by guards who also match your description."

I sighed. "Which makes the Lumpy Clan some kind of Patth client race."

"Very likely," he agreed. "Don't sound so surprised. Certainly their first efforts to find the Icarus would be made quietly, through their own people and agents. It was only after that failed that they began to approach first the Spiral's criminals and now legitimate governments."

I thought about the three Patth Cameron and I had seen in that Meima taverno.

So that was why they'd ventured out of their usual restricted hideouts. "Still, it strikes me that they gave up on the quiet approach rather quickly," I pointed out. "Could my smoking the Lumpy Brothers really have rattled them that badly?"

"I doubt it," he said soberly. "More likely it was a matter of new information as to what exactly the prize was they were chasing."

And that knowledge had instantly pushed them into an open and increasingly public hunt. Terrific. "This place you're finding for us better be real anonymous," I told him.

"I believe I can make it so," he said. "Can you make Morsh Pon from there in

one.

jump?"

I felt my eyes narrow. "a.s.suming we can get off Potosi, yes," I said cautiously, wondering if he was really going where I thought he was on this.

He was. "Good," he said briskly. "The Blue District on Morsh Pon, then, at the Baker's Dozen taverno. I'll have the information delivered to you there.""Ah... yes, sir," I said. Morsh Pon was an Ulko colony world, and the Ulkomaals, like the Najik, had a reputation for great talent at creating wealth. Unlike the Najik, however, the Ulkomaals relied heavily on the hospitality industry to make their money, specifically hospitality toward the less virtuous members of civilized society at large. Morsh Pon was a quiet refuge for smugglers and other criminal types, far worse than even Dorscind's World, with the Blue District the worst area on the planet.

Which under normal circ.u.mstances, given my connection with Brother John and the Antoniewicz organization, would have made it an ideal place to go to ground.

Unfortunately, the current circ.u.mstances were far from normal. "I trust you remember, sir," I said diplomatically, "that the Patth have invited the entire Spiral underworld out for a drink?"

"I remember quite well," he said calmly. "It will be taken care of. Now, I suspect time is growing short. You'd best get moving."

It was, clearly, a dismissal. I didn't particularly feel like being dismissed yet-there were still several aspects of this whole arrangement I felt like arguing some more. But when Uncle Arthur said good-bye, he meant good-bye.

Besides, he was right; time was indeed growing short. "Yes, sir," I said, suppressing a sigh. "I'll be in touch."

"Do that," he said. The screen blanked, and he was gone.

I collected my change and left the booth. Once again, I half expected one of Brother John's a.s.sa.s.sins to jump me in the corridor; once again, it didn't happen. I snagged a city map from a rack by the main exit doors, located the street intersection called Gystr'n Corner, and headed outside.

The rain that had been threatening earlier was starting to come down now, a scattering of large fat drops that almost seemed to bounce as they hit the ground. I had already decided that Gystr'n Corner was too far to walk, and now with the rain beginning I further decided not to wait for the public rail system. Brother John wouldn't like that; his standard orders were for us to take public transportation whenever possible, the better to avoid official backtracks. But then, Brother John wasn't here getting wet. Hailing a cab, I gave the driver my destination, told him there would be an extra hundred commarks for him if he got me there fast, and all but fell back into the spring-bare seat as he took off like an attack shuttle on wheels.

With the way I'd been spending money like water lately, first with full-vid starconnects and now on cabs, it was just as well I'd relieved that Patth agent on Dorscind's World of all those hundred-commark bills that had been weighing him down. Now, watching the city, startled vehicle drivers, and outraged pedestrians blurring along past my windows, it occurred to me that perhaps some extra travel-health insurance might have been a good idea, too. My map's key estimated it to be twenty-three minutes from the StarrComm building to Gystr'n Corner. My driver made it in just over fifteen, probably a new land-speed record for the city, possibly for the entire planet.

Emendo Torsk was there as promised, standing in front of a short caba.n.a.like shelter, his squat Drilie shape almost hidden behind the complex multimusic box he was playing with both his hands and the set of short prehensile eatingtentacles ringing the base of his neck. A crowd of perhaps twenty admirers were standing in the rain in front of him listening to the music.

I let the driver take the cab out of sight along the street and had him pull to the curb. I paid him, told him to wait, and walked back through the now pouring rain to join the crowd. I wouldn't have guessed there were that many beings on the whole planet who liked Drilie di-choral anthems, even when they were properly performed, which this one emphatically was not. But then, I doubted any of those in attendance were there for the music, anyway.

Fortunately, the piece Torsk had chosen was a short one, and I silently thanked the downpour for whatever part it had played in that decision. Amid the smattering of totally fraudulent applause he pa.s.sed a large hat around for contributions. I'd made the necessary preparations while careening about in the cab, and as he waved the hat in front of me I dropped in a small package consisting of three tightly folded hundred-commark bills wrapped around a piece of paper with the word "borandis" written on it. Most of the rest of the audience, I saw, had similar donations for him. He finished taking up his collection and gave out with a set of guttural barks that were probably a traditional Drilie thank-you or farewell, then disappeared through the flap into his cabana. At that, the audience faded away, splashing away in all directions to disappear down the streets and alleyways or into the dark and anonymous doorways fronting on the streets.

All of them, that is, except me. Instead of moving back, I moved forward until I.

was standing directly in front of the long-suffering multimusic box. There I planted myself, facing the flap Torsk had disappeared through, and waited, doing my best to ignore the cold drips finding their way beneath my collar and dribbling down my back. I had no doubt he could see me perfectly well through his cabana; there were several different one-way opaque materials to choose from, and a person in Torsk's profession couldn't afford not to know what was going on around him at all times. I just hoped he'd be curious enough or irritated enough to find out what I wanted before I was soaked completely through.

He was either more curious or irritable than I'd expected. I'd been standing there less than a minute when the flap twitched aside and I found myself looking down into a pair of big black Drilie eyes. "What want?" he demanded in pa.s.sable English.

"Want borandis," I told him. "Have paid."

"Wait turn," he snapped, waggling a finger horizontally to indicate the now vanished audience.

"Not wait," I told him calmly. Pushing him this way was risky, but I didn't have much choice. The standard pattern seemed to be that you placed your order and came back for it later, probably at Torsk's next performance, and there was no way I could afford to hang around that long. Particularly not if it required sitting through a second concert. "Want borandis. Have paid."

"Wait turn," he repeated, even more snappishly this time. "Or get mad.""I get mad, too," I said.

Apparently I'd been wrong about the whole crowd having vanished. I was just about to repeat my request when a large hand snaked over my shoulder, grabbed a fistful of my coat, and turned me around. I blinked the rainwater out of my eyes, and found myself looking fifteen centimeters up into one of the ugliest human faces it had ever been my misfortune to see. "Hey-trog-you deaf?" he growled. His breath was a perfect match for his face. "He said to wait your turn."

There was undoubtedly more to the usual speech, probably something along the lines of what would happen to me if I didn't go away immediately. But as I'd long since learned for myself, it was hard to speak when all your wind has been suddenly knocked out of you by a short punch to the solar plexus. I ducked slightly to the side to avoid his forehead as he doubled over without a sound, wincing at the extra dose of bad breath that blew into my face; and as his head dipped out of my line of sight I saw that three more men stamped from his same mold were marching purposefully across the street toward me.

I hit the first man in the same spot again, folding him over a little farther, and half a second later had my plasmic pointed over his shoulder toward the three newcomers. They stopped dead in their tracks. I kept my eyes and the weapon steady on them while I kept hitting the halitosis specialist in selected pressure points with my free hand, trying to make sure that when he went down he would stay there.

He finally did, but it took several more punches than I'd expected. I definitely didn't want to be around when this lad felt like his old self again. I gazed at the reinforcements for another couple of seconds; then, leaving my plasmic pointed their direction, I deliberately turned my head around to face Torsk again. "Want borandis," I said mildly. "Have paid."

"Yes," he said, his face an ashen shade of purple as he stared down at the lump at my feet. Apparently he'd never seen anyone beaten up with one hand before.

"Wait short."

He disappeared back into the cabana, but not before I got a glimpse of reflected movement in those big Drilie eyes. I turned my head around, to find the Three Musketeers had tried advancing while I wasn't looking. They stopped even more abruptly than they had the first time, and we eyed each other over the barrel of my plasmic until there was another rustling of wet fabric behind me. "Take,"

Torsk hissed, jabbing something solid against my shoulder. I turned, half-expecting to see a gun; but it was only a music ca.s.sette prominently displaying Torsk's face and name on the front. The Best of Emendo Torsk, apparently, with the borandis concealed inside. "Go," he insisted. "Not come back."

"Not come back," I agreed, taking the ca.s.sette and tucking it away in an inside pocket. "Unless borandis not good. Then make small wager you hurt plenty."

"Borandis good," he ground out, glaring daggers at me.

I believed him. The last thing a corner drug dealer wanted was to have attention drawn his direction, and my performance here had already disrupted his cozyschedule more than he was happy with. The last thing he would want would be for me to come back in a bad mood.

He had no way of knowing that I couldn't come back even if I wanted to, or that I was even more allergic to official scrutiny at the moment than he was. He was rid of me, and that was what mattered to him. Perhaps he'd even learned not to hire his protection muscle off park benches.

My cab and driver were still patiently waiting where I'd left them. I got in and gave my destination as Gate 2 of the s.p.a.ceport, the closest one to where the Icarus was docked. With visions of another absurdly large tip undoubtedly dancing trippingly through his mind, he took off like a scalded foxbat. Once again I hung on for dear life, my own mind dancing with unpleasant visions of a premature obituary. During the straightaways I managed to break open the ca.s.sette and confirm that there were fifteen capsules inside filled with a blue powder that looked like it had come from grinding up the normal tablets that the Icarus's med listing said borandis came in.

Closing the ca.s.sette and putting it away again, I pulled out my phone and punched in Everett's number. That all-too-familiar feeling that something was wrong began to tingle through me as the fifth vibe came and went with no answer.

By the time he did answer, on the eighth vibe, and I heard his voice, the feeling solidified into a cold certainty. " 'Lo?" he muttered, his voice heavy and slightly slurred, as if I'd just awakened him.

"It's McKell," I identified myself. "What's wrong?"

There was a faint hiss, like someone exhaling heavily into the mouthpiece.

"It's Shawn," he said. "He got away."

I gripped the phone tighter, the driver's maniacal slalom technique abruptly forgotten. "Which direction did he go?"

"I don't know how it happened," Everett said plaintively. "He must have slipped the straps somehow-"