"My pleasure, Director," I said, sitting down in the chair at the side of the desk, deciding to pa.s.s over the fact that I hadn't had much choice in the matter. One of the other Ihmisits set my bag on the desk and started rifling through it; I thought about complaining, decided against it. "What's this about?"

"To be perfectly honest, Captain, I'm not entirely certain myself," she said, selecting a photo from the top of a stack of report files and handing it to me.

"A message has come down from my superiors to ask you about this person."

It was a picture of Arno Cameron.

"Well, he's a human," I offered helpfully. So it wasn't Brother John's cargo they wanted after all. At the moment I couldn't decide whether that was good or bad. "Aside from that, I don't think I've ever seen him before."

"Really," Aymi-Mastr said, dropping the pitch of her voice melodramatically.

She leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers in front of her-like the melodramatic tone, an annoying habit many Ihmisits had picked up from the old Earth movies they consumed by the truckload. "That's very interesting.

Particularly given that we heard from a witness not fifteen minutes ago who claims you were talking to him last night in a Vyssiluyan taverno."A family of Kalixiri ferrets with very cold feet began running up and down my spine. "I hate to impugn the integrity of your witness," I said flatly, tossing the photo back onto the desk. "But he's wrong."

The frog eyes narrowed. "The witness was very specific about your name."

"Your witness was either drunk or a troublemaker," I said, standing up. That taverno had been crowded, and after my grandstand play against the three Yavanni there would be a dozen beings who would remember me, at least half of whom would probably also remember me talking with Cameron. I had to bluff my way out of here, and fast, before they started digging deeper.

"Sit down, Captain," Aymi-Mastr said sternly. "Are you telling me you weren't out last night?"

"Of course I was out," I said, putting some huffiness into my voice as I reluctantly sat down again. "You don't expect anyone to spend any more time than they have to in one of those Vyssiluyan hotel bug-traps, do you?"

She gave me the Ihmis equivalent of a wry smile, which just made her face that much more froglike. "A point," she conceded. "Did you visit any tavernos?"

I shrugged. "Sure, I hit some of them. What else is there for a s.p.a.cer to do around here? But I didn't talk to anyone."

She sighed theatrically. "So you say. And therein lies the trouble." She picked up a report file and opened it. "Your word, against that of an unidentified and unknown informant. Which of you should we believe?"

"Wait a minute-you don't even know who he is?" I demanded, feeling sweat starting to gather under my collar. I wasn't particularly good with Ihmis lettering, but I'd made it a point to learn what my name looked like in most of the major scripts in the Spiral. That was my Commonwealth Mercantile Authority file she was holding; and nothing in there was likely to make my word compare favorably against anyone else's. "What kind of scam is this, anyway?"

"That is what we're trying to find out," Aymi-Mastr said, frowning at the file and then up at me. "This photo doesn't do you justice at all. When was it taken?"

"About seven years ago," I told her. "Back when I started doing independent shipping."

"No, no justice at all," she repeated, peering closely at me. "You should arrange to have a new one taken."

"I'll do that," I promised, though offhand I couldn't think of anything that was lower on my priority list at the moment. For someone on Brother John's payroll, it could be a distinct advantage to not look like your official photos. "I've been through a lot since then."

"Indeed you have," she agreed, leafing through the pages. "To be honest, Captain, your record hardly encourages us to take your word for this. Or for anything else, for that matter."

"There's no need to be insulting," I growled. "Anyway, all that happened a long time ago."

"Five years in the EarthGuard Auxiliary," Aymi-Mastr went on. "Apparently a reasonably promising career that went steeply downhill during the last of those years. Court-martialed and summarily drummed out for severe insubordination.""He was an idiot," I muttered. "Everyone else knew it, too. I was just the only one who had the guts to tell him that to his face."

"In most colorful detail, I see," Aymi-Mastr said, flipping over another page.

"Even knowing only a fraction of these Earth words, it's an impressive list."

She flipped over another two pages-highlights of the court-martial, no doubt- and again paused. "After that was a four-year stint with the Earth Customs Service.

Another potential career ended with another sudden dismissal. This one for taking bribes."

"I was framed," I insisted. Even to my own ears the protest sounded flat.

"Protests of that sort begin to sound weaker after the first one," Aymi-Mastr said. "I see you managed to avoid jail rime. The note here suggests the Customs Service decided you were too embarra.s.sing for a proper trial."

"That was their excuse," I said. "It also conveniently robbed me of any chance to clear my name."

"Then there were six months with the small firm of Rolvaag Brothers Shipping,"

she continued, flipping more pages. "This time you actually struck someone.

The younger Mr. Rolvaag, I see-"

"Look, I don't need a complete quarterly review of my life," I cut her off brusquely. "I was there, remember? If there's a point to this, get to it."

The Ihmisit who'd been quietly searching my bag sealed it and straightened up.

He exchanged a couple of words with Aymi-Mastr, then walked away, leaving the bag behind. I wasn't surprised; there was nothing in there that could possibly be construed as improper. I hoped Aymi-Mastr wasn't too disappointed. "The point is that you hardly qualify as an upstanding, law-abiding citizen," Aymi-Mastr said, returning her attention to me. "Not to file too sharp a point onto it, but you are the sort of person who might indeed give aid and a.s.sistance to a murderer."

The word was so completely unexpected that it took a couple of turns around my brain before finally coming to a stop. Murderer? "Murderer?" I asked carefully.

"This guy killed someone?"

"So says the report," Aymi-Mastr said, watching me closely. "Do you find that so difficult to believe?"

"Well, frankly, yes," I said, feigning confusion. I didn't have to feign too hard. "He looks like such a solid citizen in that picture. What happened? Who did he kill?"

"The director of an archaeological dig out in the Great Wasteland," Aymi-Mastr said, setting my file aside and steepling her fingers again. "There was a ma.s.sive explosion out there early yesterday morning-you didn't hear about that?"

I shook my head. "We didn't make landfall until a little after local noon. I did ask what the slowdown was, but no one would give me a straight answer."

"The blast sent large gales of mineral dust into the atmosphere," Aymi-Mastr explained. "Our sensors and guide beacons were disrupted for over an hour, which is what caused the backup in traffic. At any rate, when investigators went to look, they located the severely burned body of a Dr. Ramond Chou hidden in one of the underground grottoes the group had been exploring. The order wasimmediately given to round up all those a.s.sociated with the dig for questioning."

She picked up Cameron's photo from the desk and handed it to me again. "This man is the only one still at large. Others of the group have identified him as the murderer."

Which explained the big search out in the wasteland last night. "Well, best of luck in finding him," I said, eyeing the photo again. "But if you ask me, he's long gone by now. Probably took off under cover of that sensor scramble you mentioned."

"That may indeed be the case," Aymi-Mastr conceded. "There was an unconfirmed report that something may have lifted out through the cloud of debris." She waved a pair of antennae at the photo. "But on the other palm is the statement that you were seen with him last night. Look closely, Captain. Are you certain you didn't exchange even a few words?"

She was making it so easy for me. All I had to do was say, yes, he'd hired me for a job, but that that was before I knew he was a murderer. Aymi-Mastr would ask what I knew, I would hand over the tag Cameron had given me, they would pick him up at the Icarus's landing ramp, and I could walk away free and clear.

And best of all, I wouldn't have to face Brother John about this disruption in his precious schedule.

With a sigh, I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Director Aymi-Mastr," I said, laying the photo back on the desk. "I wish I could help. I really do-I don't much care for murderers myself. But I didn't talk to him, and I don't even remember seeing him go by on the street. Whoever your anonymous witness thinks he saw, it wasn't me."

For a four-pack of heartbeats she just gazed at me. Then, with a shrug as human and as ridiculous-looking on her as the finger-steepling thing, she nodded.

"Very well, Captain, if that's your final word."

"It is," I said, deciding to ignore the sarcasm of that last comment as I stood up. "May I go now? I do have a schedule to keep."

"I understand," she said, standing up to face me. "Unfortunately, before you leave Meima we will have to perform a complete search of your ship." She held out a hand. "Your guidance tag, please."

I frowned, suddenly acutely conscious of the Icarus tag sitting there in plain sight in my collar slot. "Excuse me?"

"Your guidance tag, please," Aymi-Mastr said; and though all the genial trappings were still in place, I could sense the sudden hardening of her tone.

"Please don't require me to use force. I know you humans consider Ihmisits to be laughable creatures, but I a.s.sure you we are stronger than we look."

For a long second I continued the face-off. Then, muttering under my breath, I reached up and slid both tags from the slot. "Fine," I growled, palming Cameron's tag and slapping the Stormy Banks's onto the desk. Brother John's cargo, I knew, would be well enough disguised to weather even a serious Ihmisit customs search. "Help yourselves. Just don't leave a mess."

"We shall be quick and neat," she promised. "In the meantime, if you'd like, you can wait in the guest room behind the striped door."

"I'd rather wait in the hospitality center," I said stiffly, snagging thehandle of my bag and pulling it over to me. "If you're going to waste my time this way, you can at least let me get some breakfast."

"As you wish," Aymi-Mastr said, giving me the Ihmis gesture of farewell. Her phone warbled, and she reached over to pick it up. "We should be finished within the hour," she added as she held the handset to her neck slits.

I spun on my heel and stalked across the room toward the door, trying to put as much righteous indignation into my posture as I could. They were letting me go, and they hadn't taken my phone. Either they didn't seriously suspect me, Aymi-Mastr's accusations to the contrary, or they did seriously suspect me and were hoping to follow me to wherever I was hiding Cameron.

"Captain McKell?" Aymi-Mastr called from behind me.

For a flickering half second, I considered making a run for it. But the door was too far away, and there were too many Ihmisits between me and it. Bracing myself, I turned back around. "What?" I demanded.

Aymi-Mastr was still on the phone, beckoning me back. I thought again about running, decided it made no more sense now than it had five seconds ago, and headed back.

By the time I reached the desk she had finished the conversation. "My apologies, Captain," she said, putting down the phone and holding out the tag she'd taken from me. "You may go."

I frowned suspiciously at the tag like it was some sort of kid's practical joke that would snap a spring against my finger if I took it. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," Aymi-Mastr said, sounding midway between embarra.s.sed and disgusted. "My superiors just informed me they've heard from our mysterious informant again. It seems the charge has now changed: that you were seen instead in the company of the notorious armed robber Belgai Romss. He attacked a storage depot over in Tropstick three days ago."

I frowned. What the h.e.l.l sort of game were they playing? "And, what, you want me to take a look at his photo now?"

"That won't be necessary," Aymi-Mastr said, her disgust deepening.

"Apparently, our friend missed the follow-up story of Romss's capture early yesterday morning, before your ship arrived."

She pushed the tag toward me. "Obviously merely a troublemaker, as you suggested. Again, my apologies."

"That's all right," I said, cautiously taking the tag. No spring snapped out to sting my fingers. "Maybe next time you won't be so quick to jump on something like this without proof."

"With a murder investigation, we must always investigate every lead," she said, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the top of my file. "A safe journey to you, Captain."

I turned again and headed for the door, sliding the Stormy Banks tag back into my collar slot but continuing to palm the Icarus one. No one tried to stop me,no one called me back, and two minutes later I was once again out in the open air. It was all over, and I was free to go.

I didn't believe it for a minute. It was all too pat, too convenient. The Ihmisits were still looking for Cameron, and they still thought I was the one who was going to lead them to him. And they'd turned me loose hoping I'd do exactly that.

And unless they planned to tail me all the way to the Icarus-which was, I supposed, an option-that meant they'd planted a tracker on me.

The question was how. Molecular-chain echo transponders were useless in the radio cacophony inside a major port, so it had to be one of the larger, needle-sized trackers. But I'd watched Aymi-Mastr's flunky as he searched my bag, and would have been willing to swear in court that he hadn't planted anything.

Which meant it had to have been planted after the search. And then, of course, it was obvious.

Carefully, I eased the tag out of my collar and took a good look; and there it was, slid neatly and nearly invisibly lengthwise through the bottom edge of the tag. Getting hold of the end with finger and thumbnail, I managed to pull it free of the plastic.

Now came the problem of how to get rid of it without the telltale motionlessness that would occur if I simply tossed it in the nearest trash bin. Fortunately, the opportunity was already close at hand. Coming rapidly through the crowd, three seconds away from intersecting my path, was a short Bunkre with one of those glittering, high-collared landing jackets that always remind me of something you'd see at an Elvis revival. Adjusting my step slightly, I turned my head partially away to make it look accidental, and slammed full tilt into him.

"Sorry," I apologized, grabbing his shoulders to help him regain his balance.

I.

straightened his collar where the impact of my shoulder had bent it, at the same time pulling a five-commark piece out of my pocket. "My personal fault entirely," I gave the proper Bunkrel apology as I offered him the coin. "In partial compensation, please have a meal or drink on the labor of my arms."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed the coin, grunted the proper Bunkrel wheeze of acceptance and forgiveness, and immediately changed course toward the hospitality building.

Five commarks was about ten times the compensation the accident warranted, and he was clearly bent on spending the money before the clumsy human realized his mistake and came looking for change.

With luck, he'd also be so busy spending it he wouldn't notice that while I was straightening his collar I'd left him a small present. I let him get a ten- meter head start, then followed.

The hospitality center straddling the main pathway thirty meters inward from the entrance gate wasn't much more than your basic Ihmis taverno, just built on a larger scale and with correspondingly higher prices. I walked straight across the crowded dining area, past the line of small private dining chambers, and through the NO ADMITTANCE door into one of the storage rooms.

As I'd expected, the room was empty, the entire staff out serving the rush of opening-hour customers. I crossed to the service door on the far side, shucking off my jacket and again turning it inside out. There was no ID slot on thisside, but I could wedge the Icarus tag between the zipper and covering flap where the scanners could read it. Unlocking the door, I stepped out into the s.p.a.ceport proper again and got onto the nearest of the guidelighted slideways meandering between the various landing pads. We would see now just how alert the Ihmisits were, and how badly they wanted to follow me.

To my mild surprise, they apparently didn't want it very badly at all. Serious interest on their part would have meant an actual, physical tail on hand to augment the signal from the tracker; but I kept a close watch as I shifted between slideways at the prompting of the guide-lights, and saw no indication of anyone performing a similar dance. Either my jaunt through the hospitality building and jacket switch had caught them completely by surprise, or the tracker had just been a token reaction to a possible lead who might still be of interest but probably wasn't. Or else they had no particular reason to follow me because they had no idea the Icarus even existed.

Or else they knew all about the Icarus and were already waiting for me there, and all of this was simply their helpful way of offering me the rope I would need to hang myself. A wonderfully cheery thought to be having at six in the morning.

I'd been riding along the slideways in what seemed like circles for about fifteen minutes, and was starting to quietly curse the entire Ihmis species, when the yellow guidelights running ahead of me finally turned the pink that indicated I was there. Taking one last surrept.i.tious look around, I hopped off my current slideway, circled the stern of a Trinkian freighter, and came face-to-face with the Icarus.

To say that the first sight was a letdown would be to vastly understate the case. The ship looked like nothing I'd ever seen before; like nothing I'd ever imagined before. Like nothing, for that matter, that had any business flying.

The bow section was built along standard lines, with the necessary splay- finger hypers.p.a.ce cutter array melding into the equally standard sensor/capacitor nose-cone arrangement. But from that point on, anything resembling normal starship design went straight out the window. Behind the bow the ship swelled abruptly into a large sphere, a good forty meters across, covered with the same dark gray hull plates as the nose cone. The usual a.s.sortment of maneuvering vents were scattered around its surface, connecting aft to the ship's main thrusters via a series of conduits running through the narrow s.p.a.ce between the inner and outer hulls.

Behind the large sphere was a smaller, twenty-meter-diameter sphere squashed up into the aft section of the larger one, with a saddle-surface cowling covering the intersection between them. Behind the second sphere, looking almost like it had been slapped on as an afterthought, was a full-size engine section that looked like it had come off a Kronks ore scutter, and one of the more disreputable ones at that. Hugging the surface of the small sphere here on the ship's port side, running from the aft part of the large sphere to the forward part of the engine section, was a hard-sh.e.l.l wraparound s.p.a.ce tunnel. Near the center of the wraparound was the entryway, currently sealed, with a pair of floodlights stuck to the wraparound just above the top two corners. A collapsible stairway extended the ten meters from the red-rimmed hatch down to the ground, with an entry-code keypad on the handrail near the bottom. Therewas a landing skid/cushion arrangement propping up the engine section somewhat, but the bulge of the larger sphere still forced the bow cone to point up into the sky at about a ten-degree angle.

The overall visual effect was either that of an old-style rocket that had suddenly lost hull integrity in vacuum and bulged outward in two places, or else some strange metallic creature that had become pregnant with twins, one of them a definite runt. I hadn't been expecting something sleek and impressive, but this was just ridiculous.

"Looks like something a group of semitrained chimps put together out of a box, doesn't it?" a cheerful voice commented at my side.

I turned. A medium-sized man in his early thirties with wavy blue-streaked hair and a muscular build had come up beside me, gazing up at the Icarus with a mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and disbelief. "Succinctly put," I agreed, lowering my bag to the ground. "With one of the chimps having first spilled his coffee on the instructions."

He grinned, setting his bag down next to mine. "I believe that between us we have indeed captured the essence of the situation. You flying with us?"

"So I was told," I said. "Jordan McKell; pilot and navigator."

"Jaeger Jones; mechanic," he identified himself, sticking out his hand.