Book Two In The Mag Force 7 Series

CHAPTER
        1

The means by which enlightened rulers and
sagacious generals moved and conquered
others, that their achievements surpassed the
masses, was advance knowledge.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

The man followed the woman into the motel lobby. She
never glanced at him, never noticed him. No reason
she should. He was an unprepossessing type of man, the
type whom witnesses are likely to vaguely describe as
being of "ordinary build," "average height," with "no
distinguishing features." He kept his eyes on her.
    The woman was attractive, or rather she might have
been if she had taken more care with her hair, her
makeup, and her clothes. Her hair was shoulder-length,
brown, lacked shape and body. Her clothes--a medium-
length skirt and mannish coat--suited her trim, perhaps
too thin figure, and that was about all that could be said
for them. She had a preoccupied, studious air about her
that was disconcerting, as if part of her were really some-
where else. She carried a shabby overnight bag that ap-
peared to have been hastily packed, for the tail end of
a blouse fluttered out from the side.
    Slung over her shoulder were a small, worn purse and
the strap of a computer case. The case was made of
high-quality leather, appeared to have been packed
neatly and with care, with no odd bulges, no loose straps
or unbuckled buckles. She kept her hand possessively on

the computer case; the purse was forced to trail along
bellind. Obvious where she placed her priorities.
    The man entered the lobby almost on the woman's
heels. No need to keep his distance. The hotel was
attached to the busy Megapolis spaceport and the lobby
was crowded with people, either wanting rooms or
checking out.
    The lobby was circular, with a gigantic vidscreen al-
most two stories high that loomed over guests, while a
smiling personage with excellent teeth welcomed them
to the Megapolis Spaceport Hotel, inviting guests to reg-
ister at one of the automatic registration machines to be
found conveniently in the lobby.
    A long line of restless people had gathered at the au-
tomatic motel registration, which machines may have
been convenient but were, unfortunately, not working
properly. There were three registration machines. One
was out of order. An alien with credit problems was
tying up number two, arguing loudly with the machine.
The third machine was functioning, but at sublight
speed. When a real live motel employee made the mis-
take of showing up, he was immediately mobbed and
disappeared precipitously.
    The woman took her place at the end of the line for
the sublight registration.
    The man took his place in the line behind the alien
arguing with the machine, ensuring that he would proba-
bly be able to remain in the same place for as long as
necessary. The woman would move along more rapidly,
but that was all right. The man didn't need much time.
He just needed proximity and a clear shot.
    The woman shifted the computer case to a more com-
fortable position, yawned, blinked her eyes, rubbed
them, and yawned again. She looked groggy, exhausted.
Those jump-flights were killers. When you finally get to
sleep, a steward wakes you up to tell you the ship is
going into hyperspace and would you please make cer-
tain your webbing is fastened, don't eat or drink any-
thing for the next hour, and try to relax and ignore the
fact that your insides feel like they're now on the
outside.

    The man knew what flight the woman had taken. He
counted on the fact that she wouldn't be operating at
one hundred percent efficiency. Odds were that she
would not have noticed him anyway, but he didn't rely
on odds, never took chances.
    She arrived at the front of the line and did precisely
what the man had been expecting her to do. She placed
the overnight bag on the floor at her feet, shoved the
computer case to the back, brought her purse to the
front. She reached inside her purse to retrieve her plas-
tic. Sliding the card into the machine, she leaned forward
to let the machine scan her eyeball, and said "Darlene
Mohini" in a sleepy voice. She repeated her name when
the machine announced tersely that it hadn't under-
stood her.
 "Darlene Mohini," she said again, irritably.
  The machine asked Ms. Mohini if she           had
reservations.
"Yes." She yawned again. "One night."
     The machine found this agreeable, indicated that it
would have a room key for her momentarily.
  Dull-eyed and drowsy, she waited.
    The man reached into his suit coat pocket, drew out
a small derringer that fit neatly into the palm of his
hand. He held his suit coat folded over his right arm.
Under cover of the coat, he raised the gun, aimed, and
fired.
    A tiny projectile whispered through the air, embedded
itself in the flat base of the woman's leather computer
case. The projectile was small, about the size of a needle.
The man's aim had been true. The projectile slid neatly
into a seam in the leather, disappeared.
    The registration machine handed over a plastic chit.
The woman took the key, started to leave. A person
standing behind her stopped her, indicated that she'd
forgotten her overnight bag. Smiling in a weary, preoccu-
pied manner, the woman reached down, picked it up,
and trudged off in the direction of the airlifts.
    The man, task complete, stepped out of line with the
muttered comment that this was going to take all day
and he didn't have the time. He walked through the

motel lobby, beneath the blaring vid sign that was now
regaling the guests with the wonders to be found on
Megapolis. The man paused at the news counter to buy
a news/entertainment chip for the flight back. Seating
himself, he slipped the chip into his pocket viewer, set-
tled down to watch.
    Another man, walking past, stopped, asked him if that
was today's news chip.
 "Yes, this is today's."
    "How'd the Megapolis Bombers do? I think they're
overrated this year."
    "See for yourself." The man held up the screen, then
said in a low voice, "Clean hit. The transmitter is in her
computer case. You should be receiving the signal now."
    The other man nodded. Sitting down beside the first,
he leaned over to look at his neighbor's viewer. This
second man was middle-aged, graying, developing a
paunch. He was dressed in a rumpled, ill-fitting, and in-
expensive suit.
 "What's the assignment?"
    "Simple. Eavesdrop on her conversations. Record
them. That will let HQ know for certain she's the one
we want. Keep an eye out especially for this person."
The first man inserted another chip into his viewer. The
picture of a cyborg appeared on-screen.
    The cyborg was of indeterminate age, bald, with acid
burns on his head. His eyes were deep, penetrating. His
left side was mechanical: cybernetic arm and leg, with--
according to the description which was scrolling beneath
the picture--a detachable hand that could be replaced
by anything from a small missile launcher to delicate
instruments. The leg was reported to have a special hid-
den compartment where weapons were stored, but that
information could not be confirmed. The cyborg was also
said to have augmented hearing and a specially designed
left eyeball with infrared vision.
    "Jeez!" said the second man, impressed. "He looks
scary. Is he? Or is that all for show?"
    "It's for real. So's he. Former field operative for the
Feds. He's independent now, pulling down big bucks.
His name is Xris. He's the leader of a mercenary team

called Mag Force 7. HQ has information that Mohini's
now a member of the team. If she's the mark, she'll
hook up with the cyborg. If not, we drop it, start over."
    "He won't look like that, will he? I mean, don't most
cyborgs hide beneath fleshfoam and plastiskin and all
that?"
    "Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't. Depends
on the job. But you shouldn't have any trouble recogniz-
ing him. Watch." The static vid shot on-screen changed
to an action shot of the cyborg walking down a street.
    "Notice the peculiar gait," said the first man, hitting
the replay button. "He walks lopsided, as if the physical
half of him is at war with the mechanical." "Weird, huh?"
    "There are other people on the team," the first man
continued. "Mohini might make contact with any of
them. You'll find them all on here." The first man re-
moved the chip, handed it to the second.
    "Uh-huh. A lot of bother, if you ask me, but then
who is asking me, huh?" the second said glumly. "Why
didn't you just kill her when you had the chance? You
could have, I suppose?"
    "Oh, yes." the man said flatly, without emotion. "But
my orders are specific. We need to make certain she's
who we think she is."
    "And since when are the bosses squeamish about tak-
ing out the wrong person?"
    The first man shrugged. "It's not that they worry
about taking out the wrong person so much as they want
to make damn sure we take out the right person. Get
it?"
    "Not really, but then I'm not being paid to get it, am
I, huh? You're leaving town, I hear."
    "Yes, it's my son's birthday party tomorrow and I
promised him I'd be home in time."
    "Really? How old is little James, Jr., now? Must be
about four, huh?"
    "Seven," the first man said proudly. "Already in third
form. And captain of his school soccer team."
 "Seven! Already? Time flies, hull? Last time I saw

him he was a rug rat. Well, say hi to the wife and eat a
piece of birthday cake for me."
    "Sure thing. Oh, and remember, transmit all info to
HQ and then sit tight. Shadow only. Wait for orders."
    "Right. I know. They were very specific about that."
The man shook his head again. "All a lot of trouble for
nothing, if you ask me. Be seein' you. Have a good one."
"You, too."
    The two parted. The first man hurried off to catch his
spaceplane, the second bought a news/entertainment
chip. He plunked himself down in a chair in the motel
lobby, took out a small vid machine, slid the chip inside,
put the earphones on, and appeared to prepare himself
resignedly to be informed and/or entertained.
    In reality, he was listening to the clear, distinct sounds
of Darlene Mohini, inside her hotel room, kicking off
her shoes.

CHAPTER 2

There are five types of spies to be employed: local
spy, internal spy, turned spy, dead spy, and the
living spy.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

Jt was automatic for Xris to check for a tail every time
he went anywhere, automatic to glance at the rearview
cam display when he pulled away from the curb, auto-
matic to glance at it a second and third time as he pro-
pelled the rental vehic through the congested city streets.
Automatic, he didn't even think about it, he wasn't par-
ticularly expecting it, and so it took his brain a few extra
seconds to latch on to the fact that--by God--he had
company.
    The gray two-door. Thinking back, he recalled having
seen it ease out into the street about a half kilometer
behind him when he'd left the hotel. It was now accom-
panying him along the boulevard, keeping the same dis-
tance, both of them heading into the city.
    "Maybe you and I just happen to be going the same
direction," Xris said to the gray two-door, eyeing it on
the display screen. "Let's find out."
    The boulevard was a spacious four-lane principal road.
divided by a wide expanse of green lawn, dignified trees,
and a well-disciplined creek. Bisecting a residential dis-
trict, with attractive but not ostentatious homes for Meg-
apolis's burgeoning upper middle class, the boulevard
was only lightly to moderately traveled.

    Xris took his time, signaled, and made a right-hand
turn.
 The gray two-door turned right.
    Driving at a medium pace past rows of houses, Xris
signaled, turned right again.
 The gray two-door cruised along after him.
      "Should have a sign marked 'In Tow,'" Xris mut-
tered. "Well, this should clinch it."
  He turned right a third time.
  So did the gray two-door.
    Xris was stumped. He had no doubt that he was being
followed. Making three right turns in succession is an
old trick used to spot a tail. But the gray two-door was
so damn obvious about it. Plus, why tag along? Why not
just use any of the innumerable electronic tracking de-
vices available on the market? Attach it to the car, bring
up the blip on your screen, and follow your subject from
the comfort and privacy of your own living room.
    Xris pulled his vehic over to the curb, shut down the
air cushions. The vehic dropped to street level. The gray
two-door stopped as well. It had moved up on him, due
to the fact that the streets in the residential neighbor-
hood were only a block to two blocks long.
    Xris sat in the driver's seat, glared at the car through
the rearview cam.
    "I might have known," he said to the car. "Didn't
take you long, did it? Who? And how much?"
    He wasn't going to get answers sitting here. He had
parked in front of a nice little brick house with a two-
vehic garage, a dog slumbering in the Argasian sun, and
a toddler on a tricycle. Xris climbed out of the vehic.
The dog woke up, began barking at him.
    Xris made it clear to the dog that he had no designs
upon either the house or the toddler and strolled down
the sidewalk. He allowed himself the thought, in passing,
that this was the sort of neighborhood, the sort of life,
he and Marjorie had always talked about buying into--
complete with dog, kid, and trike. He allowed himself
the thought, allowed himself the pain. It had been going
to come anyhow. This way, he could control it.
  That done, he could focus on this little problem.

    The gray two-door remained where it was, parked in
front of a house similar in design to the brick, except
that it was built with stone and had a cat in the driveway.
    Xris walked up to the gray two-door, leaned down to
peer through the tinted steelglass. Recognizing the man
inside, Xris stood up straight, drew in a breath, then
tapped on the window. The man inside touched a button.
    "I'm going to the Space and Aeronautics Museum,"
Xris informed the man politely. "It's about ten kilome-
ters north on the boulevard, to your right. I'll wait for
you at the lights."
    "Good to see you haven't lost your sense of humor,
Xris," said the man inside, his voice coming through the
speaker hidden in the blastproof door. "I wouldn't want
to spoil an educational outing. Why don't you step in-
side? We need to have a little talk." The door clicked, swung open.
    Xris entered, sat down in the passenger's seat, shut
the door, which was soundproof as well as blastproof.
Relaxed, making certain he kept both hands in plain
sight--and also making certain the driver kept both his
hands in plain sight--Xris pulled out a twist, put it in
his mouth.
    "You know I can't tolerate cigarette smoke, Xris,"
said the man.
    "I'll chew it," Xris said. "So, Amadi. It's been a lot
of years. I heard you had retired."
 "I did. I was. They brought me back."
 "Once a Fed, always a Fed, huh, Amadi?"
 "Something like that." Amadi smiled.
    He must be pushing seventy now. His black hair was
gray, his swarthy complexion seamed with wrinkles.
He'd kept himself in shape and he was doing fine finan-
cially-if Xris could judge by the well-cut suit and the
designer silk tie. The bureau must be keeping him on
retainer. Not surprising. Jafar el Amadi was the foremost
authority on the Hung---one of the richest, most power-
ful criminal organizations operating in the central part
of the galaxy.
    Amadi had also been Xris's super on his last job with
the Feds. The job that had gone very, very bad,

    Xris settled back into the cushy seat. A series of small
beeps came from his left arm. Shoving back the sleeve
of his own well-cut and expensive suit coat, Xris rolled
up his shirt cuff, revealing a mass of gleaming steel, LED
lights, complex wiring. He made a few necessary
adjustments.
    He noted Amadi watching, saw that the man's smile
was a bit strained.
    Xris wiggled the fingers of his left hand. "It's the tem-
perature of the skin that's the problem. Hard to main-
tain. You don't want the plastiskin too cold--you touch
someone and they think they're being grabbed by a hand
from the grave. You don't want it too hot, either, al-
though turning up the heat sometimes comes in handy.
I can soft-boil an egg--"
    "Cut the crap, Xris," Amadi said, the smile gone. "I
was at the hospital when they brought you in. You're
damn lucky you're alive."
    Xris shrugged. The matter was open to debate. "I'm
going to be late for my meeting at the museum. Let's
make this short. How's the wife and kids, Amadi? Oh,
and don't bother asking me about mine."
    Amadi's dark eyes flickered. "I guess I can't blame
you for being bitter--"
    "No! Really?" Xris was shocked. "How long had the
bureau known Armstrong was a traitor? Before or after
Ito and I walked into that goddamn munitions plant and
got ourselves blown to hell and back?"
 "It wasn't until after, Xris, I swear--"
    "Then why didn't you tell me the truth? Why didn't
you tell me it was Armstrong who set us up, not Dalin
Rowan? You let me go for years thinking that my best
friend had betrayed me. You let me go for years carrying
that hatred inside me. God knows what I would have
done if--" Xris stopped, clamped down hard on the
twist, so hard his jaw started to ache. He hadn't meant
to say that much. Looking at Amadi brought back a lot,
a helluva lot.
    The arm beeped again. Xris ignored it. He could have
hard-boiled an egg about now.

    Amadi was watching him carefully. "So--you found
Dalin Rowan."
    Xris chewed. The tobacco juice slid down his throat,
erasing, for the moment, the faint metallic taste that
never seemed to leave his mouth, always reminded him
that he was more metal than man. He had to be careful
here, very careful.
    Xris grimaced, stared at the windshield. "How'd you
find out?"
    Amadi shrugged. "Someone hacked his way into our
computer system a couple of months ago. Neat, sweet,
clean. The job had Dalin Rowan's footprints all over it.
He was searching for files on the Knights of the Black
Earth. Imagine my surprise when, a few days later, you
and your team manage to stop the knights from turning
His Majesty the King into the universe's largest carbon-
ated soft drink."
    Xris looked blank. "Gosh, I'm sorry, Amadi. You got
the wrong information. I heard about that incident on
the GNN news. Their anchorman was the would-be as-
sassin, wasn't he? Warden, that was his name. I'd love
to take credit for saving the king's life, but we were
light-years away at the time."
    "You were a lot closer than that." Amadi tapped a
finger on the steering wheel. "You were the one who
shot up that hotel, destroyed one of the regicide devices.
That poisoner of yours--what's his name, the Adonian
Loti--he and the character in the raincoat took out War-
den, who was the knights' backup assassin.
    "Oh, I can't prove any of this--Olefsky's Wolf Bri-
gade whisked you and your team away before anyone
could spot you. The Lord Admiral concealed the Loti--
or should I say the Honorable Ambassador from An-
donia? All handled very neatly. His Majesty is safe, the
Knights of the Black Earth are destroyed. We've been
told from the highest level that the case is closed. Fine."
Amadi shrugged. "Case closed. But there's another case
that's wide open."
    "Which is?" Xris swallowed the remainder of the
twist.
 "The break-in of a top-secret naval installation."

"The Navy called in the bureau on that one, did
they?"
    "You know damn well the Navy didn't call us in.
They've shut the lid so tight you couldn't pry it loose
with a concussion grenade. They won't even admit the
damn base exists, much less that someone actually man-
aged to crash their security and waltz right in."
    "Well, that's the military for you," Xris said. "Always
got to have their little secrets."
    "That's where you found Dalin Rowan, wasn't it,
Xris?" Amadi said. "That's where he was hiding. You
found him and you were going to kilt him, weren't you?
But he talked his way out of it. He was the one told
you about Armstrong."
    Xris had to phrase this next question carefully. Deep
inside, he was doing a little exulting, but he needed to
make sure he was right. He took out another twist, took
it out of a golden cigarette case that had the Royal Seal
embossed on it. A gift, from His Majesty, from the first
time Xris had done the king a favor.
    "You got it all wrong, Amadi. I heard about Arm-
strong from a gypsy fortune-teller. She saw it in my
cards. As to Dalin Rowan, you guys gave him his new
identity. I would have thought you would have kept tabs
on him."
    "We gave him a new identity to protect him from the
Hung. After he testified at the trial, he was supposed to
take his new ID and disappear."
    Xris leaned back in the seat, folded his arms. "Let me
guess what happened after that--Dalin Rowan took a
new ID, all right, only it wasn't the one you had fixed
up for him. His disappearing act was for real. Hell, you
can't blame him, Amadi. You know the Hung. Dalin
Rowan all but destroyed them. He put their top men in
prison. He bankrupted their operations. If there's one
person in the universe the Hung--or what's left of
them--would like to see hanging in a Corasian meat
locker, it's Dalin Rowan. And yes, the Hung leaders are
stashed away on some penal planet, and yes, they don't
have any cash, but that won't stop them--"
  "It isn't stopping them, Xris," Amadi said quietly.

"They have cash, apparently. Reserve funds we didn't
know about. Their people are still on those penal colo-
nies, but you and I both know that guards and supply
ship captains can be bribed, that orders and money and
drugs and God knows what all flow in and out of those
places. And you know something else, Xris." Amadi
eyed him. "If we know you have access to Dalin Rowan,
the Hung know it, too."
    "How?" Xris's lip curled around the twist. "Got a few
more traitors left in the department?"
    "Damn it, Xris!" Amadi slammed his hand on the
steering mechanism with enough force to rock the vehic.
"We need to talk to Dalin Rowan! He's got information
we can use. He's bound to know where the Hung kept
those reserve accounts. Either that or he can go through
the old files, track the information down. It's there. It
has to be there. We just missed it the first time around."
    "Sorry, Amadi," Xris said coolly. "It's been years
since I've seen Dalin Rowan. I guess you'll have to crack
the Hung on your own."
    Amadi was grim. "You think you can protect him,
Xris? Think again. You're good. But you're not as good
as the Hung. They have the money, the manpower, the
resources. Bear Olefsky's Wolf Brigade won't be there
to rescue you the next time. Rowan'll never know what
hit him. We're his only hope."
    Xris glanced at his watch. "Been nice seeing you
again, Amadi, but Fve got to go. I'm going to be late
for my appointment as it is. Are you going to keep fol-
lowing me? If so, I can make it easy for you. I'll mail
you my itinerary for the next few weeks."
    He put his hand on the latch, found it was locked.
"Open the door, Amadi. Unless you want me to kick it
open." Reaching down, Xris pulled up his pants leg, re-
vealed gleaming steel. "If I use this leg to kick open that
door, you won't have much of a door."
 Amadi pushed a button. The latch clicked.
 "I could make things tough for you, Xris."
    "You could," Xris conceded, "but you won't. I just
might happen to bump into Dalin Rowan on the side-

walk one day." He opened the door, climbed out. "If I
were you, I'd go back to collecting my pension."
    He slammed the door shut, waited on the sidewalk for
Amadi to drive away.
    Amadi didn't move. He had his hand on the speaker
controls. He was going to say something, make another
appeal, a final offer.
    The cat in the driveway yawned, stood up, stretched,
came over to Xris and rubbed around his legs. Xris knelt
down, petted the cat, all the while watching Amadi, who
decided he wasn't saying anything, after all.
    The gray two-door rose on its air cushions, floated off
down the street.
    The cat rolled over on its stomach and purred. Xris
knew how the animal felt. He could have very easily
done the same.

CHAPTER
        3

Men! The only animal in the world to fear!

D. H. Lawrence, "The Mountain Lion"

Xris's euphoria had evaporated by the time he reached
his own vehicle. The bureau was barking up the
wrong tree, but that was small comfort. The fact that
they were giving chase was disheartening. And Amadi
had been right about one thing .. well, okay, he'd been
right about a lot of things, but one was most critical. If
the bureau dogs were on to the scent, Xris could be damn
sure that the Hung would be panting along behind.
    That crack about traitors had been a cheap shot. The
bureau was a good organization, but it was an organiza-
tion, employing millions of people spread out all across
the galaxy. Not surprising to find those whose credit had
gone critical, who would be willing to sell a name, a
number. The Hung were very good at finding desperate
people, very good at using them.
    "The one advantage we have," Xris said to himself,
as he climbed into the car under the watchful eyes of
the dog and the interested eyes of the toddler, "is that
everyone is looking for Dalin Rowan. Nobody's looking
for Darlene."
    That had been the whole point in talking to Amadi--
to ascertain if the bureau knew that the female Xris had
abducted at gunpoint from the top-secret naval base had
once been his former partner and best friend. He had
also once been a male.

    "The ultimate disguise," was how the detective who
had tracked Darlene down had put it.
    Years ago Federal Agent Dalin Rowan had infiltrated
the crime syndicate known ~s the Hung. A genius with
computers, Rowan had managed to worm his way into
their systems, had not only gained evidence against
them, but had also sent their financial empire into a
nosedive. The leaders were jailed, the small fish fled to
calmer waters.
    The Fed protected Rowan; he testified at the trial be-
hind an opaque bulletproof screen, using a voice scram-
bler. (The defense had successfully challenged
holographic testimony). When the trial was over, the bu-
reau had a new identity all prepared for Dalin Rowan.
But Rowan had already taken steps on his own.
    Michael Armstrong had been a Fed agent. He'd sold
out to the Hung. It was Armstrong who set up Xris and
Mashahiro Ito to die in that munitions factory. A short
time later, Armstrong was found dead, murdered. The
Hung, of course. Armstrong's usefulness to them had
ended, and they'd rid themselves of a potential threat.
That was what the bureau claimed.
    Dalin Rowan knew different. Armstrong's credit with
the Hung hadn't run out. He wasn't a threat to the
Hung. He was a threat to someone else, someone in the
bureau itself.
    Rowan hadn't been able to find out much; just enough
to make him nervous about accepting the bureau~s
phony ID. Dalin had to disappear completely, utterly,
leaving no trace. A few months of hormone treatments,
the operation, and Dalin Rowan was dead. Darlene Mohini was born.
    Darlene Mohini's phony identity was so good that
he--she--managed to gain security clearance at the very
top levels of the Royal Navy. She became a code-
breaker, a code-maker. Her abduction--by Xris--had
forced the Royal Navy to all but shut down for seventy-
two hours while they changed their codes. Xris had ru-
ined all that for Darlene; he'd blown her cover and now
he felt responsible for her safety. She was a valued part

of the Mag Force 7 mercenary team now, as well as--
once again--a trusted friend.
    He and Darlene both knew that the Hung would be
after her; they should have figured the bureau in on the
hunt, too.
    "Thank you, John Dixter, for keeping her secret,"
Xris said quietly, maneuvering the vehic down the
boulevard.
    John Dixter, Lord Admiral of the Royal Navy, knew
the truth. He knew about Dalin Rowan, about Major
Darlene Mohini, about Darlene Rowan. The bureau was
searching for Dalin. But what about the Hung? Who
were they searching for?
    Xris had no answers. He fretted and fumed and
thought of this possibility and that possibility and only
when he realized he had no idea where he was or how
he got there did he force himself to snap out of it, He
and Darlene had discussed all this; he'd made the best
possible arrangements to protect her, short of locking
her in a lead-lined container and sealing her up in cold
storage.
    "If the Hung are going to end my life, Xris," Darlene
had said to him, "they're going to end my life."
    And so she was working with the Mag Force 7 team,
a group of mercenaries who were for hire to anyone
who had plastic enough to be able to afford the best in
the business. Someone could, apparently. Xris was on his
way to the Megapolis Space and Aeronautics Museum to
meet with Dr. Michael Sakuta, curator, who'd expressed
an interest in hiring the team for a job.
    Xris checked the map in the rental vehic, discovered
that, although part of his mind had wandered, the other
part was right on track. The residential section gave way
to an elite shopping district, and where that ended, the
manicured lawns of the museum began.
    Xris parked the vehic and mounted the broad marble
stairs to the staid, columned portico. He entered a side
door, showed the pass that had been sent to him by the
curator. He was told how to find the museum's offices,
and walked into the gigantic, echoing foyer into a throng
of schoolchildren, who had stopped to gape at a side-

by-side comparison of an ancient Atlas rocket booster
and a compact, powerful Naval spaceplane.
    Xris paused to listen to the guide, who was describing
Earth's first moon landing to the group of now giggling
children. The kids had probably been to Megapolis's
moon on school outings. Glancing around the enormous
room, Xris found Raoul and the Little One. He did not
see Amadi. Xris hadn't really been expecting to. That
tailing business had been mostly for show--to shake Xris
up, jolt him. Xris gave Amadi credit. He'd succeeded.
    As for keeping Xris under surveillance, Amadi wasn't
the least bit interested in Xris's business, except to hope
maybe Xris might lead them to Dalin Rowan, and
Amadi surely knew better than to figure Xris would
make a blunder like that. As for the Hung, if they didn't
know it, they soon would. Xris nominated several likely
candidates as Hung spies, fixed an image of each of them
in his mind for later reference, and strolled over to meet
with Raoul and his diminutive cohort.
    Raoul was staring at something--Xris couldn't see
what--with fixed intensity. Xris wondered what had cap-
tured the Adonian's attention. It could be anything from
a holographic rendering of the solar system to a trash
receptacle. Dr. Quong had once described Raoul's
thought processes as comparable to butterflies in a sunny
meadow: flitting happily this way and that, alighting on
a bright-colored flower, staying for a time, then fluttering
off again. In this instance, Raoul was transfixed by an
illuminated and animated soft drink dispenser.
    The Little One, muffled in raincoat and fedora, stood
patiently at his friend's side, watching Xris. The cyborg
attempted to arrange his mind to meet the telepath's
searching scrutiny. A hopeless task.
    Walking up, Xris tapped Raoul on the shoulder.
"Most people come to look at the exhibits."
    Raoul--not the least surprised--turned his unfocused
gaze languidly on Xris. then sent it wandering vaguely
about the museum. "Whatever for?"
    Xris was relieved to see that Raoul was dressed quite
conservatively in a dark suit, white shirt, and hat. This
outfit was such a radical change from the last Xris had

!

seen Raoul in--lime-green silk lounging pajamas--that
Xris forgave the nipped-in waist on the suit jacket, the
mauve spats, which matched the mauve cravat, and the
six glittering earrings. Raoul had sleeked back his long
black hair into a ponytail. A homburg perched at a fash-
ionable angle on his head and he carried a walking stick
with a pearl handle. He had only a hint of mauve on his
eyelids, a touch of mascara, and a soft pink lipstick. This
was apparently Raoul's version of the well-dressed
academic.
    The Little One tugged on Raoul's coattail. The two
spoke silently in whatever manner they communicated.
Raoul's gaze shifted back to Xris. His eyes focused, his
gaze sharpened, the mauve eyelids narrowed.
    Xris scowled at the Little One, but by that time it was
too late.
    "He says you are upset, Xris Cyborg," Raoul
murmured.
    "I'm upset," Xris snapped. "Let's leave it at that for
the time being. We're late as it is. Sakuta's offices are
upstairs. We'll walk. You have your passes?"  "Of course."
    Raoul cast one last lingering glance at the soft drink
machine, then followed Xris toward the stairway, located
some distance away from the main crowd. Since the
staircase led only to the museum offices and was marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, the staircase was
little used.
    "Ask him"--Xris jerked his thumb at the Little One--
"if anyone's taking an unusual interest in us."
    "He says that one gentleman is extremely taken with
my hat," Raoul replied.
 "Not quite what I had in mind," Xris said.
 "No, I didn't suppose it was."
    Raoul looked to the Little One, who was standing on
the stairs, scanning the crowd. At length, the fedora
shook back and forth.
    "No, Xris Cyborg. No one is focusing his or her
thoughts on us at the moment."
 "Good," Xris said.

    "No one is focusing his or her thoughts on Darlene
Rowan, either," Raoul continued imperturbably.
    Xris glared at the Little One. "Just once, I'd like to
have a private thought in my head. Just once. Would
that be too much to ask?"
    The small telepath cringed and sidled closer to Raoul,
who rested a protective hand on the Little One's
shoulder.
    "He has no way of knowing, my friend. The concept
of privacy is unknown among his people--"
    "Save it for Doc's thesis." Xris snorted and climbed
the stairs in glum and ill-tempered silence.
    Raoul and the Little One accompanied him, the Little
One occasionally tripping over the long raincoat he
wore. The two were holding one of their incomprehensi-
ble conversations.
    "I was only going to inquire ..." Raoul was saying in
a loud whisper that echoed up the stone staircase.
    The Little One waved one hand, made a tugging
motion.
    Raoul hushed, listening to the Little One's silent reply.
Xris found the discussion highly irritating. He could have
ignored an ordinary conversation between two people,
but he couldn't help listening to these two, couldn't help
trying to fill in the blanks, so to speak, trying to guess
what the Little One was silently transmitting. And Xris
always had the feeling that they were talking about him.
  Which, in this case, they were.
    "I know he's in a bad mood," Raoul responded, "but
I don't see any harm in asking ..."
    The Little One was holding forth again, apparently,
because there was another burst of silence from Raoul.
Xris gritted his teeth, bit back an order for them both
to shut up.
  "It's only once a year," Raoul said, aggrieved.
    Xris came to a halt on the first landing. "What is it?"
he demanded.
    "It is nothing, Xris Cyborg," Raoul demurred, low-
ering his purple-hued eyelids. "I was going to request a
leave of absence, but the Little One maintains that you

are not in a good mood and that therefore this would
be an inappropriate time to approach you--"
    "Leave of absence? What for?" Xris demanded, then
remembered. "Oh, hell, is it that time of year again?
No, I may need you for this job."
  He began climbing the stairs again.
    "But if you don't need us?" Raoul pursued, assisting
his small friend, who was having difficulty traversing the
broad stairs. Xris slowed his pace, though he did his best
to make it look unintentional.
    "lt's a very important holiday on my planet," Raoul
continued solemnly. "One that is fraught with religious
significance--"
    Xris glanced sideways at the Adonian. "It's a carnival!
A week of brawling, carousing, and drunken orgies."
    "As I said"--Raoul was grave--"it is fraught with re-
ligious significance. I was unable to attend last year and
my spiritual outlook on life was considerably diminished
as a result. I would very much like to attend this year
and renew myself. The Little One will, of course, accom-
pany me."
    The cyborg knew better than to pursue the subject of
Adonian spiritual outlook. People made adult vids out
of those. Xris eyed the Little One, who was nodding the
fedora. "What does he do during the riots?"
     "We do not riot," Raoul said, dignity affronted. "The
Little One finds the experience cerebrally stimulating."
 Xris grunted. "I'll bet he does."
    "May we therefore request a leave of absence?"
Raoul asked.
    "You call request it," Xris said in the tone which
meant No way in hell.
    He marched on in silence. Raoul sighed. The Little
One fell over his raincoat.
    Xris could almost hear the words I told vou so ripple
through the air,

    At the top of the third flight of stairs, they entered an
outer office. An efficient and attractive female reception-
ist, whose choice of eye shadow and nail polish received
Raoul's mark of approval, told them that they were ex-

pected and the professor would be with them shortly.
She had barely finished speaking when a door in the
back of the office opened.
"Ah, here's the professor now," said the receptionist.
"Dr. Sakuta." Xris extended his hand--his right hand,
flesh and blood and needing no adjustments as to tem-
perature. "These are my colleagues, Raoul de Beauso-
leil-"
    Raoul offered the fingertips of his hand. "Charmed," he
said, and meant it. Dr. Sakuta was a very good-looking
man.
    "And this is the Little One," Xris added. "I spoke to
you about him."
 "Your telepath." Sakuta nodded.
    "I trust that's still all right with you," Xris said.
"Nothing personal, just a routine precaution."
    Sakuta gazed at the Little One with an abstracted air.
The professor blinked, looked up. "Oh, yes, certainly.
Fine with me. I quite understand. In your line of work,
you must be careful. If you'll just step into my office?
Forgive the mess. They're renovating this part of the
building."
    Entering his office, Sakuta offered the one visible
chair in the room to Xris. The professor whisked a drop
cloth off another chair, which he gave to Raoul. Sakuta
glanced uncertainly at the Little One; obviously no chair
was suitable for the small empath, who came only to
Xris's waist. The Little One took his accustomed place
beside Raoul, plopped down on the floor, and made him-
self comfortable.
 "Is he all right like that?" Sakuta asked in a low voice.
    "He's fine," said Raoul, melting. "Just perfectly fine.
Thank you so much for caring."
    Sakuta shrugged and walked around another piece of
cloth-protected furniture to reach the chair behind his
desk. The room smelled strongly of paint. Half the walls
were a different color from the other half. A jet-powered
ladder stood on the floor, airbrushes gathered around
it. The painters were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the
professor had told them to take the day off.
  Sakuta sat down at the desk, then--blinking again--

he stared at the open door. "Oh, dear," he said, and
started to stand up. "This is very confidential."
    "I'11 get it, Doctor," Xris offered. Rising, he shut the
door, returned to his seat.
    "Thank you." Sakuta gave them an apologetic smile.
"All this turmoil"--he made a vague gesture to the
walls--"it's been a considerable strain. So difficult pursu-
ing one's work. The constant distractions . . ." He
blinked at them again, gave a deprecating laugh. "It's
silly of me to complain, I know. Having one's office re-
modeled isn't exactly a catastrophic event. But my life
revolves around my work."
    In his forties, good-looking, with his dark eyes, Van
Dyke beard, trimmed mustache, and luxuriant black
hair, Sakuta looked as if he would be more at home
among the rich and famous in the gambling casinos of
Laskar. Instead, he was just another goofy, absent-
minded prof.
    "1 can imagine how much it must upset you," Xris
lied sympathetically.
    "So can I," Raoul said, and sighed deeply. "Your
work must be fascinating. And your rockets," he added
in a breathless tone, "they must be so big!"
    "Cut it out," Xris muttered, and gave the Adonian a
surreptitious kick in the shin. Aloud he said, "We don't
want to take up your valuable time, Professor. If you
could just explain the nature of the work you want to
hire us to do--"
    "Oh, yes, certainly." Sakuta sat forward in his chair,
regarded Xris with bright enthusiasm. "What do you
know about space-age archaeology?" "Enough to pass the final."
 Sakuta appeared shocked at this response.
    Xris grinned. "It's a joke, Professor. Archaeology
wasn't my field. Sorry."
    Sakuta's expression cleared. "Ah, yes. I understand.
My nemesis was economics. At any rate, on the planet
of Pandor, which you will find located in the Zeta Three
quadrant, some construction workers have made a his-
toric archaeological find. They have uncovered the
wreckage of a prehyperdrive spaceplane."

    "I don't remember much from my archaeology class,"
Xris said, "but I do seem to recall that prehyperdrive
craft aren't that rare."
    "You're quite right." Sakuta seemed genuinely
pleased with Xris's answer. Xris had the feeling he'd
earned an A for the day. "The spaceplane itself is not
of interest. We have several on display already. It is
what's inside the spaceplane that is of inestimable
value."
    He had dropped his voice; his eyes were moist. His
hands actually shook with excitement.
    "What is it?" Xris asked, envisioning nothing less than
a chest of jewels or maybe--considering Sakuta's inter-
ests--a case of antique microchips.
    "A robot," Sakuta said, his voice soft with reverent
awe. "Not just any robot," he added hastily, seeing that
Xris was underwhelmed. "This is one of the first robots
designed by scientists to undertake space flight. On its
own." Sakuta looked from Xris to Raoul, apparently ex-
pecting them to leap out of their chairs and go bounding
about the room. "Surely you understand the signifi-
cance?"
    "Oh, I do!" Raoul breathed, half rising. "1 truly do."
He licked his lips.
    "Look, whether we understand it or not doesn't really
matter, does it, Professor?" Xris said, shoving Raoul
back into his chair. "I don't suppose you want to hire
us to write a research paper on it."
    "No, sir." Sakuta looked slightly abashed. "You're ab-
solutely right. You have your areas of specialization and
I have my own. It's just that this discovery . . . well,
never mind. No, the reason I am hiring you is to recover
this robot."
    Xris leaned back, automatically reached for a twist,
saw Raoul raise a disapproving eyebrow, and desisted.
Clasping his hands together, elbows resting on the arm
of the chair, he regarded the professor speculatively.
"What's wrong with it?"
    Sakuta was taken aback by the question. "Why, noth-
ing's wrong with it ... that I know of. It's very, very old,
of course, and I think we can safely assume that most

of its circuitry is corroded. And it probably sustained a
certain amount of damage when the plane in which it
was traveling crashed into the planet, though my col-
league who first reported the find stated that, in her
estimation, the robot was in excellent condition, all
things considered. I'm not sure I understand your ques-
tion-"
    Xris was shaking his head. "Look, Professor, from all
indications, it sounds like you need to hire a salvage
team, not Mag Force 7. We're a crack commando outfit.
I have the best men and women in the business on my
team and you'll pay the highest rates in the business for
us. And if all you want us to do is dig out some moldy
old hunk of scrap metal--"
    "Ah, I see. I wish it were that easy." Sakuta smiled
briefly; his smile faded. He ran his fingertips back and
forth on the desk pad. back and forth, staring down at
the pad all the while.
Xris recognized the signs. He waited patiently.
Sakuta looked up. His face was tinged with a faint crim-
son. "I ... I am deeply ashamed of myself. I could never
have imagined ... Ethical considerations aside, I ..." He
lapsed into silence.
    Suddenly he clenched his fist. "But, damn it, this is
too important!"
    Sakuta shut his eyes when he spoke, as if he feared
to see the condemnation of his visitors' faces. "I'm com-
mitting a terrible act. I know that, but I can't help my-
self. Gentlemen, 1 am hiring you to steal this robot."

CHRPTER 4

Thieves respect property. They merely wish the
property to become their property that they may
more perfectly respect it.

G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday

Sakuta sat, sweating, shaken.
He might have been asking us to assassinate the
prime minister, Xris thought, amused. Raoul bad leaped
to his feet and was solicitously pouring the professor a
glass of water fi'om a carafe on the desk. "Thank you," said Sakuta faintly.
    "My pleasure." Raoul was about to rest a comforting
hand on the professor's broad shoulder, except that Xris
growled. With a jerk of his head, he ordered the Ado-
nian back to his chair.
    Sighing deeply, Raoul obeyed, patting Sakuta's hand
tenderly as he left.
    The professor never noticed. He gulped the water,
wiped his lips fastidiously on a white handkerchief,
which he then returned to his breast pocket.
"Who is in possession of the robot?" Xris asked.
"No one, at the moment. It is still inside the wreckage
of the plane, where it was discovered. The Pandoran
government officials have taken into their empty heads
to fear that the ship is contaminated--some sort of an-
cient virus or bacteria that may infect and kill everyone
on the planet. They are, of course, completely wrong.
Any expert would tell them so. Several have. The plane

crashed in a desert environment. My colleague has in-
spected the spaceplane thoroughly and reported finding
only trace amounts of radiation and no bacteria or germs
of any kind, ancient or otherwise. The Pandoran govern-
ment refuses to listen. And, I must admit, we haven't
gone out of our way to convince them. Their irrational
fear is buying us time."
    Xris shifted in his chair. "Professor, I don't mind
bending the law on occasion--"
    He was forced to wait to continue until Raoul recov-
ered from a fit of coughing.
    "--but galactic salvage law clearly states that any de-
bris which falls from space becomes the property of the
planet on which it falls. If the Pandorans want this robot
for their own Space and Areonautics Museum, then--"
    "That's just it!" Sakuta cried in a hollow voice. "If
they wanted it for a museum, that would be fine with
us! We could arrange to have it exhibited here on loan.
But they don't. They are terribly afraid of it. They intend
to destroy it."
 Xris frowned. "Legal action, then."
    Sakuta was shaking his head. "We are in a quandary,
gentlemen. We could go to the galactic court and ask
for an in',umction to stop the Pandorans from destroying
the robot, but that would take weeks of legal maneuver-
ing and we don't have weeks!
    "The robot and its spaceplane were discovered during
the excavation of a construction site. The Pandorans are
far more interested in proceeding with their construction
than they are in saving the robot. They simply want to
be rid of it. They have threatened to bring in bulldozers
and"--he shuddered at the thought--"cranes to remove
it to a safe area where it can be destroyed."
 "Money..."
    Sakuta was now impatient. "We've offered them ten
times the value of the robot. They've refused. They keep
yammering about flesh-eating viruses. I tell you, gentle-
men, I have had nightmares about rough, hulking Pando-
ran construction workers--"
 "You, too?" Raoul was sympathetic.
 Sakuta regarded them with pleading eyes. "It wouldn't

be precisely stealing. would it? We would still honor our
commitment to pay them for the robot. We are simply
ensuring that we save it for posterity."
    Xris considered. "You want to hire us to travel to
Pandor, retrieve this robot--"
    "I will give you a crate that we have specially designed
for it."
    Xris resumed. "And then you want us to smuggle the
robot off-planet--"
    Sakuta looked stricken. "I know that this means
breaking the law. Perhaps it's not feasible--"
    Xris waved that small consideration away. "In the in-
terests of science." He looked over at the Little One.
"Well7 Is he telling the truth? Is this on the level?"
    The telepath gazed steadily from beneath the fedora
at Sakuta, then nodded.
    Raoul gave the professor a charming smile--to apolo-
gize for ever dreaming to doubt him--and turned to
Xris.
     "The Little One says that Professor Sakuta is telling
us the truth, Xris Cyborg. But not all the truth."
  Sakuta frowned slightly.
    Raoul hastened to continue, anxious that Xris should
understand. "Professor Sakuta greatly desires this robot,
my friend, far more than he is admitting to us. The rea-
son: His colleague considers the robot to be in working
condition with its memory intact. If so, it would be the
first prehyperdrive robot ever recovered capable of of-
fering us an eyewitness account of conditions in the gal-
axy hundreds of years ago. Scholars galaxy-wide will be
willing to pay enormous amounts for the opportunity
to study the robot and its files. The museum will reap
tremendous financial benefit, as well as widespread pub-
licity. Professor Sakuta himself stands to benefit greatly
and has already signed on with a publicity agent to han-
dle his lecture tour."
    Sakuta's face was extremely red. The professor at-
tempted several times to speak, gave it up, drank a glass
of water, straightened his tie, and then regarded them
with an air that was half ashamed, half defiant.

    "Very well. I admit it. Yes, we will stand to profit by
this discovery--"
"To a considerable extent," Xris inserted dryly.
"But I assure you, gentlemen, that money is not a
motivating factor. The significance of this discovery,
from a scientific and historical perspective, is beyond
measure--"
    "Except to your accountant." Xris cut off the profes-
sor's earnest protests. "Relax. We'll take the job. We'll
meet and plan the operation tonight. Tomorrow I'll let
you know the estimated cost. I take it you want this
handled ASAP."
    Sakuta had regained his composure, though he still
looked faintly embarrassed. "I would have you on Pan-
dot this moment, if that were possible. Yes, as soon as
you can make your arrangements. The... um... money
will not be a problem. The museum is prepared to pay
whatever you require."
    Xris grunted. "I'11 bet. Still, I'll send you an estimate,
along with the contract."
    Sakuta was alarmed. "Do we ... do we have to ...
put this in writing?"
    Xris grinned. "Don't worry. The contract's worded
quite carefully. It's for your own protection as well as
ours."
    "Of course." Sakuta managed a strained smile. "You
are professionals. That is why I turned to you for help.
I have made up a dossier which contains information on
the planet, its people, the location of the robot--every-
thing I thought might assist you."
    He handed over a disposable electronic notebook.
Xris accepted the information, stood up.
 "One more thing. Where do we deliver it?"
 "What?" Sakuta appeared genuinely confused.
 "The robot," Xris said patiently.
    "Oh, yes! My goodness. Of course. Delivery. Um ...
I don't suppose that bringing it here would ... No, I can
see that wouldn't do."
 Xris had been shaking his head.
 Sakuta was baffled. "I'm afraid I have no idea ... I'm

so unused to this sort of thing. Have you any
suggestions?"
    "Pandor . . ." Xris recollected. *'It's near the Void,
isn't it?"
 Sakuta nodded.
    "There's a place known as Hell's Outpost. I see
you've heard of it." Xris grinned at Sakuta's shocked
expression. "It's not bad. A quiet place. Everyone minds
his or her own business. Perfect for our transaction.
Meet us there. We'll let you know when."
    'TI1 be there," Sakuta promised, though he didn't
look happy.
    The professor rose, moved around from his desk. He
extended his hand, shook hands with each of them, had
only slight difficulty in retrieving his hand from Raoul's
affectionate grasp. He walked with them to the door of
the office.
    "I'd give you a tour of the museum," he said, "but
this has left me with an upset stomach. If you wouldn't
mind ..."
    Xris assured him that, much as they would love to
view the exhibits, they were on a tight schedule. They
walked down the hall. The receptionist was not at her
desk--rather to Xris's disappointment. She had seemed
to regard him with a certain amount of interest. Of
course, he was wearing a suit that hid his cybernetic leg,
his fleshfoam and plastiskin hand, and a wig that covered
the scars on his bald head.
    Xris considered waiting. The Little One put an end to
his hopes.
    "The Little One says she is not for you, my friend.
She is interested in the professor and the feeling is mu-
tual." Raoul heaved a despairing sigh. "Ah, well. It
never fails. The good-looking ones are always straight."
    Xris smiled, took out a twist, thrust it into his mouth.
They descended the stairs, stepped out into the exhibit
area, which was now packed with groups of school-
children. Their shrill voices echoed, bounced off the high
ceiling. Xris turned down his augmented hearing. They
dodged shrieking children, harassed-looking teachers,
stoic-faced museum guides, and were near the exit when

the Little One suddenly grabbed hold of Xris's right
hand, pointed.
    A woman stood with her back half to them, appar-
ently deeply involved in studying the brochure she held
in her hand.
  "She interested in us?" Xris asked quietly.
 The Little One nodded.
     "I don't suppose she thinks I'm incredibly sexy and
hopes I'll ask her to go dancing."
 The Little One shook his head.
 "Who's she working for?"
 The Little One shrugged.
    "She is very single-minded, is thinking only of us. Per-
haps she is aware that we have a telepath. Do you want
me to deal with her, Xris Cyborg?" Raoul asked, his
hand reaching for his purse, where he kept a tube of
very special lipstick.
    "No," Xris said, and continued walking out the door.
He watched, out of the corner of his eye, the woman
follow after them. "It's nice to know someone cares."

CHAPTER
        5

Advance knowledge cannot be gained from ghosts
and spirits, inferred from phenomena, or
projected from the measures of Heaven, but must
be gained from men for it is the knowledge of
the enemy's true situation.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

The Mag Force 7 team was scheduled to meet later that
evenmg in a small conference room in the Megapolis
Spaceport Hotel, in a room that had been reserved by
Xris under the auspices of a corporate leader gathering
together his regional managers for a sales conference.
When Xris had first been contacted by Sakuta for the
job, he'd put the word out to the Mag Force 7 team--
disbanded since the Knights of the Black Earth affair--
to meet him on Megapolis, gave them the name and
location of the standard business-class hotel adjacent to
the spaceport.
    A job for the Megapolis Space and Aeronautics Mu-
seum wasn't likely to call for top-level security condi-
tions; no need to travel to the edge of the galaxy, to
Hell's Outpost to discuss their plans at the Exile Caf~,
for example. Xris guessed beforehand that this would be
a simple job and he'd been right--in that, at least.
    What he hadn't counted on was Amadi and friends
dropping by to join the party--if that woman at the mu-
seum had been one of Amadi's. Logic told Xris she was
a bureau agent. Paranoia whispered that she was one of
the Hung.

    Whoever she was, he hoped to throw her off the trail.
Xris and Raoul and the Little One drove to the space-
port. No sign of Amadi or any of his agents following.
Small comfort. Amadi was good and when he didn't
want to be seen tailing a suspect, he wouldn't be seen.
    Dropping off the rental vehic, the three merged with
the crowds in the terminal, purchased three tickets for
an outbound flight, and then lounged around in the bar
until it was time for their flight to leave. Xris sipped
a beer and studied the professor's notes. He formed a
preliminary plan to steal the robot, then spent the rest
of the time worrying about Darlene.
    Raoul bought the latest edition of the Galactic Inquisi-
tor and caught up on the gossip about the Royal Family,
began ooohing and aahing over the first official family
photos of the newly arrived baby prince, attempted to
show Xris, who wasn't interested. The Little One crept
into the minds of everyone in the immediate vicinity
and, though he expanded his store of knowledge on hu-
mans considerably, the telepath caught no one tailing
them.
    When the flight was called, they weren't around to
catch it. By the time Amadi--or whoever was keeping
an eye on them, if anyone was keeping an eye on them--
realized they'd been given the slip, the three were long
gone. Xris, Raoul, and the Little One left the spaceport,
caught a tram to the nearby spaceport hotel.
    Xris had plenty of opportunity for thought, with the
result that paranoia fought logic and emerged the victor.
By the time he reached the hotel, Xris had worked him-
self into such a fevered state of anxiety that he posted
Raoul and the Little One to keep watch, then used the
house phone. Asking for Darlene under the name of
Mohini, he buzzed her room.
    Having already convinced himself that something ter-
rible had happened to his friend, Xris was startled and
relieved and even slightly angry at her voice--calm and
sleepy-sounding--at the other end. "'Lo?" she mumbled.
 All that worry, and she'd been taking a nap!

    "Darlene, is that you? Are you all right?" Xris
demanded.
    She heard the tension in his voice, woke up fast. "Yes,
it's me. I'm all right. What's wrong?"
     "Has anyone been inside your room? For any
reason?" "No."
    "Did anyone make you switch rooms? Offer you cash
to move?"
    "No, Xris." Darlene sounded exasperated. "And I re-
member the routine, okay? No maintenance man has
been in to 'fix' the phone, if that's what you're worried
about."
"Good. What's your room number? I'm coming up."
She told him. He switched off the phone, turned to
Raoul. "The Little One latch on to anything? Anybody
interested in us'?"
    Raoul shook his head--carefully, so as not to disturb
his hornburg. "No, there is no one watching us, no one
following us, no one paying the slightest bit of attention
to us, probably because I am wearing this drab gray suit,
which--while it is in the latest style--simply does not
suit my personality. May I add, my friend, that the Little
One and I"--he patted the fedora that stood somewhere
about waist-level--"believe that you are behaving most
irrationally. It would indeed be remarkable if anyone
were to have kept up with us after all those twistings
and turnings and dodgings and feintings we made at the
spaceport. My head is still swimming."
    "You're a Loti. Your head is always swimming. As
for it being remarkable, the Hung's pretty damn remark-
able, and don't you ever forget it. I'm going up to talk
to Darlene. You and the leech here find Jamil--"
"I was going to change my clothes!" Raoul protested.
"You're beautiful," Xris assured the Adonian. "The
gray brings out the red in your eyes. Go find Jamil, tell
him what's up, have him search the conference room.
When he's covered it, call Darlene's room, let us know.
We'll be down."
 "What is he looking for?" Raoul's lashes fluttered.

  "Anything.   Everything--from bugs to plastic
explosives."
    "Plastic bugs to explosives," Raoul murmured, at-
tempting to commit the instructions to what memory he
had. "Now, about my request for a leave of absence--"
 "Go!" Xris said through clenched teeth.
    Raoul, offended, went. The Little One trailed along
behind.
    Xris hoped his orders would survive in translation and
that Jamil wouldn't spend the next thirty minutes hunt-
ing for rubber cockroaches. The cyborg headed for Dar-
lene's room.

    Darlene Rowan listened to Xris in silence and even
when he had finished, she remained silent.
    Xris stood in the small hotel room, peering moodily
out a gap in the curtains covering the sliding glass door.
He had a twist in his mouth, was chewing it to a bitter
pulp.
 Hearing nothing from Darlene, Xris turned.
 "Well?" he demanded.
    She looked at him, shrugged, gave him a faint, lop-
sided smile. "We've known all along this was coming,
Xris."
 "Is that all you can say?"
    "What do you want me to say, Xris?" Darlene's voice
sharpened. "That I'm scared? I lived for years being
scared. Then one day, it just doesn't seem to be worth
the effort. I got tired of my heart clogging my throat
every time some stranger knocked at my door. Now I
just swallow and go on."
    "Yeah, well, swallow this. The bureau's pulled Amadi
out of retirement to handle this case. They wouldn't
have done that unless something big was going down.
And Amadi was making sure that no one saw or heard
us talking. He's made the connection, all right. He may
not know who you are or where you are, but he knows
that I know."
    Darlene shook her head, shoved a strand of brown
hair out of her eyes. She was composed, slightly pale,
but then she never had much color in her face. Her hair

was tousled from her nap. She'd thrown on a hotel robe.
Her overnight bag was where she'd dropped it on the
floor, hadn't even been opened. The only item she'd un-
packed was her computer case. She'd placed the portable
computer on the table near the bed; she'd probably pro-
grammed it to wake her. Darlene turned to it now, per-
haps instinctively. Her fingers ran idly over the keys. Her
comfort, her solace--the machine.
    Xris remembered clearly the first time he'd seen her--
her, Darlene, not him, Dalin Rowan. He'd been sur-
prised to discover that his friend was a damn attractive
woman. He'd been more surprised to hear from his
friend that deep inside, that's what Dalin Rowan had
always been--a woman. Now that Xris had been around
Darlene for a couple of months, he understood.
    There had always been something jarring about Dalin
Rowan, a dissatisfaction with life, with himself. He'd
drifted through life in a kind of dull, gray haze of unhap-
piness that only lifted when he was inside his---or some-
one else's--computer. Dalin's halfhearted attempts at
relationships with women had inevitably ended in disas-
ter. They complained that he kept himself shut off from
them, that they never truly came to know him.
    Even his best friends, Xris and Ito, had never truly
known Dalin Rowan. Xris had proved that by being
ready to believe Dalin had actually sold them out to the
Hung, that he'd been the one to send them into that
death factory.
    Xris was starting to know Darlene Mohini. He was
starting to like her, too, as were all the other members
of the Mag Force 7 team. She was more relaxed, more
at ease, able to open up, to talk about herself. When
she spoke of Dalin Rowan, it was as if she were speaking
of some unfortunate friend who had now passed out of
her life. She remembered Dalin fondly, a little sadly, but
with no regrets.
    "I'm not so sure Amadi has made the connection,
Xris," she said, tapping the computer keys. "He knows
that Dalin is around. All right, yes, it was foolish of
me going back into the bureau's files to ferret out that
information on the Knights of the Black Earth, but God

only knows what would have happened if we hadn't
cracked that case. And that's the only link Amadi's got:
me snooping around the knights and you putting a halt
to their operation."
    "If Amadi saw you alone, he'd walk past you in the
street and never recognize you," Xris conceded. "But if
he gets a close look at the two of us together, that's all
the link he'll need." Xris chomped savagely on the twist.
"That old man's sharp. His mind'11 ring up a 'Xris-Dalin,
Dalin-Darlene' match faster than Harry Luck can shove
coins into a slot machine. And as far as we know, no
one but you ever made the connection between the
Hung and the bureau. Odds are, whoever the traitor is.
he or she is still there."
    "Amadi knows about the traitor," Darlene said. She
switched the computer on. "That's why he's being
careful."
    "Amadi was born careful. When he came out of the
birth canal he had his head turned, looking over one
shoulder. That's why he's still alive. Did you ever say
anything to him about Armstrong's death? About the
evidence that someone in the bureau was involved?"
    Darlene shook her head. "How could 17 I didn't know
who to trust."
    "And we still don't," Xris said emphatically. "So,
here's the deal. You and I split up. Let Amadi and the
Hung traipse after me for a while, if they can keep up.
Once they see that I'm not leading them to you, they'll
lay off, lose interest, follow some other line."
  Darlene protested, "But the job---"
    "This robot snatch is easy. I've got most of it planned
out. Jamil and I can handle it. I was going to dismiss
the rest of the team anyway. Give everyone a vacation.
I want you to go along with someone--anyone but me.
You can have your choice."
    Xris ran down the list. "Harry Luck. He's trying to
decide whether to go to some high-rolling town to lose
what money he made on that last job or to attend some
seminars being held on the 'Capabilities of the Dirk
Fighter in Close Proximity to Atmosphere' or something
like that. He can't decide. Harry's taken one too many

stun blasts to the head, but he's a damn good pilot, Dar-
lene. You know--you saw him in action on that last job.
And he's devoted to you--"
    Darlene shook her head, half smiled. "Not Harry,
Xris. He's sweet, but, as you say, he's devoted ..."
She left the rest unfinished. Xris, grinning, moved on.
"There's Dr. Quong. He's anxious to finish that study
on the Little One, on Tongan physiology. He could
probably use your help. The Doc's a bit touchy, but you
seem to be able to get along with him better than any
of us. Plus he'd have you eating right and exercising.
You could gain weight into the bargain. The Doc's a
good surgeon and--" Xris stopped, not quite certain
where that was going.
    "And if anything happened, I'd have a doctor on call."
Darlene grinned wryly. "Sorry, Xris, but if the Hung
catch me, all the Doc would be able to do is certify the
time of my death. Plus I don't really see myself spending
my vacation immersed in the psychological oddities of
the Tongans--outr~ as they are."
    "Tycho, then. He's planning to go back to his home
planet for a visit. The planet of the chameleons, only
don't call them that. They find it offensive. I've been
there, met his family. They're a fun group. They all look
alike. I mean exactly alike. You can't tell his mother
from his father, his brothers from his sisters, his relatives
from the neighbors. They can tell each other apart, of
course. I think it has something to do with skin pigmen-
tation but I've never figured it out. They're all tall and
skinny, like he is, and they blend nicely into the sur-
roundings. Of course, you'd stand out like a red flag on
an ice floe, but then so would a member of the Hung
or the bureau. Tycho's a crack shot and a good person
to have on your side."
    Darlene was shaking her head. "You know as well as
I do, Xris, that the Hung could recruit someone from
the 'chameleons' and then I'd be in worse danger simply
because I would be so highly visible."
    "Well, Jamit would probably be the best. He's steady,
reliable, quick-thinking, ex-military. His only flaw is that
he's a bit of a womanizer, but with two wives on differ-

ent planets I think he's got about as much as he can
handle. He'd be ideal, but I need him for this museum
job. All that leaves is Raoul. He's been pleading for
years to go back to Adonia to attend some weird hedo-
nistic religious festival--"
 "Really.'?" Darlene looked interested.
    Now it was Xris who protested. "You can't be
serious!"
    "But I am. Think about it, Xris. Carnival time on Ad-
onia! What could be better? Crowds of people of all
types. Everyone who isn't Adonian wears masks. I'd
have Raoul with me--"
    "He'd be a big help." Xris grunted. "Especially if your
mascara's smeared."
    Darlene made a face at him. "Come off it, Xris. You
think quite highly of Raoul. You wouldn't have him on
the team otherwise."
    "Yeah, but I don't know why," Xris returned. "And
that's what bothers me. He's a Loti--a habitual drug
user. I know it: he claims it himself, I've seen him higher
than a jumpjet in hyperspace, yet I've never personally
seen him swallow so much as an aspirin. When I assign
him to a job, he spends more time worrying about what
to wear than he does on how to accomplish his mis-
sion-"
 "But he gets the job done," Darlene stated.
    "True," Xris admitted. "I have to give him credit, in
all the years he's worked for me, he's only failed us
once, during that Olicien bug thing--"
    "And that was under extenuating circumstances."
Darlene argued her case. "The Little One would be with
him. He could pick up on the thoughts of anyone trying
to find me."
    Xris considered the matter. "There would be a draw-
back to the crowds, you know that. An assassin can lose
himself among them as easily as you can."
    "But he's got to find me first," Darlene returned.
"Honestly, Xris, I--"
    The phone buzze& It was switched to nonvid, as per
instructions for all the team. Xris answered, not saying
a word, his usual technique. Team members were pre-

pared for silence on his end, knew how to respond to it.
Anyone who shouted "Hello! Hello?" was definitely a
wrong number.
 "Jamil here. The room's clean."
    'TII be down in a sec." Xris switched the phone off.
He regarded Darlene thoughtfully. "Raoul, huh?"
    She nodded, smiled. "I haven't had a vacation in
years. This might be fun."
    "All right. If that's what you want. I have to admit, it
does make a certain kind of sense in a nonsense kind of
way. It's sure as hell the last place anyone would figure
you going: Once Raoul and the Little One have made
their report on Sakuta, I'll send them to you. You can
leave tonight."
    Xris walked to the door, tripped over the computer
case on his way. He shoved it with his foot, kicked it
under the desk.
    "Lock the door after me," he instructed. "Don't an-
swer the phone unless it buzzes three times, then quits,
then buzzes again. Don't--"
    "For God's sake, Xris, I was in the bureau as long
as you," Darlene cut in, annoyed. "I repeat--I know
the routine."
    "I know you do," he said quietly. She siood beside
him, near the door. He reached up, smoothed back the
errant lock of hair that was falling in her eyes. "It makes
me feel better, all right? Like I'm doing something con-
structive when I know all along there's not a goddamn
thing I can do. If the Hung are looking for you..." He
shook his head.
    She put her hand on his arm, his good arm, his flesh-
and-blood arm. Her touch was cold, her fingers chill.
He'd been worried that she was taking this too lightly.
She wasn't. She knew the Hung better than he did. She'd
been inside their organization for months.  'TII be careful. I promise."
    "All fight. And I promise to quit the mother-hen
routine."
  "I'11 lock the door. You'll tell Raoul the signal?"
  Xris sighed. 'TII tell him, but God only knows if he'll

remember it. If he doesn't, you can smell his perfume
through the woodwork. I think it's lilac today."
    Darlene smiled at him--her lopsided smile. 'TI1 be
fine. Don't worry."
 He nodded, started to leave.
    She stopped him, detained him, her hand still on his
arm. "You know this is only a stopgap measure, Xris. I
can't keep running away. I can't keep you from doing
your job. Yes, I know you don't need me this time
around--or at least you claim you don't--but how about
next time? And look how I've disrupted your life. And
the team. They don't resent me now, but they soon will.
Next thing you know, you'll be turning down jobs be-
cause of me. This can't go on."
    Xris smiled at her reassuringly. "It won't. The best
defense is a good night's sleep, as our friend Tycho and
his maladjusted translator would say. Or then there's my
personal favorite of his, the one about carrying the
whores into the enemy camp."
    Darlene stared at him, wide-eyed, astonished. "You're
not thinking of taking on the Hung yourself?"
    "About time someone did. It's not a job we're going
to do tomorrow or the next day. It'll take time; planning,
money. But I've got it in the back of my mind."
    Darlene gave him a playful slap on his metal arm,
shoved him toward the door. "I think you've got a gear
loose. Go have Doc check you out."
    Xris listened at the door before opening it. His aug-
mented hearing would pick up the sound of anyone lurk-
ing about outside. He couldn't hear anything, but he
popped the door open swiftly, peered out into the hall.
 Empty.
    Xris thrust a twist in his mouth. "Have a good time
on Adonia. I hear the orgies are first-rate. Be sure and
take vids."
    "It's a religious holiday," she said solemnly. "Raoul
told me so."
    Xris removed the twist. "Take care of yourself," he
said gruffly.
    Darlene managed a smile, but she was a bit impatient.
"I will, Xris. I'm good at it, remember?"

 She shut the door behind him.
    He walked away, down the empty, silent hall, and sud-
denly had the feeling that he would never see her again.
    The feeling was strong and almost impelled him to
turn around and go back, just to prove himself wrong.
But that would be stupid, illogical. Darlene would be
insulted and she would have every right to be insulted.
    Xris didn't believe in premonitions, gut feelings, or
anything of the sort. No kindly premonition had come
along to warn him to stay out of that munitions factory
where Ito had died and part of Xris had died, too. Dr.
Quong would say that this feeling of impending doom
was Xris's response to his lack of control over the situa-
tion. Amadi had taken Xris by surprise, caught him off
guard, blindsided him. There wasn't a damn thing he
could do to help Darlene, other than make a few plans
that were, in his mind, highly inadequate. He was frus-
trated, and this was the result.
    Xris lectured himself all the way downstairs to the
meeting room, and by the time he arrived, he felt some-
what better. Darlene would be fine. Just fine.
    As he walked through the lobby, he noticed a man
with a pocket viewer, earphones on his head, seated in
a chair, staring intently at the screen. Xris noticed five
other men and one woman, all with pocket viewers, ear-
phones on their heads, all of them staring with various
degrees of attention at the various screens. None of
them glanced at him. None of them paid him any atten-
tion whatsoever.
 "Paranoid," Xris muttered, and continued on his way.
    He didn't hear the first man speak two words into a
cell phone.
 "It's her."

CHflPI[R
        G

One who is in difficulty and doesn't make plans is
impoverished; one who is impoverished and doesn't
fight is lost.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

~[That covers my meeting with Sakuta." Xris was
    ! speaking to the assembled Mag Force 7 team--the
assembled team minus one. "I've accepted the job. Now,
here's the setup.
 "Where's Darlene?" Harry asked.
    "We'll cover that later," Xris said. "Now back to this
job--"
    "I don't think we should start the meeting without
Darlene here," Harry protested.
    Xris counseled patience. "She's not coming, Harry.
There's a reason. I'll go into it later. Can we get back
to the job?"
     "There's something wrong, isn't there?" Harry said.
"That's why that thing's here for a nothing job like this."
 He pointed.
 "That's a water pitcher. Harry," Xris said.
 "I mean that thing next to it."
    The "thing" was a bug-scrambling device brought
along by Quong. The device warbled electromagnetic
frequencies, disrupted sensitive micro devices. Nothing
with a microchip inside it would work while the scram-
bler was operational. Fortunately for Xris, his inner

workings were specially shielded. Otherwise he'd be
flopping around the room about now.
    "Yes, Harry, and what's wrong is that you're annoying
the hell out of me. Can we get on with this?"
    "Sure, Xris," Harry said. Leaning over, he muttered,
"There's something wrong, isn't there?" under his
breath to Dr. Quong. "Do you know? No one ever
tells me."
 Xris ignored him, continued on.
    "Here's the plan. On most other worlds, it would be
easy for us to walk off with this antique 'bot. Just show
up, hijack it, leave. Pandor presents a problem--several
problems. The first: The Pandorans are extremely intol-
erant and prejudiced against off-worlders. A spate of
serial killings--really nasty stuff--took place in one of
their major cities years ago. An off-worlder was respon-
sible. The Pandoran people were outraged. In addition,
the native Pandorans blamed off-worlders for stealing
jobs and controlling the wealth. Result: They forced all
off-worlders to leave the planet and won't let any off-
worlders back on. With one exception."
    Xris looked to the former military man Jamil, who
nodded and took over.
    "As you can see by the astral map, Pandor is located
on one of the major Lanes leading to the Void. If the
Corasians ever decided to attack the galaxy from this
direction, they'd cruise down this hyperspace Lane. Be-
cause of Pandor's vulnerable location, the Royal Military
has maintained an Army base on Pandot for as long as
the Corasian threat has been known. The Pandorans
don't like it, but they don't like being attacked by the
Corasians a whole lot more. Army personnel are the
only off-worlders permitted to enter Pandot and they
are shuttled directly from the spaceport to the base to
avoid contact with the local population."
    Xris picked it up from there. "According to Sakuta, a
construction site is located near this military base--"
    "Is it on base property?" Tycho asked, through his
computer-programmed translation device.
     "Unfortunately not." Xris shook his head. "That
 would make this easy. The property is owned by a group

of Pandor developers. They're building a shopping mall
and adding a high concrete wall to keep the sight of the
Army base from offending the shoppers. The site is near
the base, though, which gives us an edge. Jamil and I
will dress up in our best Army officer suits and--"
    Quong interrupted. "Imitating an officer of the Armed
Services is illegal. If you are caught, you could be ac-
cused of spying and sentenced to death."
    Xris shrugged. "They have to catch us first. And we'll
be on and off that base so fast they won't hardly know
we were there. Where was I?" He consulted his elec-
tronic notepad. "Oh, yeah. Jamil and I get onto the base.
We do a little song and dance to pay for our supper.
While he's entertaining the troops, I inspect the security,
make any adjustments necessary. That night, we slip off
base, find the robot, grab it, bring it back, stash in with
out luggage, and depart."
 Quong was sceptical. "How big is this robot?"
    Xris smiled, pulled out a twist, put it in his mouth. "Oh,
about two and a half meters tall, half a meter in diame-
ter, and probably weighs around two thousand kilos."
    Quong sniffed. "And you are going to put that in your
suitcase? You had better take Raoul's luggage instead."
    "It wouldn't fit," Raoul said complacently. After a
thoughtful pause, he amended. "Well, yes, it would, but
I'd have to leave half my wardrobe behind." He was ex-
cited. "Xris Cyborg, it sounds as if you do not need me
on this mission. If so, don't forget the religious holiday--"
    "I haven't," Xris said grimly. He raised his hand, fore-
stalled the Adonian's arguments. "We'll discuss this
later. To answer your concerns, Doc, Sakuta provided us
with a crate for the robot--specially built with moisture
control systems and pillows to keep it comfy and God
knows what else. Jamil and I just have to figure how to
bring the crate onto the base without arousing
suspicion."
    "I've got an idea on that," Jamil said. "And an idea
for why we're on the base in the first place."
    "Good. Well, gentlemen, that's it for that job. Jamil
and I can handle it. There's another matter that I have
to cover." Xris was silent a moment, chewing on a twist.

Finally he said quietly, "I had a visit today. From the
bureau. One of their agents--my old boss--bumped
into me."
    "They know about Darlene!" Harry was out of his
chair, ready to run to her rescue.
    "Yes and no." Xris motioned for the big man to sit
down. "The bureau is aware that the person they know
as Dalin Rowan is alive and well. They found his foot-
prints in their computer files. But they don't know any-
thing more than that. And we have to keep them from
knowing. Because if they find out, odds are that the
Hung will find out, too."
    "Damn! What are we going to do? We have to do
something Xris," Harry said, his face creased with worry.
    "I am," Xris said, rubbing his temples. His head
ached. "I'm sending Darlene to Adonia with Raoul--"
    "In time for the festival?" Raoul was breathless from
the suspense.
 "Yes, in time for the festival. You see--"
    He would have explained further, but Raoul had
leaped from his chair, hurled himself at Xris, and flung
his arms around Xris's neck.
    "Thank you! Thank you, my friend!" Raoul cried fer-
vently. "You have no idea how much this means to me.
I unfortunately have been forced to miss the last three
festivals and my friends on Adonia are most annoyed
with me since I owe them all parties and now I will have
a chance to fulfill my social obligations--"
    Choking in a cloud of lilac perfume, Xris endeavored
to disentangle himself from the Adonian's fond embrace.
"Your main obligation is to take care of Darlene. And
don't forget it." He rubbed his cheek where Raoul had
planted a kiss, looked suspiciously at the smear of red
lipstick on his hand. "What is this? Do I need an anti-
dote or something?"
    "No, no," Raoul said reassuringly, patting his hair--
which had become mussed in the flurry of the moment--
and picking up the hat that had been knocked to the
floor. "It is ordinary lipstick. Berry Berry Delicious, if
you want the name. It's really quite a becoming shade
on you."

    "I don't like this, Xris," said Harry Luck grimly. "I
don't like it one damn bit."
    "I don't much like it myself, Harry, but this is Dar-
lene's plan and it's her decision and, all things consid-
ered, I think it's the best we can do--aside from you
sitting outside her door day and night with a beam rifle
across your knees, of course."
    "And maybe that's what we should do," Harry argued
stubbornly. "Not let her go traipsing around the universe
with Mr. Berry Berry Delicious here--"
    Raoul was affronted. He smoothed his hair and re-
garded Harry with an icy, if somewhat unfocused, stare.
    "The Little One and I pledge ourselves by all that
Adonians hold sacred--"
    "Condoms, lip gloss, and styling mousse," Quong
whispered in a loud aside to Jamil.
    Raoul's lashes fluttered, but he carried on. "--to keep
Darlene Rowan safe and sound, and I will hold myself
bound by that pledge and the Little One will hold him-
self bound--"
    "All that binding, sounds like an Adonian party to
me," Jamil said, nudging Quong.
  "This is not funny!" Harry shouted angrily.
  "Harry, listen--" Xris began.
    "Indeed it is not," Raoul said, his lip quivering, his
cheeks flushed crimson. "If you are impugning our abili-
ties, Harry Luck--"
    "I'm not . . . whatever that word is . . . anything."
Harry slammed his hand on the table, rattling the water
pitchers. "I'm just saying that I don't think it's a good
idea to send Darlene off with a poisoner and a telepath
when the odds are that some top-notch death squad is
after her."
    "You are impugning our abilities!" Raoul returned,
highly indignant. "I promise that we will look after Dar-
lene most assiduously!" He caught hold of the Little
One, who, at the torrent of conflicting emotions surging
about the room, was endeavoring to hide from them by
crawling under the table. "And," Raoul added magnani-
mously, "I will do something about her hair at the
same time."

    This pronouncement broke up the meeting. Harry
clenched his fists and kicked over his chair. Jamil lay
sprawled on the table, helpless with laughter. Tycho
fumbled with his translator, trying to find out what Dar-
lene was doing with rabbits. Ouong offered to check
Harry's testosterone level. Raoul sniffed and held him-
self aloof while the Little One tangled himself up in
the tablecloth.
 "Shut up," Xris said. "All of you."
    The words snapped. Xris had the feeling he might
snap next.
    "Harry, sit down. Raoul, get the Little One out from
under there. Tycho, recalibrate that damn translator. No
one said anything about rabbits."
    Jamil raised an eyebrow, exchanged glances with
Quong. Harry, his choleric face splotched with patches
of white, mumbled something, returned to his seat.
Raoul dragged the Little One out from under the table,
adding the loudly whispered admonishment that he had
better behave because Xris Cyborg was in a bad mood.
    "Damn right l'm in a bad mood," Xris said. Taking
out the golden case which held the twists, he tapped the
case on the table. "This is all my fault. I screwed up. 1
was stupid. Careless. I had no idea the bureau was tailing
me. They've probably been at it for weeks now. Amadi
showed himself because he needed to talk to me. If
Amadi had been the Hung, I'd have led them right to
Darlene. Maybe I already have. I don't know."
He tapped the case on the table, frowned down at it.
Jamil shifted uneasily in his chair, an expression of
disapproval on his face. He was ex-military, an officer.
Superiors weren't supposed to admit to making mistakes,
weren't supposed to show weakness.
    Harry Luck, big, brawny, with as much muscles in his
head as his arms, kept quiet. Xris would have to explain
this plan several times to Harry and even then the big
man might not catch on. Thoughts dropped down into
his mind like the little steel balls in a pachinko game.
bounced around, sometimes hit, most of the time missed.
But he was a damn good pilot, one of the very best.
  Bill Quong. Doctor of medicine, degree in engi-

neering. He kept them all in good working order, Xris
especially. Terse, pedantic, Quong reduced all of life to
its chemical and mechanical components. He preferred
machines to people and his bedside manner tended to
reflect this. He was regarding Xris with professional con-
cern, probably wondering if his electrolyte count was out
of whack.
    Tycho. Tall, humanoid in appearance, thin to the point
of emaciation, he belonged to a race known in slang
terms as "chameleons" for their ability to alter skin
color to blend in with their surroundings--a handy skill
for a sniper and a trained assassin. His people had no
facility for any human language, neither comprehending
it nor speaking it. He wore a translator for that purpose.
Unfortunately, the translator tended to miss a lot. The
"chameleon" language was immensely logical, highly
structured and consequently had difficulty handling the
idiosyncrasies of human speech. Tycho's use of cliches
and idiomatic expressions tended to be extremely color-
ful and possess meanings never intended. He was clearly
perplexed by what was going on. Between "impugned"
and "assiduously" his translator had probably over-
loaded.
    The Little One, empath, telepath, was staring at Xris
from beneath the brim of the fedora. His was a mysteri-
ous race, unknown to the rest of the universe, given
the fact that they were extraordinarily hideous-looking
people (one reason he was muffled to the eyes in rain-
coat and to the nose in fedora). To leave their planet
was punishable by death.
    Somehow, somewhere, the Little One had hooked up
with Raoul, Adonian, Loti--slang for habitual drug
user--and one of the most expert chemists and poisoners
in the field. The two were an interesting pair, completely
devoted to each other. The empath was comfortable
around the Loti, who functioned--generally--in a drug-
induced haze of pleasant thoughts and emotions. The
Little One, as far as Xris could determine, acted as
Raoul's guide dog, leading the Loti around the obstacles
and pitfalls of life.
 The Little One was now quivering beneath the rain-

coat, shivering in the emotional windstorm of Xris's
anger, guilt, anxiety, and frustration.
    Xris looked up. "There's not a damn thing I can do
to help Darlene except keep away from her; draw them
off her, maybe draw them out. So that's the plan. Harry,
I gave Darlene all the options. She chose to go with
Raoul. If you want to argue with her, go ahead. I don't
advise it. She was barely speaking to me when I left."
    Harry muttered something unintelligible, shook his
head. The others kept silent, so silent that they could all
hear the faint whir and hum of Xris's machinery.
    "Right," Xris said. "I think that's it. Jamil, how long
will it take you to gather everything we need?"
    Jamil cleared his throat, sat up straight. "A couple of
Army uniforms, standard-issue side arms, insignia, med-
als, patches--I've got most of those at my place on Es-
quimalt. Leaving tonight, I can be there by twelve
hundred tomorrow."
    "Good. Meet me at seventeen hundred hours the day
after. I assume we can take a standard spaceplane flight
to Pandor?"
    "Right. No need to steal a fighter or anything." Jamil
was on his feet. "I'm a colonel and you're my aide, rank
of captain, arriving to give the Army personnel on Pan-
dor an edifying and informative lecture which they've
had scheduled for months, only they just haven't noticed
it yet. I'll need Darlene's help to slip it into their com-
puter files. Is that all right?"
    "She'll be glad to have something to do. Go on up to
her room, tell her what you need. Take Raoul and the
Little One with you. The sooner you three leave"--Xris
gave the nod to Raoul--"the better."
    "Indeed," Raoul said, equanimity completely restored.
'q have a great deal to do to arrange for the party. There
are the caterers to contact, the menu to consider. I am
certain that the house needs cleaning--"
    "Just get Darlene off this planet quickly and safely,
will you, LotiT' Xris said grimly.
    "Of course." Raoul's lashes half closed. He glided
over, wrapped a hand around Xris's arm, his flesh-and-
blood arm, squeezed it gently. "Have no fear for Dar-

lene, my friend. We will take excellent care of her. And
perhaps she may learn some things about herself at the
same time. She has been shut up inside a prison for the
last several years--"
    "She's been shut up inside a secret military space-
base--"
    "I don't mean that, Xris Cyborg." Raoul's voice was
soft, low. "I mean a prison of her own design. It is not
her death you should be most concerned about, but
her life."
  "What do you mean? What about her life?"
    "She doesn't have one," Raoul said calmly. "Good-
bye. Kiss, kiss." He started to glide away, turned back.
The purplesdrenched eyes were misty, shimmering,
glazed. "Oh, and you will not permit Harry Luck to ac-
company Darlene to Adonia, will you? To think of him
sprawled on my white velvet couch, in those dreadful T-
shirts he wears, drinking beer, belching, and munching
potato chips."
"'The horror, the horror,'" Xris said sympathetically.
Raoul swayed slightly on his feet, put his hand to his
head. "Yes, it is, isn't it? Pardon, Xris Cyborg. That last
image has been too much. I feel faint. I believe I shall
go sit down a moment."
 "Xris, I--" Harry was looming on the horizon.
 "Wait a sec."
    The Little One, instead of attending to his distraught
friend, as would have been usual, was standing in front
of Xris.
     "What is it?" Xris asked gently. He had a real fond-
ness for the small empath. "Is something wrong?"
 The fedora nodded.
 "What? Tell me."
 The Little One raised his small hands, palms out.
    "Something's wrong, but you don't know what," Xris
guessed---correctly, it seemed. "Is it me?"
    The Little One nodded his head once, then shook it
again and waved his hands, indicating that yes, he knew
Xris had problems, but that this wasn't what was both-
ering him.
 "Is it about Darlene?" Xris tried again.

Ii:;i?

!i;11~

!ii

    TheLittle One thought a moment, then shook his
head emphatically.
 "What, then? The job? The museum? Sakuta?"
    The Little One considered this. He nodded, but only
tentatively.
    "Something's wrong with this job? What's wrong? Can
you tell me? Can Raoul tell me?"
    The Little One shook his head, pulled the fedora
down around his ears in a gesture of frustration. Stamp-
ing his feet, he lifted his hands into the air, turned, and
stomped off, tripping over the hem of the raincoat as
he went.
    Xris, too, was frustrated, considered going after the
empath and trying to pin him down, then decided against
it. The Little One was obviously as upset with himself
as Xris was with him. Nagging at him wouldn't help,
might further upset him.
    "As if we didn't have enough trouble," Xris muttered.
He thought over what might go wrong with the job and,,
other than the obvious, like being arrested for imperson-
ating an officer, couldn't think of a thing.  Paranoia must be catching.
    Xris turned to the next problem, to tell Harry that
he couldn't go to Adonia because he'd never make it
through customs.
  He just wasn't pretty enough.

EHfiPT[R
         ?

I always say that beauty is only sin deep.

Saki (Hector Hugh Munro), Reginald

oe only part of the passport which Adonian customs
fficers inspect is the photo. On Adonia, they don't
particularly care where you are from, where you are
going, or how you intend to get there. They're not overly
interested in what you are bringing on-world, what you
are intending to take off-world, or why you're on their
world at all. They only want to know what you look like.
    Eons ago, when genetic altering was popular, scientists
set out to breed a race of superior people, Wise, intelli-
gent, gifted with all manner of attributes, these people
were destined to be rulers and were known as the Blood
Royal. The current king, Dion Starfire, and now his new-
born son, are the last of that bloodline. At that time,
the Adonians also began experimenting with genetics
with hopes of producing a superior being--one designed
to meet their own standards. The Adonians did not seek
intelligence and wisdom. They sought aquiline noses,
flat ears, thin thighs, cleft chins, melting eyes, and firm
buttocks. If you are beautiful, reasoned the early Ado-
nians, you don't need to think. Thinking will be done
for you.
    The Adonians succeeded. They created a species of
human noted galaxy-wide for extraordinary beauty.
Males and females were so wonderfully attractive that
the term "gorgeous as an Adonian" passed into popular

usage. But it seems that the Creator demands a price
for tampering with His creation. The more beautiful the
Adonians became on the outside, the less beautiful they
grew within, until at this time in their history, they were
noted as being a society completely devoid of morals.
    The Adonians are not immoral. Immorality implies
that one has a sense of the difference between right and
wrong. The Adonians lack this. For example, Adonians
have passed laws stating that it is legal to "refuse to
sustain" a child if it is born ugly. To them, this is mercy
killing. The Adonians care about nothing except beauty
and pleasure--in any and every form.
    Following this line of thinking, one might assume that
the home world of Adonia would be a cesspool of iniq-
uity, a den of vice. This is not true.
    The Adonians believe that their planet must be beau-
tiful, in order to suitably showcase the beautiful popu-
lace. If planet and inhabitants are beautiful, people in
the rest of the galaxy will come visit and enjoy, admire
and emulate, and---of paramount importance--spend
money. Since most methods of earning money (factories,
offices, and such) tend to either smell bad or look dis-
gusting or cause wrinkles, the Adonians banned these
from their world, which left them with only one major
source of income. What they live for--pleasure.
    Adonia became a hedonistic paradise. The Adonians
have only one entry requirement: You must either be at
least passable in appearance or agree to wear--at all
times--a mask so that your looks will not offend any of
the more sensitive in nature.
    As Darlene rode on the Adonian shuttlecraft--one of
the most luxurious she had ever encountered--she found
herself growing increasingly nervous. The thought of
having to pass through customs, of being deemed "unac-
ceptable" in appearance, the possibility of having to
wear a mask, was unnerving. Bothered her far more, she
was startled to realize, than the thought of an assassin
stalking her.
    "I'm being silly," she argued with herself. "What do
I care what a bunch of vapid, ignorant, egotistic, preju-
diced people think of my looks?"

    Nevertheless, she did care. Perhaps it was being in
such close proximity to so many Adonians on the shut-
tle, staring at them in awe, listening to them talk about
shampoo and cosmetics, the latest fashions, the most ex-
otic perfumes. Darlene caught herself pulling her hair to
the back of her head in a vain effort to hide the split
ends, and wishing that she'd taken Raoul's advice as to
her makeup. Several Adonians glanced at her and hastily
averted their eyes.
    Raoul himself was in a state of bliss not to be approxi-
mated by artificial stimulants. It had been three years,
he told Darlene, since he'd returned to his home world
for Hedonist Days and he had missed it dreadfully.
    "Mummy and Daddy made so much of it," he said
during the shuttle trip. The tears of childhood memories
glistened in his eyes. "Baking the phallic cookies, setting
up the coildom tree, mixing the hallucinogens for the
punch. That was my special job. Then planning the
party games!"
    "Your parents are dead. are they'?" Darlene asked,
watching Raoul make a delicate swipe at his nose with
a lace handkerchief.
    Raoul was forced to pause to think about this. "No, I
don't believe so. I'm sure I would have heard .... Yes."
He confirmed this in his mind. "I would have undoubt-
edly been informed."
 "Did you have an argument?"
    "Oh, no. We are on quite good terms. At least we
would be, I'm sure, if we ever met." Raoul smiled at
her confusion. "You see. my dear, my parents' job of
caring for me ended when I reached the age of majority,
which--on Adonia--is sixteen. At that age. state pay-
ments for the upkeep of children ends. I was expected
to go out and make my way in the world. Mummy and
Daddy gave me their blessing and a ten-setting adjust-
able curling iron and we haven't seen each other since."
 "You refer to child-raising as a job?"
    "What else would it be?" Raoul returned compla-
cently. "Most children are products of test tubes anyway.
I refer to my parents as 'mummy' and 'daddy' but
they're probably not, biologically. The state pays parents

to rear children and they receive a bonus if their children
turn out well. Which I did," he added, smoothing his
hair and contentedly contemplating his own reflection in
the mirror, of which there were many on the Adonian
shuttlecraft. "My parents made quite a tidy sum off me."
    "There's no affection," said Darlene, hesitantly. "No
parent-child bond. That sort of thing?"
    "Not necessary," Raoul assured her. "Quite detrimen-
tal, in fact. People like you--no offense, dear--have
complexes brought on by hating your father and loving
your mother or vice versa. Those complexes lead to all
manner of sexual problems, which lead to more com-
plexes. We have none of that here. You were a woman
trapped in a man's body. Recall how you suffered in
your society! On Adonia, such a mistake would have
been discovered and corrected by the time you were
twelve!"
    Darlene's cheeks flushed. She didn't mind talking
about herself or her past with her friends, but she wished
Raoul would keep his voice down. Several Adonians--
who had before turned away from her--were now re-
garding her with marked interest.
    "What about affection?" she asked, hurriedly chang-
ing the subject. "Love?"
    "Messy emotions!" Raoul sniffed, banished them with
a flutter of his handkerchief. "I am happy to say that,
for the most part, we have eradicated them."
     "I wouldn't say that eradication has been entirely suc-
 cessful in your case," Darlene said with a smile.
     The Little One, enveloped in the raincoat, his face
 covered by the hat, was sound asleep, his head pillowed
 on Raoul's lap.
     Raoul glanced down at his slumbering friend. "I do
 have some flaws," he admitted, mortified. Sighing, he
 comforted himself with another glimpse at his reflection.
 "Fortunately they are only internal. They are not appar-
 ent on the surface. Which reminds me. I must change
 prior to landing."
     Raoul gently shifted the Little One to a more comfort-
 able position, cradling his friend on a nest of soft cush-
 ions, then left. Raoul had already changed clothes twice,

 once before leaving the space cruiser to go to the shuttle,
 once after having arrived on the shuttle, and now once
 again, in order to disembark.
    Darlene was accustomed to shuttle rides in which ev-
eryone sat glumly, silently in their seats, anxious to land,
anxious to end the wearisome traveling and get on with
their lives. Not the Adonians. The shuttle ride developed
into a party, a blur of motion. color, and activity, all
awash in heady perfume.
    Adonians were constantly leaving to change their
clothes or arrange their hair or change their hair and
arrange their clothes. A sumptuous banquet was served
.aft. Live entertainment was for'ard. Stewards poured
champagne into crystal glasses. The shuttle had a heated
pool on board, a masseuse. a sauna. Also a recreational
area. Watching the couples (with the occasional three-
some or foursome) enter the rec room and later emerge
flushed and invigorated, Darlene guessed that the Ado-
nians weren't playing shuffleboard.
    "People became so restless on shuttle flights," Raoul
explained when he returned. He had changed from a
mauve jumpsuit with golden epaulets on the shoulders
and matching gold boots to a long flowing pink caftan
with billowing sleeves, encrusted with embroidery and
glittering with sequins.
    "Restless! The flight's only two hours!" Darlene pro-
tested. "Why couldn't you just ... read a book?"
    Raoul laughed so much he had to leave again to repair
the damage done to his eyeliner.
    When he returned, he regarded Darlene with a con-
templative frown. "Now, do let me try to do something
with your hair!"
    While Raoul fussed over her--murmuring despairingly
beneath his breath--Darlene studied the other passen-
gers onboard the shuttle, trying to ascertain if any of
them might be shadowing her--although, she admitted
to herself ruefully, spotting a tail would be a difficult
task on an Adonian shuttle. What with all the comings
and goings and clothes changing and appearance alter-
ing, she probably wouldn't have spotted her own mother.
Was the drop-dead gorgeous Adonian blond woman

seated across the aisle from her the same drop-dead gor-
geous Adonian redhead who had occupied that seat on
departure? Darlene wasn't sure. She had the dim notion
that the woman wasn't a woman at all. Darlene was be-
ginning to think Xris had been right. This trip was a
mistake.
    But there was always the Little One. The telepath,
having awakened, reported through Raoul that no one
was thinking about Darlene at all.
    "Not surprising, with this hairdo," Raoul muttered.
He gazed sadly at Darlene. His voice had the tragic note
of a surgeon telling the nurses to pull the plug. "I've
done all I can conceivably be expected to do, given the
circumstances."
    The shuttle landing took forever, the craft settled
down very slowly and very gently. "It would never do
to jostle the wine," Raoul explained.
    When the doors were at last opened, the Adonians
rose gracefully, bade good-bye to newfound shipboard
romances, and glided toward the exits on waves of rose
and musk and violet. The smoke of hookahs lingered in
the air. The few off-world passengers, feeling--as did
Darlene--frumpy, dowdy, repressed, inhibited, and,
most of all, ugly, slumped down in the seats and wished
they'd never come.
    Raoul was eager to leave, however, and insisted that
Darlene come with him. Walking off the shuttle in com-
pany with the glittering, beautiful Adonian, she under-
stood now why the Little One chose to envelop himself
in the raincoat; she envied him his fedora.
     Shrinking into herself, conscious of all eyes on her
 (disparagingly, it seemed), Darlene Mohini picked up
 her computer case and her shabby overnight bag and
 prepared to be thoroughly and deeply humiliated in
 customs.
  She would have almost rather been shot.

CHSPIER
        8

 So clomb this first grand thief into God's fold...

                   John Milton, Paradise Lost

The shuttle landing on Pandor was considerably more
I jarring to its passengers than the shuttle landing on
Adonia. No champagne had been served on the flight;
the fragrances in the air were a m~xture of disinfectant,
boot polish, and machine oil. No swimming pools; the
passengers considered themselves lucky to have toilets.
The seats were benches, with worn and cracked vinyl
cushions. The passengers made no complaint about the
discomfort, however. They were all Army personnel,
they'd all been in worse places, and there was a full-bull
colonel onboard, who was heard to remark to his aide
that this landing was soft as a baby's bottom compared
to the drop-ship landings he'd made during his days with
special forces.
    After that, of course, the other passengers--two pri-
vates and two lieutenants--dared make no complaint,
could only nurse their bruised tailbones and suffer in
silence.
    As a matter of fact, Jamil's own tailbone hurt like hell,
but he knew how a colonel was expected to act. He'd
seen more than his share during his years in the Army.
    When the shuttle landed, the door opened to blinding,
glaring sunshine. The flight attendant--an especially at-
tractive woman who'd been solicitous to JamiFs wants
and needs all during the flight (to the glum envy of the

two lieutenants and the sardonic amusement of the two
privates)--turned to announce that passengers could
now disembark.
    The privates and the lieutenants all looked at Jamil.
It would be the colone!'s privilege to leave first, keep
them waiting--if he chose. He smiled, waved magnani-
mously.
    "You gentlemen go ahead," he said. "The captain and
I will wait."
    Standing, he straightened his uniform, adjusted his
cuffs, smiled and glanced at the flight attendant. She
smiled back. He'd forgotten the effect of a uniform on
some women.
    The others left hurriedly, the two privates endeavoring
to avoid catching the eyes of the two lieutenants. All
four grabbed their onboard luggage, which had been
stowed in the back, sidled past the colonel and his aide,
and hastened toward the door. Jamil could almost see
them exhale with relief when they made it out safely.
He felt a twinge of regret for the old days.
    Xris, in his guise as captain and aide-de-camp, left his
seat, next to Jamil and stood aside to allow the "colo-
nel" to pass.
  Jamil strode out into the aisle.
  "Cheek to see if the staff car is waiting, Captain."
  "Yes, sir," Xris replied, and started off.
  "Captain!" Jamil barked.
  Xris turned.
    Jamil held out his carry-on bag. "And see to the rest
of the luggage, will you, Captain?"
    Xris blinked, recovered. Returning, he took the bag.
"Yes, sir, Colonel, you bastard," he added under his
breath. "Don't get used to this."
    Jamil grinned, tugged on his cuffs, and walked forward
to pass a few pleasant moments flirting with the flight
attendant.
     Through the plane's window, he watched Xris retrieve
 the luggage, carry it down the stairs to the tarmac, broil-
 ing in the Pandoran sun. Jamil chatted as Xris supervised
 the unloading of the large crate which contained the vi-

sual aid materials the colonel would be using in his lec-
ture, saw it deposited safely on the tarmac.
    It must be hot out there, Jamil thought, observing Xris
sweating in his heavy uniform as he stood at the bottom
of the ramp, waiting to make his report.
    Jamil relaxed a moment more in the cool comfort of
the cabin, joking with the shuttle pilots and enjoying a
chilled glass of orange juice. The flight attendant was
writing down her phone number.
    She handed it to him. He thanked her, thanked the
pilots, and proceeded down the stairs. He couldn't recall
enjoying anything in his life half so much as watching
Xris salute him.
    Jamil returned the salute, glanced around in feigned
astonishment.
 "The staff car is not here, sir," Xris reported.
    Jamil wasn't surprised. The big surprise would have
been if the staff car had been there to meet them.
    "Find out what the devil's happened to it, Captain!"
Jamil ordered, but Xris was already crossing over to the
small terminal building, his eye on some poor unfortu-
nate corporal.
    Jamil strode over to the terminal building, taking his
time. He could hear Xris's furious bellow.
    "Why the hell isn't Colonel Jatanski's staff car on the
tarmac, ready to pick us up'?"
    The corporal stammered his reply. "I'm s-sorry, sir,
but we have no record of any senior officers arriving on
base today."
 "We'll see about that, Corporal!" Xris stated grimly.
 Jamil took a moment to enjoy the view.
    Pandor was a desert planet--at least the part on which
they had landed was desert. A white-hot sun blazed in
a cobalt-blue sky. No need for paved landing strips. The
tarmac was red dirt, baked hard by the relentless sun.
The buildings of the landing site, and those of the Army
base itself, which he could see off in the distance, were
low, stone structures, cut from rock that was the same
reddish color as the dirt. Singularly unattractive.
    Off to his left, at the far end of the tarmac, were two
huge hangars. Both had their doors open, to try to ob-

tain some relief from the sweltering heat for the crews
working inside. Various signs in Standard Military iden-
tified the Army Aviation squadrons based on Pandor.
Bombers and fighters and fighter-bombers, these
spaceplanes could be used for both land and space com-
bat. Jamil made a mental note of them; you never knew
when such information might come in handy.
    A sign adorned with an orange skull on a black back-
ground hung over the first hangar, announced the fact
that the 2311th Bombardment "Thundering Death"
Squadron was stationed there. In front of the doors, a
massive Claymore Heavy Bomber was winding up its
engines for some type of maintenance check, to judge
by the grounds crew swarming around it. Next hangar
over was the home of the 1073rd Tactical Fighter
"Ruby" Squadron. Maintenance crews could be seen
working on the Dirk Fighters inside.
    By the time Jamil arrived at the terminal, Xris had
hauled the unfortunate corporal inside, had him sweating
over a computer terminal.
    "Punch up the daily routine for this god-forsaken
base, Corporal," Xris ordered.
    The corporal obeyed. Jamil bent over, glanced at it.
The screen lit with the daily administrivia: Order unit
photographs from the base photographic unit, Mess C
will be closed at lunch today, The construction area is
off-limits to all personnel, and so forth. Jamil was just
starting to get worried when he saw the name Jatanski
flash by. There it was: Reminder to all personnel to attend
tomorrow's briefing on "Foreign Object Damage to
Spaceplane Engines" to be given by noted aerospace ex-
pert Colonel R. A. Jatanski.
    Xris jabbed his finger at the entry, glared at the red-
faced corporal, who no doubt saw private's stripes in the
cyborg's eyes.
  "Uh, s-s-sir, I-I--"
  "Get me my goddamn staff car!" Xris yelled.
  "Yes, sir!"
    The sweating and shaken corporal grabbed the phone;
Jamil and Xris could both hear him talking in urgent

tones to someone on the other end, probably the Base
Commander's aide.
    "I was getting nervous," Jamil said in a low voice to
Xris. The two had strolled over to the window, in order
to give the corporal room to maneuver.
    "You pull up the daily list then!" he was overheard
to say.
    "I thought maybe Rowan might have blown it,"
Jamil continued.
    Xris smiled, shook his head. His hands kept reaching
for his pocket, kept reaching for the gold case of twists
that would have normally been there, was not there now.
Due to health concerns, military personnel were prohibited
from smoking. Not even a colone!'s aide could have broken
that rule. Xris put his hands behind his back, clasped one
hand over the other's wrist, held them firmly.
    "How'd she manage to break into a military com-
puter?" Jamil wondered.
    Xris shook his head. "How the hell should I know?
That's Darlene's department. She was on their payroll
for years, must have found more than a few back doors."
    "Your car is on the way, sir," the corporal informed
them. "Colonel Strebbins extends his apologies."
    Jamil curtly nodded, continued to stand in magnificent
and indignant aplomb at the window. Their backs to the
corporal, he and Xris exchanged glances. So far. So good.
    Half an hour later, a black hovercar. adorned with a
small flag indicating colonel rank fluttering from the
front bumper, landed in front of the terminal. A private
in a very neat, very crisp dress uniform stepped out and
entered the terminal. Xris waved him down. The private
halted, gave a very neat, very crisp salute.
    "Begging your pardon, Sir. The Base Commander,
Colonel Strebbins, sends his deepest apologies for the
delay. He says that he is very much looking forward to
the briefing tomorrow, Sir. Your Room in the VIP quar-
ters has been arranged. Captain, Sir, you will be staying
in the transient officer's quarters, next door. Colonel
Strebbins requests the pleasure of your company tonight
at his table at the Officer's Mess, 1900 hours for 1930
hours, if you wish."

Jamil nodded. "Yes, tell the colonel that Captain Ker-
gonan and I will indeed attend."
    The private loaded their luggage into the hovercar.
The colonel entered the staff car, relaxed in cool luxury,
while Xris gave instructions to the corporal regarding
the delivery of the large and clumsy crate containing the
"exhibit" materials that was resting on the tarmac.
    The corporal gazed at the shining specially designed
metal crate, with its myriad dials and gauges, all pre-
pared to provide the antique robot with a constant hu-
midity level, constant temperature, protection from the
contamination of unfamiliar environments, and other
comforts.
    "That must be some exhibit, sir!" the corporal stated
in awe.
    Xris pointed to the "biohazard contamination" symbol
he himself had added to the outside of the crate. "As
you can see, Corporal, this should be handled with ex-
treme care. The colonel and myself are the only ones
who have been trained in the procedures to allow us to
handle this material safely. Anyone else risks doing seri-
ous damage to the environment, perhaps to himself.
Understood?"
    The corporal must have been wondering what all this
had to do with the topic of the colonel's lecture, "For-
eign Object Damage to Spaceplane Engines," but he
said nothing about that, assured Xris that the crate
would receive the very best treatment, and asked where
it should be delivered.
    Xris walked over to the staff car, knocked on the win-
dow. Jamil pushed the button; the window slid down.
    "Excuse me, Colonel, but the corporal wants to know
where you want the crate delivered."
    "How the devil should I know?" Jamil said in an un-
dertone, glaring at Xris.
    "What was that, Colonel?" Xris said, leaning his head
in the window. "Begging the colonel's pardon, but I
don't believe that location would be suitable," he added,
having heard Jamil mutter, "Up your ass!"
    They had known in advance that the crate was going
to present a problem. It was equipped with air jets,

.which eased it gently over the ground. Xris wouldn't
have any difficulty getting it to the construction site, but
he couldn't very. well be seen taking the damn thing for
a stroll through the base after dark. Ideally, they needed
to stash it someplace near the site. And, at the moment,
they had no idea where the best place would be.
    Sakuta's map of the base, provided by his colleague,
had obviously been drawn up by some ivory-tower intel-
lectual playing at being a commando. It was rife with
X's marking the ammunition dump, arrows pointing out
the guard posts, and was careful to note in red all the
back entrances to every building. Unfortunately, the
map maker had not thought it important to include in-
formation on such nmndane locations as warehouses and
storage sheds.
    Xris and Jamil had agreed to play this one by ear,
ask the right questions, make their plans accordingly.
Generally Xris handled this sort of thing; he was good
at thinking on his feet. But Xris had now just dumped
the whole matter into Jamil's lap. Xris could always re-
trieve it, if he had to. He was all set to offer a suggestion
if Jamil bobbled the ball. This was payback for the lug-
gage toting.
    Xris's head was in the window, where no one could
see him. He grinned, winked.
    Jamil leaned forward. "Have the crate delivered to
your room, Captain."
    The grin vanished from Xris's face. He said something
beneath his breath that no captain would ever say to a
colonel and expect to live through, drew back, stood up,
and gave the instructions to have the crate delivered to
his quarters. Actually, that was a damn good idea. It was
just too bad Jamil had to be the one to think of it.
He'd be certain to remind Xris of this when the time
for paychecks rolled around. The corporal looked dubi-
ous, but it wasn't his place to argue with either a captain
or a colonel.
  Xris took his place in the front seat with the driver.
    Jamil sat back in the cushy seat in the rear, folded his
arms, relaxed, and prepared to enjoy the ride.

    Jamil's quarters were palatial. The army base on Pan-
dor didn't get many high-level visitors--it didn't get
many visitors of any level, apparently. Those who came
were treated royally. The aide pointed out the "honor"
bar down the hall. Each of the rooms had a fireplace
(the desert nights on Pandor were chill), marble4opped
desk, and bath facilities, and a rid entertainment system.
    Xris was not so fortunate, as Jamil well knew, being
highly familiar with transient officers' quarters. The cy-
borg's room was clean and spacious. ("You have ample
room for the crate, Captain," Jamil had pointed out.)
The furniture was functional--about the only compli-
ment that could be paid it--consisted of a metal bed,-a
metal desk, and a metal sink. The crate sat on the floor.
    Jamil was putting the finishing touches on his dress
uniform when Xris knocked on the door. Jamil invited
the captain hnside, shut the door, and reflexively ducked
the swing Xris took at him.
    "That's for sticking me with that blasted crate," Xris
said in an undertone. He had already taken a twist out
of its case, which he had stashed in his steel bag. Thrust-
ing the twist in his mouth, he started to chew. He
glanced around. A lift of his eyebrow asked, You check
this place out?
    Jamil nodded, went back to the nfirror to make final
adjustments. Both officers were in dress uniforms, well tai-
lored with all the proper insignia, patches, epaulets, and
suitable metals. Raoul was in charge of the team's wardrobe,
and the uniforms were in immaculate state, fit perfectly. Xris
and Jamil removed the few extra unmilitary adornments
which Raoul thought added "that certain touch."
  "All right, we go over the plan again. After dinner--"
    "After the port and the toasts," Jamil corrected. "And
they'll probably ask me to make a speech."
    "Fine." Xris ground the word up with the twist.
"After all that, we traipse off to the bar--"
    "The head table rises," Jamil said. "That's where I'll
be sitting. When we've left, then everyone is free to go
to the bar. I'll meet you there and--"
  "And you'll send me on some sort of errand--"

    "I'll order you to go check out the hall where I'll be
giving the lecture."
    Xris pondered. "What if some bright-eyed lieutenant
wants to show it to me in person?"
    "Not necessary. We wouldn't want to take him away
from the fun. I have a map. A good one," Jamil added,
casting a disparaging glance at Sakuta's map. "I'll stay
in the bar and keep the base commander busy."
    "If possible, I'd like to find someplace to stash the
crate near the construction site. Once that's accom-
plished, I'll experiment, see how easy it is to get off-
base. If l make it, we go with Plan A. If not, we'll move
on to Plan B."
Jamil grinned. "My taste for Pandoran stout."
"Yeah. If either plan works, I'll have the 'bot safely
stowed in the crate by the time you give your lecture
tomorrow. You say--"
    "1 say that I've run tests and the environment here
isn't suitable and so on and so forth and it would be
too dangerous to open the crate, so we'll have to forgo
the exhibits."
    "Plan C, you don't even bring the crate. You explain
the same thing. I'll recover the robot during your lecture.
We pack up and leave."
 "What about workmen at the construction site?"
    "I talked to the private when he showed me the room.
The window overlooks the site, so it was a perfect oppor-
tunity to ask what's going on. He said that construction
had halted because of a crashed spaceship they found.
Guards are posted, but only on the road leading in. The
crash site's about five kilometers away from the main
entrance. They've placed portable electronic fencing
around the downed ship." Xris patted the compartment
in his cybernetic leg where he kept his tool and weapons
hands. "Nothing that can't be solved."
 Jamil nodded. "It all seems dead easy."
    "Yeah, doesn't it?" Xris shifted the wad of soggy twist
from one side of his mouth to the other. "I almost wish some
little something would go wrong, just to ease our minds."
 "Bite your tongue!" Jamil admonished. "Nothing's

going to go wrong. We have every contingency covered
and, if all else fails, there's Plan D."
    "Biological warfare." Xris shook his head. "I trust it
won't come to that. For one thing, I don't want to hang
around for twenty-four hours, waiting for everyone to
start racing for the latrines. But, just in case, I've located
the base water supply and I've got the germ mixture
Raoul concocted in a vial, locked up in the crate."
    "You're sure this stuff is harmless?" Jamil asked.
"We're in enough trouble with the Lord Admiralty over
the Major Mohini episode as it is. I wouldn't want to
have to explain why we accidentally poisoned a couple
thousand military personnel."
    "Raoul assured me that the most that will happen is
diarrhea and stomach cramps. A mild case of food poi-
soning, that's what it will look like. I had the Doc check
out Raoul's germs and Quong gave it the okay."
    "Then I think we've got everything covered." Jamil
looked at his watch. "Nineteen hundred. You ready?"
    Xris chewed rapidly, swallowed--regretfully--the last
of the twist. "You'll keep the speech short, won't you?"
he said, his hand on the door handle.
    "Are you kidding?" Jamil was put out. "Do you know
how many of these ass-numbing speeches I had to sit
through in my day? Listening to some blowhard colonel
tell all about his experiences during the Faraqu Split,
how he held off six thousand crazed Faraqi with his side
arm alone?" Jamil rubbed his hands. "Now's my chance
for revenge!"
    Xris eyed him. "If you think I'm going to sit there
and listen to you bullshit for thirty minutes ..."
    "Oh, all right," Jamil grumbled. "But what's it worth
to you? Something extra in my paycheck?"
    "How about a paycheck at all, Colonel? There's that
little matter of the luggage, not to mention a robot coffin
sitting on the floor in my bedroom." Jamil bargained. "Five minutes?"
    "Three," Xris amended. "And I'll dock you one hun-
dred golden eagles for every minute over."
 "Done." Jamil growled. "But you've shattered a dream."
 Xris snorted, and the two walked out.

CHnPIER
        q

The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a
thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and
steal out of your company.

William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing,
                         Act 3, Scene 3

~l~nd it was while I was standing in the desert at Far-
    r~aqu, with six thousand wild-eyed Faraqi glaring
down at me from the heights, with only my needle-gun
left to defend myself and the women and children en-
trusted to my care, that I came to realize that the life
of the Royal Army officer is the best life in the universe!
God bless us all!"
    Jamil sat down amid thunderous applause. He looked
out to Xris, seated with the other low-ranking officers.
The cyborg was pointing at his watch. Jamil had run two
minutes over. That would cost him plenty, but it had
been worth it. One crusty old major was actually wiping
a tear from his eye. A lovely blond captain was regard-
ing Jamil with admiration.
    The base commander made a suitable reply. The offi-
cers at the head table rose and departed in state, all
looking very solemn and well fed. The meal had been
actually quite decent. Colonel Strebbins spent a goodly
portion of the meal relating the story of how he had
swiped the cook from the 1083rd, stationed on Vangelis
II. The port after dinner had been excellent.
 Now the officers were free to retire to the more infor-

mal and relaxed atmosphere of the bar, a separate room
attached to the dining area. The major was pumping
JamiFs hand and wanting to discuss the inept strategy
and tactics at Faraqu. Jamil made polite excuses and
walked over to the bar, where the blond captain was
talking to Xris.
    "Your speech was so inspiring, Colonel," she said,
after Xris had made introductions.
    "One might call it 'golden,'" Xris said under his
breath, but loud enough for Jamil to hear.
    Jamil cut neatly in between Xris and the blond cap-
tain. "Captain Kergonan," he said over his shoulder, "I
think you should go check on the arrangements for my
talk tomorrow."
    "Yes, sir, Colonel," Xris said, putting his untasted
drink back down on the bar.
    It occurred to Jamil that Xris left far too quickly and
far too obediently, particularly when he must have no-
ticed the blond captain frowning in disappointment at
the cyborg's leaving. Jamil figured something was up,
was convinced of it when he saw Xris pause on the way
out the door to speak to Colonel Strebbins. Xris might
just be making polite remarks about the dinner, but
Jamil was on his guard. He asked the captain what she
thought of the inept strategy that led to the defeat at
Faraqu.
    The two were settling down to a comfortable conver-
sation when Colonel Strebbins loomed up. "Wonderful
speech, Colonel," he said. "I see you've met Captain
Strauss. Best shot on the base with a lasrifle. Had our
qualifters last week."
    "Thank you, Colonel." The captain flushed with plea-
sure at the compliment.
    Strebbins turned to Jamil. "Your aide tells me that
you have a particular interest in how we run things here
on Pandot. He suggested I come over here now and give
you the complete lowdown." He glanced at the blonde.
"I don't want to bore you, Captain ..."
    "If you'll excuse me, sir?" Captain Strauss gave Jamil
a smile, picked up her drink, and left.
Colonel Strebbins leaned his elbow on the bar and

began. "When I took command six years ago, this base
had one of the lowest efficiency ratings in this quadrant.
Since that time, I ..."
    Jamil listened, nodded, sipped his drink, silently
cursed Xris, and swore to get even.

    An hour later, the colonel was launching into an ac-
count of the base's new morale-boosting program, com-
plete with a description of the enlisted personnel's sock
hop and talent show, when conversations paused, heads
in the bar started turning, people began looking toward
the front foyer.
    "By God," Strebbins said, interrupting himself. He set
down his empty glass on the counter. "What's all this.'?"
    Jamil, thankful for any interruption, looked to see
what all the fuss was about.
    Two officers stood in the entryway. One--a pilot--
was still wearing her flight suit, carried her helmet under
her arm. Jamil raised his eyebrows. The pilot had com-
mitted a serious breach of etiquette. You didn't walk
into the officer's mess in a flight suit unless you had a
damn good reason. The patches on her shoulder indi-
cated that she flew a Stiletto precision bombel-, Zircon
Squadron. Not stationed here. The fact that she still car-
ried her helmet meant she intended to leave again
swiftly.
    The other officer wore the standard dress uniform,
with the rank of major, though the gold-braided aguillet
around one shoulder identified him as an aide-de-camp
for a lieutenant general or higher. The major removed
his beret and entered the bar area. He walked straight
up to Colonel Strebbins.
    "This man appears to have urgent business for you,
Colonel," Jamil said, lifting his drink and preparing to
leave, feeling relieved that he'd been spared an account
of the talent show. "I'11 leave you--"
    "Excuse me, sirs," the major said, including them both
in his glance. "I am Major VanDerGard of General
Hanson's staff. 1 have been sent to immediately retrieve
Colonel Jatanski."
 Jamil gulped, stared. He decided to set down his drink

before he dropped it. His first thought was: Xris. Xris
has set this up, damn him.
    Figuring that, Jamil was just about to make some
smart-ass remark when he took a good close look at
the serious-eyed major, at the major's gold braid, at the
uniform that was rumpled with travel. Then there was
the obviously flight-weary pilot waiting in the foyer.
    Jamil's gut tightened. Not even Xris could pull off a
stunt like this. Plus he would never do anything to jeop-
ardize the job. Whatever this was, it was for real.
    "Yes, Major," Jamil said, hoping astonishment would
cover apprehension. "I'm Colonel Jantanski. What is
it?"
    "Sir, you are requested to be the assisting officer for
Lieutenant Colonel K. A. Katchan. As the lieutenant
colonel's commanding officer, you are the first choice for
assisting officer, and the lieutenant colonel has chosen
you. His Special General Court-Martial is to sit for open-
ing statements in thirty hours, and you will need to begin
work immediately."
    Colonel Strebbins was grave. "Well, Jatanski, it looks
as if one of your people has gone off the deep end. I
don't envy you this one. Sorry I won't get to see your
presentation tomorrow. This sounds serious, though."
    Jamil had read many times the standard author's cli-
chfi about a character who feels suddenly as if he has
entered a dream. Jamil didn't dream; he prided himself
on the fact that he slept soundly throughout the night,
was not one to wake suddenly screaming from the throes
of a nightmare.
 Not until now.
    Now he was in one of those frightful dreamlike situa-
tions in which everything is going wrong, you know it's
going wrong, you want to try to fix it, but you are power-
less to act. Jamil knew he should say something, but
he could only stand staring at the major in speechless
amazement while his brain scrambled to make some
sense of the senseless.
    Jamil thought back. Katchan! I remember a Katchan.
He served under me ... but that was six years ago! And
Katchan had been a supply sergeant! They don't nor-

mally promote supply sergeants to lieutenant colonel!
To say nothing of the fact that I'm not in the Army
anymore. I haven't been in the Army for years. I can't
serve on a court-martial. I'm not a colonel! Most of all--I'm not Colonel Jatanski!
    The game's up, Jamil realized. Someone's found out.
Xris and I are going to be doing a long stretch in the
brig.
    Okay, but if that's true, where are the MPs? The beam
rifles? The manacles? The Army doesn't usually play
games, especially with people impersonating their
officers.
    The major was regarding Jamil with respect, Colonel
Strebbins with sympathy.
    "You look a bit rocky on your feet, Jatanski. Comes
as a shock to you, I expect." Strebbins motioned to the
sergeant behind the bar. "Another drink for the colonel.
Make it a double."
    "Thank you," Jamil said faintly. "Katchan is an excel-
lent officer. Never gave me cause for complaint.
What"--he put the glass to his lips, tried to look ca-
sual--"what is the charge?"
 "Theft of government property," the major replied.
 Jamil gagged, choked.
    "Steady, there, Jatanski," Strebbins said solicitously,
pounding Jamil on the back.
    Are the MPs arresting Xris right now? Jamil won-
dered. Is this a ruse to get us both off base without
trouble, without publicity?
    He set down his empty glass. "1'11 have to find Captain
Kergonan--"
    "That won't be necessary, sir. The captain is to carry
on as planned," the major said.
Janill stared, stunned. "I beg your pardon, Major?"
"General Hanson feels that Captain Kergonan is emi-
nently qualified to carry on in your absence," the major
elaborated. "The captain is quite familiar with the sub-
ject material and is capable of handling the assignment
on his own. Wouldn't you agree, Colonel Jatanski?"
    "Yes, eminently," Jamil murmured. He shoved him-
self away from the bar. Perhaps I can find Xris, warn

him. This smells like a trap. "I'll just go back to my
quarters, get my gear."
    "I'm sorry, sir, but we need you to come straight to
the spaceplane. The trial is being held on the command
cruiser King James II, General Hanson's flagship. It is
just now entering this system. Captain Ng will fly us
back." The major turned to Strebbins. "If you could
send someone for the colonel's luggage, sir ..."
  "Certainly," Strebbins said heartily.
    "That won't be necessary," Jamil intervened. He had
a few things in his luggage he'd just as soon not be
discovered, things like a nonregulation .23-decawatt pis-
tol, the vial containing the water-contaminating virus,
the hand-drawn map of the base. "Captain Kergonan
will take care of it for me."
    "Are you sure?" Strebbins asked. "You don't Want to
go before old Iron Guts Hanson without a clean pair
of socks."
    "Yes, no question." Jamil was firm. "Captain Kergo-
nan will take care of everything. If you would give him
that message--that he is to carry on 'in my absence." He
glanced uncertainly at the major.
    The major nodded. "General Hansoh's orders, sir."
He reached into the pocket of his flight jacket, pulled
out an envelope containing a disk. "I have that in writ-
ing. If you could see that Captain Kergonan receives
this, sir?"
    "I'11 see to it," Strebbins said, took the computer disk,
stood tapping it on the bar.
    Jamil stared at the disk, wished he could get a look
at the orders, but it would have been coded to Xris's
military I.D. number and personal password.
    Of course, Xris didn't have a real military I.D. num-
ber, nor did he have a real password. He'd made that all
up, had instructed Darlene to enter it into the military's
computer files before they left. Someone had gone to
one hell of a lot of trouble to ferret them out!  And for what'? Jamil had no idea.
    "If you please, sir. The spaceplane is being refueled.
The car is waiting." The major was obviously impatient
to leave.

    Strebbins offered his hand. "Good luck, Jatanski. Glad
it's you and not me. Hate these damn courts-martial.
Always put me to sleep. And I was really looking for-
ward to your lecture, too. But l've no doubt that Captain
Kergonan will manage fine."
 "I'm sure he will, sir," Jamil said.
    "We have every confidence in the captain, sir,"
the major added, saluting. He accompanied Jamil out
of the bar, into the foyer. Here he introduced Jamil to
the pilot, who nodded curtly and intimated that they
were running behind schedule.
    A vehic was waiting for them outside the mess; not
the staff car, with its fluttering flags, but a hoverjeep.
The major kept close behind him. Jamil ignored the
man, paused a moment, glanced around, hoping against
hope to catch a glimpse of Xris. No such luck.
    Jamil climbed in the back of the hoverjeep alongside
the major. The pilot sat in front. Major VanDerGard
apologized for not taking the staff car to the airfield.
 "This is quicker, sir, if less comfortable."
    They had all just barely settled themselves when the
driver launched the jeep into the air, sped toward the
airfield.
    The ride was fast and uneventful. No one said much
of anything, mainly because no one else would have
been able to hear what was said over the roar and rattle
of the hoverjeep, which had seen better days. VanDer-
Gard must have commandeered the first vehic he found.
The pilot sat up front beside the driver, keeping fast
hold of her helmet on her lap. She paid no attention
to them, never once glanced back. VanDerGard braced
himself in his corner, one arm on the doorframe. Jamil
kept a firm grip on the back of the seat.
    The hoverjeep was covered with a fine coat of the red
Pandoran sand. The jeep's frame rattled and shook and
bounced over the uneven terrain. Its air jets must have
been out of sync, for there was a noticeable dip to the
back end. Twice Jamil was bounced off his seat, struck
his head on the detachable roof. Both times, when that

happened, VanDerGard smiled in rueful apology, just as
he might have done in the presence of a real colonel.
    Jamil gave up trying to figure what all this was about.
No use wasting his energies on guesses. He was stum-
bling about in the dark and while he might accidentally
put his hand on the correct answer, how would he know
it? This concluded, he ran quickly through his options.
There weren't many. He could, of course, punch
VanDerGard in the face, grab his gun (interesting point;
the major was wearing a sidearm), shoot the pilot and
the driver, and make a run for it.
  And go where, exactly? And do what?
    Besides, VanDerGard didn't look the type to collapse
in a heap at one punch. And if he was armed, the pilot
probably was armed, too. Jamil discarded that idea
about five seconds after he'd thought it up. Since he
couldn't think of anything else constructive, he decided
his best bet was to keep playing the game. Besides, by
now, he was extremely curious.
     His curiosity would probably land him in the brig for
 about twenty years for impersonating an officer, but he
 couldn't help it. He was interested to know just what
 the devil was going on. The only way to find out was
 to go along with the agenda--whatever that happened
 to be.
     The jeep entered the airfield, the driver looked around
 for directions. Major VanDerGard pointed, indicated a
 glistening Stiletto bomber parked at the very end of the
 tarmac. The tubular fuselage gleamed in the moonlight.
 Its green and gray camouflage enhanced the sleek look.
 It was designed for precision bombing, both in and out
 of atmosphere. The spaceplane sat high on its wheels,
 indicating that it did not have a bomb load, but the racks
 of missiles under the wings were real--no practice weap-
 ons here. What was known as a wild-weasel pod hung
 from the central hard-point.
     The jeep pulled up beside a refueling bowser. The
 crew was just finishing refueling the bomber and were
 starting to replace the hoses back in the bowser.
     The pilot jumped out almost before the jeep came to
 a stop. She began walking around the spaceplane, check-

ing it over to ensure it was sound for flight. Two mem-
bers of the ground crew were inside the cockpit,
readying it for the pilot. The major climbed out of the
jeep, walked around, opened the door for Jamil, saluted
when he stepped out.
    Jamil studied the man's face. If Jamil had seen one
flicker of an eyelid, one sardonic curl of the lip, any
indication at all that VanDerGard knew he was acting a
role, Jamil might have reconsidered and taken on the
major then and there.
    VanDerGard saluted respectfully, his face grave and
solemn as befitted the occasion. Jamil returned the ma-
jor's salute and stepped onto the tarmac. VanDerGard
walked over to the bombardier's hatch, reached inside,
pulled out a set of coverails and a flight helmet, and
handed them to Jamil. The major reached back for a set
of flight clothes for himself and began to slip the cover-
alls on over his uniform.
    Jamil glanced swiftly around. The pilot had moved on
to the back end of the spaceplane. The ground crew
were occupied some distance away.
    VanDerGard glanced up, noticed Jamil wasn't dress-
ing. "Don't those fit, sir? There's a size larger--"
    "Look, Major, let's cut the crap," Jamil said tersely.
"You and 1 both know--"
    "--that Katchan is innocent of these charges, is that
what you were about to say, Colonel?" VanDerGard
shrugged. "I like to think so, sir, but I must add that,
from what I've seen, the evidence against him is very
strong. You should be getting ready, sir," he advised,
seeing that Jamil wasn't moving. "We'll be leaving
shortly."
 And that was that.
    Jamil slid the coverails on over his uniform, accepted
the flight helmet, and waited for the pilot to indicate
they were ready to take off. He looked out over the
tarmac back to the base, wondered if Xris knew his part-
ner was gone yet, what he was doing about it. Jamil was
tense, prepared for action. It was unlikely that Xris
would be putting together some sort of rescue attempt,

but Jamil had to be alert and ready to react if that
happened.
 It didn't.
    The pilot indicated that all was ready. She climbed up
the ladder and took her place in the cockpit.
    The two senior officers boarded the bomber by climb-
ing a ladder in the open bomb bay, leading into the crew
area. They strapped themselves into the communicator's
and the bombardier's chairs. The pilot wound up the
engines. To anyone accustomed to flying in the relative
comfort of fighter spaceplanes, the engine noise inside
the larger and heavier bomber was deafening. Jamil gri-
maced, wondered how any living being could take this.
A hand touched his arm. VanDerGard pointed to a cord
with a jack on one end which hung from Jamil's helmet
to a socket in the bulkhead.
    Jamil plugged in the jack, and all was blessedly quiet.
The helmet's noise filters completely removed the engine
whine and the creaks and strains of the fuselage. He
looked outside the small porthole. A storm was moving
in over the desert; lightning shot through the clouds that
were building fast in the heat.
    Jamil bid Xris a silent and rueful good-bye, wished
them both luck, and prepared for takeoff. He was seated
in the communicator's chair. A voice came over his
helmet.
    "Navy Three Five Niner Zircon, you are cleared for
priority launch on runway Two Niner. All traffic is
cleared of your launch and egress vectors. Have a good
flight. Pandor Tower out."
    The pilot wasted no time. The spaceplane--clumsy
and awkward on the ground, graced with a deadly
beauty in space--lurched forward, taxied to the runway.
    The takeoff and flight were, in Navy terms, uneventful,
despite the fact that lightning struck the fuselage of the
spaceplane at least three times that Jamil counted. He
expected all sorts of dire consequences, from the engines
blowing up to the electrical systems going haywire, but
nothing happened. The pilot didn't seem bothered by
the strikes. VanDerGard apparently hadn't even noticed.
Jamil quit looking out the viewscreen. Gritting his teeth,

sweating and nervous, clutching the arms of the seat, he
faced grimly forward. He detested space flight. This was
exactly the reason why he'd joined the Army. Ninety
percent of the time, your feet were on solid ground.
    Once into space, the pilot kicked in the radiation drive
and exited the Pandoran solar system. Jamil looked out
the viewscreen again. A tiny speck of light, no brighter
than the stars around it, began to grow larger. Jamil
stared at it and, forgetting where he was and under what
circumstances, he whistled.
    "Never seen a command cruiser before, sir?" Van-
DerGard asked.
    "Not for a very long time," Jamil answered truthfully.
"And they never looked like that! My god, but she's
huge."
    "The King James H is one of the new Septimus Sev-
erus Class command cruisers," VanDerGard said with
obvious pride. "She was only commissioned four months
ago. The king and queen both attended the launching
ceremonies."
    The ship was larger in area than many cities, held
more people. Its blue-gray durasteel hull shone in the
reflected light of Pandor's distant sun. Lights from hun-
dreds of portholes sparkled on its surface. Its hull was
smooth, sleek, unmarred by antennae, guns, torpedo
tubes, lascannons or any other weapon mounts.
    But they were there. Harry--who kept up on all the
Navy's new designs--had gone on for days about how
all the weapons and other instruments had been built
into the hull. When the ship went into action, she must
be an awesome sight. Jamil imagined gunports sliding
open, torpedo launch mounts lifting into place. He was
so interested, he almost forgot that he was likely to see
more of this ship than he wanted. Like the brig.
    VanDerGard was conferring with the pilot. Probably
requesting the armed escort, the leg irons and shackles.
    Well, as his old sergeant used to say when they came
under enemy bombardment, nothing to do but hunker
down, sweat it out.
 Jamil hunkered down and began to sweat.

CHAPTER
       10

Now is the time for all good men to come to the
aid of the party.

Charles Welter

Customs was not as bad as Darlene had anticipated.
After a critical inspection, she wasn't required to
wear a mask, as were some of her more unfortunate
fellow passengers. The customs agent did recommend,
however, that she do something with her hair. Having
assured the agent that this would be her first priority,
Darlene offered the computer case and her overnight
bag for inspection. The agent cast a bored look at the
computer and a skeptical look at the small and shabby
overnight bag.
 "How long are you staying?" he asked.
"A week," Darlene replied. "I'm here for Carnival."
The agent lifted a plucked and skeptical eyebrow.
Opening her carry-on, he peered disdainfully inside.
"You are going to one of the nude colonies, 1 assume,"
he said.
    Darlene added hurriedly, "I'm here on a shopping
spree. I plan to buy a whole new wardrobe."
    The agent indicated--with a meaningful glance at
what she was currently wearing--that this would cer-
tainly be highly advisable. With a languid wave of his
hand, he passed her on through.
    Darlene was leaving customs, smiling over this episode
and searching for Raoul, when she encountered a party

of Adonians who were most obviously on their way to
visit one of the nude colonies. It was an impressive sight.
Darlene was still staring when Raoul and the Little One
found her.
    Raoul greeted her with a fond hug and kisses, as if
they'd been separated for thirty years, not thirty min-
utes. This was the typical Adonian form of welcome,
however, as she learned from the kissing, hugging throng
around her.
    "You're not masked! Congratulations!" Raoul gushed,
then paused--fearful--and asked in a loud whisper,
"What did they say about your hair?"
 "I'm to have it done," she whispered back.
    "Nothing more than that? I thought they might sen-
tence you to ... Well, never mind. They didn't." Raoul
breathed a sigh. "We're not out of this yet, though."
    He looked around, all directions, scrutinizing the
crowd closely. Darlene, assuming he was searching for
the Hung assassin, was about to ask him if he had no-
ticed anyone suspicious, when he pulled out a silken
scarf from his purse and handed it to her.
    "Put this over your head," he said in the hushed tones.
"We have to reach my abode safely and the magnet is
simply crawling with cops."
    Darlene might have welcomed this, had she thought
the police were posted in the "magnet" (whatever that
was) for the protection of the citizenry. Knowing Adoni-
ans, however, she guessed that the cops would be far
more interested in outrages perpetrated against fashion
than such sordid and distasteful crimes as muggings,
theft, or murder. No doubt they would arrest her assas-
sin if he gunned her down in public (especially if he
splattered blood on someone's fine white leather shoes).
But the police would be apt to arrest the assassin a
whole lot faster if he was wearing polyester at the time.
    Accordingly, Darlene tied the scarf around her head
and accompanied Raoul through the spaceport to the
baggage claim, to arrange for the delivery of f6urteen
trunks--all the clothing he considered necessary for a
week's vacation.
 "I hope I brought enough," he said worriedly, watch-

ing the trunks slide down the conveyer. "Yes, what is
it?" he asked distractedly.
    The Little One was tugging on Raoul's sleeve. They
held one of their silent conversations, then Raoul turned
to Darlene.
    "The Little One says that no one is following you,
that no one is taking the least bit of interest in you. The
scarf's working," he continued, and, nodding in satisfac-
tion, he began pointing out trunks to a luggage re-
trieval 'bot.
    "Thank you," Darlene said gratefully to the Little
One.
    The fedora nodded. The small hands came out of the
raincoat pockets, fluttered about the head. which jerked
in the direction of Raoul. The small shoulders shrugged.
Yes. thought Darlene, that pretty much says it all.
    Having determined that all his trunks were present
and accounted for, Raoul entered the delivery data into
the 'bot, added a generous tip. ("I forgot to tip once."
Raoul sniffed. "Only six trunks made it. The rest of my
clothes ended up spending Carnival in Jardina. I trust
they had a good time. I couldn't set foot outside the
house!") The three left the spaceport, headed for the
main form of transportation in Adonian cities, known as
the magnet.
    The magnet was a glistening silver commuter train
which ran whisper-soft and extremely fast over magne-
tized tracks. Magnets went everywhere in an Adonian
city, and people went everywhere in them. Driving one-
self around in one's own vehic was considered de-
meaning, not to mention the fact driving was stressful,
which caused wrinkles, and being seated in a vehic any
length of time was thought to contribute to poor posture.
    A short walk through the spaceport--walking was
good for a person, developed shapely calves--brought
them to the magnet station. Like the spaceport and
every other building in Adonia, the station was the epi-
tome of luxury, comfort, the very latest in style and
design.
    Traveling in the magnet, gazing out the windows, Dar-
lene marveled at the beauty of the world. Every object

she looked on--even an object as mundane as a waste
container--was elegant in shape, graceful in design,
lovely to behold. Mountains, valleys, sky, grass, trees,
flowers, rivers, buildings, people, animals--all were
comely to look upon, pleasing to the eye.
    "I'd probably grow tired of this if I lived here," she
said to herself. "Like eating candy. I couldn't make a
steady diet of it. But a dark chocolate raspberry truffle
now and then is heaven."
    Raoul lived in the city of Kanapalia, which was lo-
cated on the larger of Adonia's two continents. Kanap-
alia, built on the side of a mountain, overlooking the
glittering blue waters of the Bay of Kanapalia, might be
described as a resort city. But then so could every other
city on Adonia.
    Since factories--ugly, dirty, smelly things--were not
allowed on the Adonian home world, all materials which
required manufacturing were imported. This made the
cost of living extraordinarily high on Adonia, but since
only those with high levels of income were permitted to
remain on-world, the high cost of goods was not a prob-
lem. Any Adonian whose income fell below a certain
level was deported. Poverty is so unsightly.
    Kanapalia, with its year-round perfect climate, its
magnificent views of mountain and sea, its picturesque
mansions adoming the cliffs, its splendid, sun-drenched
beauty, brought tears to the eyes of the off-worlders. As,
of course, it should. Most Adonians were well-traveled.
They'd been to other parts of the galaxy, mainly in order
to reassure themselves that, after all, there was no place
like home.
    Seated in the comfort and elegance of the magnet,
with its wide leather-cushioned seats, its quietly ap-
pointed interior that was not permitted to draw attention
away from the spectacular scenes of mountain, sea, and
clear cobalt sky, Darlene felt herself start to slip under
the spell of Adonia. The beauty of the world, the beauty
of its people, the air that blew bright and crisp from the
sea acted on an off-worlder like one of the mind-altering
drugs which were so easy to obtain in this planet of
pleasure. Darlene began to feel that nothing bad could

happen to her here. Evil--ugly, dirty, smelly--would
never be permitted on Adonia.
    Darlene knew very well that she was deluding herself.
But it was delightful to give in to the delusion. She'd
lived in the isolation of safe, sterilized surroundings for
too long. She had been afraid for too many years, afraid
of the bureau, afraid of the Hung, afraid of co-workers,
afraid of friends. No ... that was not true. She'd had no
friends to fear. Her sole refuge was work, her altar the
computer. As long as she knelt before it, nothing and
no one could drag her out of sanctuary.
    At least that's what she'd thought, until Xris crashed
through the sealed and locked doors of her sterile world.
Intending her death, he'd brought her back to life. And
now she meant to enjoy it.
    Darlene Rowan quit searching every face on-board
the magnet to see if it was the face of an assassin. She
quit looking constantly at the Little One, to see if he
had tuned in to any hostile thoughts aimed at her. She
packed up all her worries and her fears and stowed
them away.
    Unfortunately, she stowed them in her computer case,
which was still carrying, though she didn't know it. the
tattle-tell transmitter.

    Raoul's chateau was small, by Adonian standards.
Gleaming white, with a red-tile roof, it nestled against
the mountainside, overlooked the crashing waves of the
sea beneath. But the chateau, though small, had all the
necessities of life: swimming pool, whirlpool, sauna, or-
namental fish pond, ornamental garden, fountain in the
courtyard, atrium, aviary.
    Considering Raoul's flamboyant taste in clothes, Dar-
lene was pleasantly surprised to find his chateau decor-
ated with taste and elegance. There are strict laws
governing interior decorating on the books of every
major city of Adonia, however, and this had something
to do with it, as Raoul was free to admit.
    Left to his own devices, Raoul expressed a longing for
an orange crushed-velvet sofa in combination with a hot
pink coffee table with gilt edges. This being illegal, as

described in the Decorator's Code, Section Twenty-six,
Paragraph H, he was forced to make do with mahogany
and leather, silk curtains and hand-woven rugs. Sheets
were of linen and cambric, edged with lace. Down com-
forters were warm and would make Darlene feel as if
she were going to bed in whipped cream. The first thing
Raoul did, on arriving at his home, was to send for the
hairdresser.
    "I didn't know beauticians made house calls," Dar-
lene said.
 "Only in emergencies," was Raoul's reply.
    And that was the last she saw or heard of him for the
next three days. Raoul entered into the throes of plan-
ning his party. Less planning has gone into the taking
over of small countries.
    ~'The main objective," Raoul stated, laying out his bat-
tle plan for the edification of the Little One, "is to van-
quish Raj Vu."
    The fedora nodded agreement, the bright eyes be-
neath the fedora gleanled with fighting fervor.
    The enemy, Raj Vu, was an Adonian who lived four
mansions and a palace up the road from Raoul and was
considered by everyone in Kanapalia, including Raj Vu
himself, to be the crowned czar of party-giving. His guest
list was highly selective and you knew you were some-
body on Adonia if you received an invitation to one of
Raj Vu's affairs.
    Despite the fact that they were almost neighbors,
Raoul had not received an invitation. Raj Vu had once
been overheard referring to Raoul as "that grubby little
poisoner and his dog-in-a-raincoat toadie." Raoul's
friends considered it their duty to tell him this and did
so the moment they were sober enough to recall it. Not
long ago, however, Raoul had been instrumental in sav-
ing the life of the queen; he and the Little One having
helped thwart a kidnapping attempt on Her Majesty.
Both had been invited to the palace, both had been on
galaxy-wide news. Raoul could claim, and often did, that
he and the queen were dear friends.
    Not long after, Raoul had received an invitation to
one of Raj Vu's parties. Though highly incensed by the

"grubby little poisoner" remark and hating Raj Vu quite
devotedly, Raoul felt it his duty to attend the party on
"a reconnaissance mission," as he stated. He expected
to have a dreadful time but would suffer through it for
the good of the cause. He suffered to such an extent
that he was forced to take to his bed three days later,
when the party ended, and it was a week before he could
lift his head from his pillow or consume solid food. It
was at that moment Raoul declared (in a whisper) that
he would outparty Raj Vu or perish in the attempt.
    The day he arrived on Adonia, Raoul called a meeting
of his chiefs of staff, these being the caterer, the hired
bartenders, the plant renters, the pool cleaners, the tent
makers, the groundskeepers, the carpenters, the wine
steward, and the butler. There were the local police to
be bribed, the fire department forewarned, the hospital
put on alert.
    "I'm a nervous wreck," he complained to the Little
One the morning of the day before the event.
    They were breakfasting on the terrace. Raoul
smoothed his hair, which was being ruffled by a mild
breeze. He sipped his warm cocoa, tossed bits of his
croissant to the swans in the ornamental pond, and re-
peated his complaint. "A nervous wreck. I don't know
whether I'm coming or going." He moved his chair to
keep out of the bright sunlight, which would have a dev-
astating effect on his complexion.
    "And do I receive any help?" Raoul continued, his
tone becoming plaintive. "I knew I could expect nothing
from Darlene. I counted on forty-eight hours at least to
get her into shape and it looks as if I'm not going to be
far wrong. The manicurist left in tears, did I tell you? I
had to promise to pay the woman double to persuade
her to come back. But I might have expected better from
you, my friend. You've been no help to me at all. No
help whatsoever."
    The Little One growled, hunched down in the rain-
coat, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared moodily
out at the pond.
  "If you won't tell me what's bothering you," Raoul

went on, "I can't be expected to sympathize. Here, have
a muffin. Perhaps you're hypoglycemic."
    The Little One took the muffin and lobbed it irritably
at the swan, striking the bird squarely on the beak. The
swan swam off in indignation.
    "Nice shot," said Darlene, coming to join them. She
poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down. "What's the
matter with him?"
    Raoul shrugged. "He's been in a bad mood ever since
we arrived on Adonia. Actually, ever since we left Meg-
apolis. He refuses to discuss the matter. He won't tell
me what's wrong. He's going to ruin my party," Raoul
concluded in tragic tones. "I just know it."
    The Little One growled again, but appeared remorse-
ful at having upset his friend. Squirming about in his
chair, the telepath lifted his hands, fists clenched, in a
gesture of frustration.
    Darlene regarded him in concern. "He does seem
upset."
    "I understand that something's bothering you," Raoul
continued, dabbing at the corner of one eye with the
sleeve of his silken bed jacket. He turned a pleading
gaze to the Little One. "But couldn't it bother you just
as well after the party as before?"
    The Little One decided, on consideration, that it
couldn't.
    "It's not me, is it?" Raoul asked, the thought suddenly
occurring to him. "I haven't done anything to upset you,
have IT'
 The Little One was emphatic, shook his head.
    "I didn't think so," Raoul said complacently, "but it
never hurts to ask."
    "Not me?" Darlene wondered. "Any assassins lurk-
ing about?"
 The Little One again shook his head.
    "You say he was upset before we left," Darlene said,
thoughtful. "Is it Xris?"
    The Little One's head jerked up. The bright eyes
gleamed at her from beneath the fedora.
    "It is Xris!" Darlene was alarmed. "Something's hap-
pened to Xris?"

 The Little One again shook his head.
 "Something's going to happen to Xris?"
    "The Little One is a telepath, my dear, not a psychic,"
Raoul said, eating a dish of strawberries in cream.
    The Little One did not immediately reply. He stared
out from beneath the brim of the fedora, stared into the
cloudless sky, stared out farther than that, perhaps, with
the fixed, narrow-eyed intensity of someone endeavoring
to penetrate the mists of a thick fog.
    He failed. His gaze dropped. He pummeled himself
on the head, knocking the fedora askew. Then, glower-
ing, he laid his arms on the table, rested his small chin
disconsolately on his arms.
    "There! You see! He's going to ruin my party. Abso-
lutely ruin it!"
    "The hell with your party," Darlene snapped. "I'm
worried about Xris. I think-- Oh, dear, no! I'm sorry. I
didn't mean ..."
    Her apologies were too late. Raoul had fainted dead
away.
    A glass of champagne, applied swiftly, restored the
Adonian, assisted him to recover from the staggering
shock of hearing his party consigned to the nether
regions.
    "I truly didn't mean it," Darlene repeated remorse-
fully, patting Raoul on the wrist.
    "I know you didn't, my dear," he said with a wan
smile. "And I forgive you."
    "But if the Little One does think that something might
be going wrong for Xris, we should try to find out what
it is," Darlene pursued.
    "I'm certain that Xris Cyborg would not want to ruin
my party. He would permit nothing to happen to him
that would interfere."
    "I'm sure he wouldn't," Darlene agreed gravely. "If
he could help it. But what if he can't? Would you ask
the Little One to try to describe what he's feeling?
Maybe we'll get a clue."
    Raoul sighed despairingly, but since it was at least half
an hour until the caterer was due to arrive, he supposed
he could indulge the odd whims of his guest.

    The question being put to the Little One, the telepath
concentrated to such an extent that the hat gradually
slid down over his eyes, obliterating them completely.
At length he shrugged, scratched his head through the
fedora, and looked up at Raoul, who appeared slightly
perplexed.
    "As nearly as I can make out, he says he feels as
if he'd been shopping and found this charming blouse,
absolutely perfect, lace trim on the cuffs and tiny pearl
buttons and it fits like a dream and it's on sale! Well,
he gets it home, puts it on and"--Raoul raised his eyes
to heaven--"the sleeve falls off!"
 "He said that?" Darlene was skeptical.
    "Not precisely in those words," Raoul admitted. "He
left it to me to translate. But I believe that this accu-
rately describes what he is feeling. Are you going to
contact Xris Cyborg?"
    "There's no way I can contact him," Darlene said,
eyeing the Little One worriedly. "He and Jamil are al-
ready on the Army base. We're not supposed to contact
them--"
"Except in an emergency," Raoul interrupted.
Darlene thought it over, shook her head. "What
would I say? Be careful because the Little One is experi-
encing strange feelings he can't explain?"
    Raoul considered. "You might tell Xris to examine
carefully the stitching on any shirts he purchases."
    At this, the Little One let out a screech--a startling
and unnerving sound, which caused the swan to flutter
in the water and head for the opposite shore. Shaking his
fists in disgust--perhaps at Raoul, perhaps at Darlene,
perhaps at the swan, or perhaps at nothing--the Little
One slid off the chair and stomped moodily into the
house, angrily kicking the raincoat's hem with each step.
    "Oh, God! My party," Raoul moaned, and collapsed
onto the table, his head pillowed on his arms.
 "Oh, God ... Xris," Darlene murmured.

CHAPTER
       11

"Absent friends."

Toast for the day, Sunday, Royal Navy

On leaving the officers' mess, Xris took a quick stroll
to the part of the base located near the construction
site. He was pleased to note that, while it was a part of
the base in use during the day, it was likely to be de-
serted at night. This was the base maintenance area; veh-
ics of all sorts, in various states of disrepair, were
parked here.
    Up against the fence sat three PV-L Devastator light
tanks, two with their power packs removed, one with
the turret half disassembled. Utility trucks in winter
camouflage stood in a line, probably recently arrived
from off-world and waiting for a desert paint job. A
seventy-two-ton hoverwrecker gleamed at the end of the
row. The wrecker was the pride of the workshop and
proudly displayed the maintenance symbol on the front
bumper. A sergeant was still about. The man glanced at
Xris curiously as he sauntered past; the sight of a
stranger in this area was enough to arouse his interest.
    Xris walked over. "Evening, Sergeant." Xris gazed
around the garage with the fond expression of someone
who was returned home after a prolonged absence.
    "Captain," said the sergeant, glowering and wiping his
greasy hands on a rag. This was the sergeant's domain
and he was clearly suspicious of high-ranking intrusion.
"Can I do something for you, sir?"

    "Not at the moment, Sergeant. I've got a warning light
on a remote-controlled, temperature-regulated storage
crate. I'd like you to take a look at it."
"Pardon me, sir, but ... warning against what?"
"Biohazard. There's nothing to worry about, though.
The warning light isn't flashing like it's warning against
anything. It's flashing like it's malfunctioning. I can tell
the difference."
 "Yes, sir." The sergeant was not convinced.
    "And there's nothing to worry about unless the crate
is opened in an improper manner. Certain systems have
to be shut down first, in the correct order. Any mistake
there and .. 7' Xris shrugged, left the details to the ser-
geant's imagination, which must have been fairly active.
    The sergeant backed up a step, glanced nervously
around. "Did you bring the crate with you, sir?"
    "No. I didn't want to lug the damn thing around with
me while I searched for maintenance. I'll drop it off
tonight. You can check it out tomorrow. Where should
I stash it?"
    "How about over there, sir? Next to that hoverjeep
with the banged-up fender. No one will bother it, sir.
You can bet on that."
    "Fine. I'll come around sometime tomorrow, be on
hand in case you need to open it."
    "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The sergeant appeared
vastly relieved. Perhaps he had tomorrow off.
    "Don't let me interrupt your work." Xris reached his
hand to his pocket, automatically, to pull out a twist.
He caught himself halfway. "My first assignment was a
maintenance troop with the Thirtieth Field Artillery
Regiment. Repair and overhaul. We worked on those
old modified Devastators. God!" Xris shook his head.
"What a bucket of bolts!"
    "Yes, sir." The sergeant agreed, more at ease now
that he knew the malfunctioning biohazard crate wasn't
going to be making an appearance anytime soon. "They
were that. But once you got 'em movin', there wasn't
much around that could stop them. Why, I remember
once ..."
 The sergeant related a tale. Xris listened, laughed, and

twice had to stop his hand from reaching for his pocket.
The sergeant finished his story, offered to show Xris
around the yard.
    "Thanks, Sergeant, but it looks like you're closing up
shop. Must be past your dinnertime. Or are you in
charge of the night shift?"
    "Night shift!" The sergeant snorted. "Begging your
pardon, sir, what would we run a n!ght shift around here
for? It's not like we ever see any action. Busted axles,
flat tires, the occasional blown engine, clogged air jets--
that's the extent of the work around here. I was staying
late to do a little project of my own. If you'd care to
see, sir?"
    Xris had found out all he needed to know, but he
stayed a few moments longer to admire an ancient inter-
nal combustion engine which the sergeant had discov-
ered in a corner of one of the storage sheds, resurrected
it, and was now in the act of restoring. Xris was properly
enthusiastic. He stayed to watch the sergeant lovingly
cover the engine in a drop cloth.
    "You heading back to the barracks, sir?" the ser-
geant asked.
    "No, not right away," Xris answered. "I thought I'd
take a stroll around the base."
    The sergeant was regarding him with wry sympathy.
He leaned close, said in a low voice, "If you want a
smoke, sir, head over by the storage sheds near the
fence. It'll be deserted this time of night."  Xris stared at the man.
    The sergeant chuckled. "I saw your hand go to your
pocket, sir. I'm a smoker myself. Can't beat a good cigar,
eh, sir? If there's nothing else--"
    "No, Sergeant." Xris smiled. "Thanks, You've been a
big help, Uh, which way--"
 "That way, sir. Out this door and turn to your right."
 Xris nodded. The sergeant pulled shut the door to the
 maintenance shed, locked it, then saluted and headed
 back toward the barracks.
     "By God," Xris said to himself, walking in the direc-
 tion indicated, the direction that led him toward the
 fence, "that was a stroke of luck. Here I was trying to

think of some way to get rid of the guy and he sends
me right where I want to go. Easiest job ever, so far."
    The maintenance shed was a large, hutlike building
made of corrugated steel, located only a few meters from
the fence, directly opposite the construction site. Walk~
ing over by the fence, Xris could see the glow of the
security lights illuminating the site of the downed
spaceplane. He was almost directly across from it. Little
more than a kilometer away.
    He couldn't have ordered anything more perfect. Pull-
ing the gold case from the compartment in his leg, Xris
took out a twist, lit it, and inhaled deeply, thankfully.
After a few puffs, he tossed the butt end of the twist at
the fence. The twist struck the metal. Blue light flashed;
there was a sizzling sound. Xris grunted. He'd expected
as much. Turning, certain now that the sergeant must be
long gone, Xris headed back for the shed.
    Both maintenance shed and yard were lit by overhead
nuke lamps, the only lights around, with the exception
of a few security lights above the fence. Xris was satis-
fied. The yard was the perfect place to stash the stor-
age crate.
    Getting off the base was the next problem. Xris
strolled back over to the fence, indulged in another
smoke. He wasn't planning on going through the fence.
It would sizzle his butt as fast as it had sizzled the twist's.
In addition, the fence was undoubtedly loaded with sen-
sor devices, including backup sensors if something hap-
pened to the first. But Xris didn't need to get over the
fence. He could enter the construction site by an easier
route. The robot crate needed to get over the fence. It
had jets, operated by remote control, and wasn't going
to be bothered by a few strands of barbed wire.
    The only problem might be some type of magnetic
force field radiating up from the top of the fence. Jamil
hadn't considered that likely, and Xris, making his in-
spection, didn't see any indication. He waited a moment
and was rewarded by the sight of a low-flying bird skim-
ming over the fence without incident.
    It was a sign from the gods. If it had been a dove,
Xris might have found religion. As it was, he figured all

he had to do was stash the crate in the maintenance
shed, come back at o-dark-thirty, when everyone but the
guards would be in bed, haul out the crate, place it next
to the fence. Once he reached the construction site, Xris
would use the remote to hoist the crate up and over the
fence. He'd leave the crate by the fence, retrieve the
'hot from the crashed plane, haul the 'bot to the fence,
stuff the 'bot in the crate, send the crate with the 'hot
back over the fence. He'd return to base, stash the crate
in the maintenance yard again, collect it when he and
Jamil were ready to leave.
    If anyone wondered what he was doing with the crate
over near maintenance, instead of at the lecture hall,
Xris had already established that the case was malfunc-
tioning; he had brought it over to maintenance to repair.
    He took a look at the auditorium in which the phony
Colonel Jatanski would be making his speech. Having
located the large, empty lecture room, Xris spent several
minutes checking out the lighting, testing the sound, put-
ting the podium into place, doing all those chores a cap-
tain should be seen to be doing when preparing for a
Speech to be given by his colonel. When Xris was fin-
ished, he walked back outside.
    He stood in the darkness, enjoying the warm night air.
His next task: to find out how easy it would be to get
off base.
    Xris sauntered over to the front gate. The lights of
the nearby town gleamed in the distance. Must be only
a couple of kilometers, a pleasant walk beneath starlit
night skies. The gate was wide open; two MPs--a private
and a corporal--lounged in the guardhouse, talking com-
panionably. The private's beam rifle was slung across
one shoulder. The corporal had leaned his rifle upright
against the wall of the guardhouse while he poured him-
self a cup of coffee. These two were not expecting
trouble.
    Xris called a greeting as he strolled nonchalantly
through the gate.
 The private dashed out after him.
    "Captain. Excuse me, sir"--the private caught up with
Xris, saluted--"but could I see your orders.*"

    "No orders, Private," Xris answered in a friendly tone.
"I'm off duty, thought I'd walk into town, check out the
local nightlife."
    "Sorry, sir, but the town's off-limits. No one's allowed
to leave base without written orders."
 "Damn," Xris said. "Town that rough, huh?"
    "No, sir. Actually, the town's very nice. We've never
had any problem with the locals. It's an agreement be-
tween the base and the central Pandoran government.
They don't like off-worlders."
    Xris considered. He could get nasty, point to his cap-
tain's bars, shove his jaw in the private's face, but that
would only create animosity, might start raising
questions.
    "I see." Xris shrugged. "Guess there's nothing much
left for me to do but go back to bed."
    "Sorry, sir. There's the officers' mess, sir," the pri-
vate added.
    Xris grimaced. "My colonel's in there, if you take
my meaning."
    The private gave Xris a knowing grin. "Yes, sir. Good
night, sir."
    "Good night, Private." Xris turned, shoved his hands
in his pockets and strolled back in the direction of his
quarters.
    On to Plan B. He needed orders to leave the base.
That should be easy enough to obtain. Pandor was
known galaxy-wide for its stout, which was dark, bitter,
with a head on it that, according to legend, you could
land a spaceplane on. Colonel Jatanski was particularly
fond of Pandoran stout, wanted to replenish his supply.
Xris headed back toward the mess. He'd have Jatanski
give him orders to go into town.
 "Pardon me--Captain Kergonan?"
    Xris looked up. It was the blond captain, the one he'd
spoken to earlier at the bar. She was standifig on the
sidewalk, had probably just left the officers' mess.
 "Captain Strauss," he said, walking over.
    "Frances," she said, smiling. "But everyone calls me
Tess."

    "And I'm Xris." He smiled back. "Everyone calls
me Xris."
    "I couldn't help noticing you talking to the guards,"
she said, with a glance in the direction of the gatehouse.
"Passing the time of day with the MPs, or did you
need something?"
    "What I needed was a beer. They said I can't go off
base without written orders."
 "There's the officers' mess," Tess suggested.
 "Too many colonels," Xris replied.
    "One less colonel now," she said, smiling in under-
standing. "What with Jatanski leaving the base."
    Xris thought his augmented hearing was acting up on
him again.
    "I beg your pardon," he said. "I didn't quite catch
that. Did you say something about Jatanski leaving?"'
    "Why, yes? Didn't you know? I'm sorry. Colonel
Strebbins sent a messenger to your quarters to inform
you. I guess he didn't."
    "I didn't go back to my quarters. I took a walk to
wake up after that speech, then I checked out the lecture
hall." Xris was carefully casual. "Jatanski's left the base,
you say? Where's he gone? Into town to fight off six
thousand wild-eyed bartenders with a toothpick?"
    "No." Tess laughed. "The colonel was called away to
attend a court martial. General Hanson sent his aide, a
major named VanDerGard. He arrived in a special
spaceplane."
    An alarm went off on Xris's cybernetic arm, LED
lights flashed, a beep sounded, informing him that his
nervous system was about to go berserk. He wasn't sur-
prised. The shock had literally rocked him backward on
his feet.
    "Colonel Jatanski? My Colonel Jatanski?" Xris was
convinced she must be mistaken. "Tall, good-looking
black human ..."
    "I know Colonel Jatanski," Tess assured him. "He is
very good-looking, isn't he? But a bit arrogant for my
tastes." She was regarding Xris with concern. "Shouldn't
you do something about that?" She pointed at his arm.
The alarm was still beeping.

    Xris muttered a curse, rolled up his sleeve. Distracted
as he was over the news about Jamil, part of him was
thinking it was a damn shame that this attractive woman
would now find out he was a cyborg. He braced himself
for the look of revulsion, the struggle to remain polite,
the sudden recollection that she had to wash her hair
tonight.
    He was wearing his flesh foam and pastiskin hand.
Made from molds of his own good right hand, the fake
hand looked, reacted, even felt just like a real hand. It
was warm to the touch; had hair, veins, cuticles, and
fingernails. For a bit extra, you could add on warts. A
fleshfoam, plastiskin, and duramuscle arm went along
with the hand. Most cyborgs always wore such
"pretty" limbs.
    Not Xris. He usually made no secret of his cybernetics,
flaunted the steel and wire arm and compartmented
metal leg for all the galaxy to see, dared anyone to pity
him. Dr. Quong had informed Xris that he did this in
order to cover his own insecurity and deep-seated anger
at the fate which had turned him in to half man, half
machine. He used the blatant display of his cybernetic
limbs to repel people at the outset, rather than have to
deal with them and their reactions.
    Sure. Fine. Xris admitted this to himself, but the
knowledge didn't make it easier to see pity in a wom-
an's eyes.
    He opened the compartment, made the adjustment
that would inject the needed chemical into his blood-
stream to correct the imbalance, which was affecting his
electronics system. This done, he started to pull his
sleeve down. Tess's hand on his mechanical arm halted
him. Her touch startled him, almost into forgetting
about Jamil.
    No revulsion or pity in her eyes. They were bright
with interest.
    "How fascinating! What did you do there? Correct a
chemical imbalance? I've read about limbs with the abil-
ity to do this, but I've never seen one this sophisticated."
    "Of course not," he retorted. "Who goes around feel-
ing a guy's phony arm?"

    Tess flushed, snatched back her hand. "I'm sorry, Xris.
I wasn't thinking. Not very tactful of me, was it?" She
sighed, smile ruefully. "'Aim and Fire.' That's my nick-
name on base and it's not for my weapons proficiency.
I'm always shooting off my mouth before I think. It's
just that the study of cybernetics was my minor in col-
lege. I'm interested in the latest developments in the
field. I'm sorry if I offended you--"
    "No, no, not at all," Xris assured her. Now it was his
turn to be embarrassed. "It's my fault. I'm oversensitive.
I have to admit that, well, it's refreshing to find someone
who takes such a practical view of my . . . uh . . .
alteration."
    He finished rolling down his sleeve. "This would be
the ideal time for me to say 'I'd love to show you the
rest of my body parts' but I really should find out what
happened to Jatanski. He left the base, you say? To
attend a court-martial proceeding?"
    "Yes, I was standing at the bar when the major came
for him. Everyone heard. Some lieutenant colonel under
Jatanski's command got caught stealing government
property. You probably know him. Sorry, but I can't
remember the name. He and the colonel must have been
pretty close, because the news really caught Jatanski off
guard. He looked about as shaken as you did there, for
a moment."
    "I'11 bet he did," Xris muttered to himself. Then he
said, "He left the base?"
    "About twenty minutes ago. You're on your own to-
night, Captain."
    "On my own," Xris repeated. He was trying to shift
his brain out of neutral, where it appeared to have got-
ten stuck. Jamil ... Jatanski ... court-martial ... Gen-
eral Hanson ... Jamil gone. A major ... escorted him
off the base ... special plane ...
 None of this made a damn bit of sense!
    "Odd that Jatanski didn't tell me he was leaving,"
Xris said. "Or take me with him, for that matter."
    "He wanted to talk to you, but the major said there
wasn't time. And Jatanski couldn't very well take you
along, because you're giving the speech tomorrow."

 Xris stared. "I am? Did Jatanski say that?"
    "No, it-- Oh, here's the messenger. Now you'll have
all the answers," Tess said.
    Xris wished he could be that confident. A corporal
rounded the corner. Tess waved, shouted. The corporal
hurried over, saluted. The man was slightly out of
breath.
    "Captain! I've been looking all over for you, sir. I
have a message from Colonel Jatanski."
    The corporal delivered the message: Colonel Jatanski
had been escorted off base by a Major VanDerGard,
taken to General Hanson's flagship, King James I1, to
serve as officer in the court-martial of one Lieutenant
Colonel Katchan. Xris only half listened, spent the time
attempting to regain his composure, while trying to fig-
ure out what the hell was going on. His first thought was
that Jamil was trying to put one over on him. If so, by
God ...
    Xris abandoned that line of thinking quickly. He and
Jamil might goof off on occasion, but Jamil was far too
professional--and too mercenary--to do anything to im-
peril their high-paying job.
    "... carry on in the colonel's absence," the corporal
was saying.
 Xris started listening again.
     "That's what the captain was telling me," he said, in-
terrupting. "What are my exact orders, Corporal?"
 "You are to carry on in the colonel's absence."
 "Who issued those orders? Colonel Jatanski? Sorry
 for making such a fuss," Xris added, "but the colonel's
 a real stickler for detail. And this speech is his pet proj-
 ect. I wouldn't want to screw up."
    "He's really keen on the subject, isn't he?" Tess com-
mented. "I could see Jatanski wasn't pleased about leav-
ing. But it was General Hanson who issued your orders.
Hanson said that you were quite familiar with the sub-
ject material and were capable of handling the assign-
ment on your own. Jatanski argued some, but he didn't
get very far."
 "The general ... issued my orders ..." Xris was baf-

fled. This was getting stranger by the minute. "That I
was to handle the assignment on my own?"
    "That's true, sir," the corporal added. He held out an
envelope. "Here it is in writing."
    Xris took the disk, stared at it as if he could somehow
suck whatever message it contained right off the plastic.
    "Is there anything else for the captain, Corporal?"
Tess asked
    "Yes. ma'am. Captain Kergonan, you are to go to Col-
onel Jatanski's quarters and pack up his things. The col-
onel didn't have time."
    "Very well, Corporal, I'll do that," Xris said, and re-
membered to add, "Dismissed."
    He stood holding the computer disk. "Maybe I better
take a look at these orders now."
    "Sure thing. They have 'Sarge' machines over in the
rec hall. We're not too far from there. I'll be glad to
drive you. You have your ID card with you, don't you?"
"Of course."
    Jamil had impressed on Xris that he carry his military
ID card wherever lle went. They each had one--part of
the Mag Force 7 supply of phony IDs, fake passports,
falsified visas, and a wide variety of forged citizenship
papers, letters of transit, and birth certificates. Darlene
had entered all the necessary information into the com-
puter, provided them each with an alias and an ID card
to match.
    1D cards were the lifeblood of every soldier. Put your
card into a slot in a machine and you could issue orders,
bank your paycheck, make a phone call home, request
a transfer, award someone a medal, send a column of
tanks halfway across a continent. Due to restricted ac-
cess, certain computers on the base only handled certain
ID cards, with the exception of "Sarge."
    Sarge machines could deal with almost every aspect
of military life. So dubbed because they were big and
ugly, irascible and ill-tempered, Sarge machines ruled a
soldier's life. Frustratingly unpredictable, Sarge had been
known to spit the card in the owner's face, to return the
wrong card to the card owner (all the while maintaining
that Sarge was right and it was the owner who didn't

know himself), or simply swallow the card and refuse to
disgorge it. Sarge had been physically assaulted on more
than one occasion by frustrated victims.
    "l'm not keeping you from anything, am I?" Xris
asked Tess, on their walk to the recreation center.
    She glanced at him sidelong, smiled. "It can wait,"
she said.
    The two entered the rec hall, which was busy this time
of night~
    Tess indicated the Sarge machines. Xris pulled out his
phony ID, hesitated. These orders from the unknown
General Hanson might be some sort of trap. Put this
card in the machine and the MPs come running. But
then, why go to all that trouble? Hanson could already
have had both him and Jamil sitting behind a force field,
decked out in wrist and ankle disrupters.
    All five of the Sarge machines were in use. Xris had
to stand in line while a private on a vidphone call was
assuring his mother that he was eating right and getting
enough sleep, and yes, they'd had to shave his head, but
his hair would grow back, and no, they hadn't let him
keep a lock of it to send home. When the private fin~
ished, Xris excused himself to Tess, who walked away a
discreet distance.
    Xris swiped the card, punched in his password, and
waited, tense, nervous.
 The message came up on the screen.

Captain Kergonan,
    You are hereby ordered to carry out your assignment
as given.
    Irma Hanson, General, Commander Zetan Military
Sector, Authentication Lima- Two-Five-Niner- Tango.

    Xris typed in the authentication code. It came back, a
curt VertJied. The order was straight from General Han-
son, all right.
    Xris waited hopefully a moment, but nothing more
appeared, no clue of any sort as to what was going on,
with the single exception that the words "as ~ven" were
emphasized, were illuminated in red on the screen. He

stood staring at Sarge, wondering what the devil to do
now.
    A Major VanDerGard--unknown--an aide for Gen-
eral Hanson--also unknown--had nabbed Jamil and, in-
stead of nabbing Xris, too, the unknown general had
given written orders for Xris to carry out the job! Carry
on with the assignment as given. And that in itself was
odd. The general did not say, "Carry on with the
speech."
 Carry on with the assignment.
    That could mean nothing more than make the speech,
but Xris had the distinct impression that whoever had
gone to this much trouble hadn't done it for the sheer
pleasure of hearing him drone on about "Foreign Object
Damage to Spaceplane Engines." The assignment they
wanted him to carry out was the job he'd accepted: to
steal an antique robot.  Why?
    The why didn't matter. Because now it was a hostage
situation. They'd taken Jamil hostage in order to force
Xris to bring them some old moth-eaten 'bot in ex-
change. Who were they? People with money, power, con-
nections. Some rival archaeologist? Xris pictured
academic types dressing up in uniform, impersonating
Army majors, complete with military pilot and a stolen
military spaceplane.
    That would be a job worthy of Mag Force 7. Not the
local Space and Aeronautics Society.
    What about the Hung? That was much more likely
and the thought gave Xris a few very bad moments.
Maybe they'd taken Jamil to use as a hostage to get to
Darlene. The Hung had the money and the influence to
be able to pull something like this off, though it wasn't
like them to risk incurring the wrath of an organization
as big and powerful as the Royal Military.
  Still that theory made more sense. And if so ...
     No, by God, there was the damn robot again. What
 would the Hung want with the robot? And this General
 Hanson had said explicitly that Xris was to carry on with
 the assignment as given, which meant steal the robot.

He'd come back around full circle and he had to admit
he was rotating completely in the dark.
    The only thing he knew for sure was that someone
had Jamil. Xris had to assume that Jamil's life was there-
fore in danger, and if they wanted the robot in exchange,
Xris wasn't about to argue. It meant letting down a cus-
tomer, but the team came first. Especially--
    "Xris! Xris?" Tess's voice and the touch her hand on
his good arm jolted him out of his troubled reverie. "If
you're finished, there's someone waiting."
    Xris hadn't realized he'd been standing, doing nothing,
in front of the machine. He apologized to the lieutenant
who was next in line, turned and headed toward the
entrance.
    Steal the robot. Right. But--now that Jamil was
gone--how was Xris going to get off base without or-
ders? He supposed he'd have to risk cutting the fence.
    "You seem really upset." Tess interrupted his
thoughts. "What's the matter? It's only a speech, isn't
it?"
    Xris was making too much out of what must seem to
her a trivial incident. He shrugged, managed a weak
smile. "Stage fright. I've had it ever since I was a kid. I
passed out during show-and-tell in kindergarten."
    "I've heard that it helps if you imagine your audience
is sitting there in the nude," Tess suggested.
 "Only if you were in the front row," he said.
    "Ah." She grinned, linking her arm with his. "But
then l'd be sitting next to Colonel Strebbins."
Xris shook his head. "That's one fantasy I'll pass on."
They walked out of the rec hall. Xris was silent, preoc-
cupied, considering his options. The fence. He'd have to
use the sensol' bypass relay to isolate a section of the
fence. Such a bypass would route the electronic signals
around the fence area. The fence could be cut, and the
sensors would not register it. Ouong had developed the
device, though the doctor had warned Xris it wouldn't
work on certain types of sensing equipment. Still, the
bypass was the only way.
 Tess gave a polite cough. "Pardon me, but have we

been introduced?" She extended her hand. "My
name's Tess."
    Xris looked up, smiled. "Sorry. I guess I'm not very
good company tonight."
    "You're really shaken up over this, aren't you?" Tess
lowered her voice. "Are you still interested in going
into town?"
    "Sure," Xris answered promptly. "But I'm not al-
lowed off base without orders and my colonel's not here
to give me any. What do I do? Tunnel my way under
the fence with a teaspoon?"
    She shook her head. "Solid bedrock. It would take
you a good three years."
    "I'm too thirsty to wait three years. I'd like to buy
you a beer tonight. And not in the officers' mess."
    "You're on. It's twenty-two hundred now. I'll meet
you back here"--she looked at her watch--"in fifteen
minutes."
    Xris did some fast thinking. "Make it thirty, could
you? I noticed one of the warning lights on the exhibit
crate is flashing. It's probably nothing. Just a malfunc-
tion, but I'd like your maintenance people to check it
out first thing tomorrow. Especially since I'm the one
slated to give that damn speech. I don't want to acciden-
tally gas everyone. I'll haul the crate over to mainte-
nance, then meet you back here."  "Do you need help?"
    Xris shook his head. "No, thanks." He paused, then
added casually, "You know of some way to get us off
the base?"
  "Yes," she said, with an impish grin.
  "Am I going to enjoy it?"
    "Not particularly. But the beer'11 be worth it, I
promise."
  Xris grunted, waved his hand, and was off.
    Five minutes later, Xris left his quarters. He steered
the robot's crate on its air cushion in front of him.
Clouds had rolled in, covering the stars. On the horizon,
lightning flared; thunder rumbled. He guided the 'hot
over to the maintenance building. It was locked up tight,
his friend the sergeant off having dinner and probably a

well-deserved cigar, Xris eyeballed the distance between
the shed and fence; less than twenty-five meters.
    He positioned the crate right outside the main door,
shut it down. It settled on the ground with a thump. No
need to worry about anyone walking off with it. Not
with those biohazard warnings and the fact that the thing
weighed in at about a metric ton. He tested the remote,
just to make certain, touched a button. The crate's lights
flared. He touched another button. The crate's jets
kicked in. The crate started to rise into the air.
    Satisfied, Xris touched the first button again. The jets
shut down, the lights winked out. He looked at his
watch. 2230. He'd be a few minutes late. He started back
at a run.

    As it was, he was ahead of Tess. Xris loitered near
the rec hall, wondering if he'd been stood up, when a
staff car drove in front of him. The air from the cat's
jets washed gently over his feet and legs, stirred up small
clouds of the fine Pandoran sand which covered the
streets.
 The window slid down. Tess leaned out.
 "Hi, Captain. Need a lift?"
    She parked the staff car out of the bright lights of the
rec hall, in dark shadows between two buildings. Xris
walked over to meet her.
 "Now what?" he asked.
 In answer, she hit a button. The trunk lid flew open.
    Tess climbed out the car, walked back, pointed.
"Climb in."
 "You're kidding."
    "Climb in, Captain. That's an order. And hurry up.
Someone'11 see us."
    "Yes, ma'am." Xris squeezed his bulk into the trunk--
a tight fit. He had to lie sideways, draw his legs up al-
most beneath his chin. "I feel like l'm back in college.
How far do I have to ride like this?"
    "Six or seven hundred kilometers," Tess said, her
hand on the trunk lid. "Don't worry. I'll hire a crane to
lift you out. Not claustrophobic, are you?" She prepared
to shut the trunk.

 "You are kidding ..." Xris eyed her.
     "Sure." She grinned. "It's not far, really. Just keep
thinking about that beer. We'll drink to absent friends."
 "Make that absent colonels," Xris said.
 Tess slammed the trunk shut.
    Xris squirmed around to try to get into a more com-
fortable position, realized eventually that there was no
such thing, and gave up. He heard and felt the vibrations
of the engines, the gentle jolt as Tess drove forward.
The car stopped, presumably at the base entrance. No
use even trying to hear what was being said, what with
the noise of the engine and the whoosh of air from the
car's jets.
    Lying cramped and contorted in the dark, sweating in
the heat, with what felt like a jack or a crowbar poking
him painfully in the back of his ribs, Xris made a
decision.
    "I'll carry out this assignment as given." he said. "But
I'll be damned if anyone gets anything--including the
robot--until JamiFs back safe and sound."

Cha

12

e[

Except Thyself may be
Thine Enemy--
Captivity is Consciousness--
So's Liberty.

Emily Dickinson, "Life," No. 384, stanza 4

Xris's ride ill the trunk of the staff car was mercifully
brief, although it seemed to him that he must have
spent hours cooped up in the darkness with a wrench
poking him in the back. Tess assured him--as she helped
him out--that he'd only been in there ten minutes. He
surveyed the area. Red sand, scrub pines, some sort of
scraggy flora--he wasn't up on Pandoran horticulture.
He could see the lights of the Army base in the distance,
guessed they must be about five kilometers away.
    He drew in a deep breath, grateful to be out in the
open. The air was spiced with the fragrance of desert
plants, tinged with the smell of coming rain. The storm
clouds were closer; lightning flickered on the fringes.
    "Did you have any trouble getting through the gate?"
Xris asked, trying to rub the feeling back into his numb
right arm.
    Tess shrugged. "Why should I? I leave base all the
time. Most of the officers do. I stopped at the gatehouse,
of course, but the guards never looked at my orders, just
waved me on through. You see--"
    "Hush!" Xris cautioned. "1 hear an engine. Some.
one's coming."

    "Are you sure?" Tess regarded him quizzically. "1
don't hear anything."
    "I'm sure." He tapped his left ear. "Augmented hear-
ing. The sound's coming from behind us, the direction
of the base."
    Tess wasted no time. "Get into the car!" She hopped
into the driver's seat.
    Xris dashed around to the passenger side, jumped in.
Anticipating a wild ride, he started to strap on his seat
belt. To his astonishment, Tess shoved the seat belt to
one side. Sliding next to him on the bench seat, she
threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
    "Uh, Captain," he murnmred, not quite knowing what
to do with his hands. "This is all very enjoyable, but that
car's getting closer and--"
    "Shut up, Captain," she returned in a throaty whisper,
"and kiss me back. I know what I'm doing."
    "Yes, ma'am," Xris said meekly, and obeyed her
order to the letter.
    Headlights flared. A vehic pulled up alongside. Xris
couldn't see it, due to Tess's hair being in his eyes, but
by the sound of the engine, it was a hoverjeep. Nuke
lamps beamed in through the car window. Tess pulled
back from Xris, turned her head slightly. Xris kept care-
fully hidden in the shadows.
    Tess blinked at the bright light. "Jeez, guys, shove off,
will you? Give a girl some privacy!"
    "Sure thing, Tess. Sorry," came a female voice. "Just
wanted to make certain you weren't having car trouble."
    Another woman in the car laughed. "She probably fed
him the old line about being out of gas. You heading
out to Jake's later?"
    "Maybe," Tess answered. "Maybe not, I've got plenty
of gas! So just clear out, will you?"
    The women laughed again. The jeep whizzed off, its
jets sending up clouds of sand. "My roommates," Tess
explained, turning to Xris.
  "They didn't seemed surprised to see you here."
    "No," she admitted, snuggling back into his arms.
"The area around here is known unofficially as Lover's

Lane. My," she added, putting her hand on his chest,
"your heart's pounding. Real or artificial?"
"Artificial," Xris said, "but the hormones are real."
Tess slid her hands up around his neck. "Is that it?"
she said, teasing, "And I thought you were just nervous
about getting caught."
    He was going to make a suitable rejoinder, but found
something better to do with his lips.
     After a few highly enjoyable moments, Tess drew
back away from him, regarded him speculatively.
 "You weren't, were you, though?" she said.
 "Weren't what?" Xris asked.
    "Worried about getting caught." Tess's tone was seri-
ous, thoughtful. "Most colonel's aides I've known would
have been sweating their captain's bars. But then, you're
different from most. You're a bit too old to be a captain.
And, this may sound odd, but do you know that if I'd
just met the two of you--you and Jatanski--and you
were both out of uniform, 1 would have guessed that
you were his superior officer."
    Damn, this woman was sharp} She was peeling off
layers faster than Xris could glue them back down.
    "You nabbed me," he said. "I used to be a general.
Got busted to private for fraternizing with ... what's
your job classification?"
 "Special projects officer."
    "For fraternizing with special projects officers. I'm
working my way back up the ranks. I expect to be a
general again in about a year. When that happens, I'll
come back here and propose to you and we'll get mar-
ried and have ten kids and you can teach them all how
to shoot straight. We'll name our firstborn Jatanski."
  "You!" she said, shoving him          away.   "You're
incorrigible."
"Is that a good thing?" Xris asked.
    "Look it up," she retorted. "You must be thirsty after
that long speech." She slid across the seat, over to the
controls. "Ready to go to town, Captain?"
    "Drive on, Captain. Where are we headed, by the way?
The place your roommate said? 1 forget the name--"
 "Jake's." Tess nodded.

    The staff car whirred off, heading for the distant lights.
The two inside were both silent, enjoying the ride, en-
joying the sparks of electricity still lingering in the air,
savoring what had passed, anticipating what was to
come.
    What was to come. Yeah, Xris coldly reminded him-
self--you've got to steal that damn robot. You're here
on business, not pleasure.
  "What is Jake's? A local bar?"
  "Yes, it's on the edge of town."
    "I thought the nasty off-worlders weren't supposed to
mingle with the home folk."
    "We're not supposed to, and we don't, for the most
part," Tess said. "Jake's is different. I guess you could say
we have an arrangement. Strictly off the record, of course."
    "Of course," Xris said. "Which is why you often
smuggle men off base in the trunk of the staff car. My
guess is that you're a serial killer. You prey on innocent
male officers. Maybe that's what happened to jatanski."
    "I confess. I lured him off base, had my way with him,
then bashed him over the head with a beer bottle.
You're next, you know."
    "You may find the bottle-bashing difficult in my case.
My head's mostly steel. What do you do with the bodies?"
    "I have them stuffed," Tess said, grinning. "You'll
look great in my museum. 1'11 put you next to Jatanski."
     "No, 1 want an entire wing to myself," Xris stated.
 "'Creative Things Done with Metal.'"
     "You never let people forget, do you?" Tess glanced
 at him sidelong.
  "I can't," he said. "Why should anyone else?"
     He stared straight ahead, across the red Pandoran
 sand that shone with a faintly phosphorescent gleam.
 Beneath the cloud-dark sky, the softly glowing sand, dot-
 ted here and there with black clumps of plants, made
 for an eerie landscape. His fingers itched to take a twist
 from the case in his pocket. He tapped his hand moodily
 on the armrest.
     "You can hate me all you want, but don't dare pity
 me. Is that it?" Tess said archly.
  "Something like that." Xris settled back, faked a relaxed

pose. "Look, if you dig any deeper, you're going to strike
oil. Tell me about this bar. What arrangement do you
have? The only people who get busted are privates?"
    "You can't brush me off that easily," Tess said, shak-
ing her head. Her blond hair fell over her shoulders.
Her hands on the staff car's steering controls were sup-
ple, capable. She filled out her uniform well--the latest
fashion would have said too well, but her ample figure
was toned, firmly muscled. Laughter and intelligence
made her features attractive. "I can't hate you and I
refuse to pity you, so where does that leave me?"
    "I don't know, Captain," Xris said, smiling in spite of
himself. "Where does that leave you?"
    "Liking you," said Tess softly. "Liking you very much.
Now," she added, tossing her head, flipping the blond
hair back, "what do you want to know about Jake's? It
calls itself a bar. I suppose most people would call it a
dive, It's run by a Pandoran who likes money more than
he hates off-worlders. The beer's cold and the whiskey's
okay and the place isn't raided oftener than once a quar-
ter. The restrooms are filthy--at least the women's is, I
wouldn't know about the men's. Every so often we girls
get sick of it and go in and clean it up. Anyone who can
get off base--legitimately or otherwise--goes to Jake's.
And that's about it."
 "Does the colonel know?"
    "Sure he does. Like I said, the bar gets raided three
or four times a year. They shut the place down. The
locals write editorials. Strebbins gives us a lecture. We
go thirsty for about two weeks. Then Jake's is back in
business and life goes on."
 "I'm surprised Strebbins puts up with it."
    "You wouldn't be, if you lived here," Tess said, her
tone serious. "Duty on Pandor is the pits, a real morale-
buster. We're confined to this base. never allowed off it,
except when we've built up enough leave time to be able
to fly to some more hospitable planet. I have leave com-
ing up in a month. Got any suggestions?"
    She looked over at him. It was his cue to say that he
had leave coming up in about a month, too, and that he
knew a planet where the water was blue and so was the

moon and they could admire them both together. It
would be easy enough. He could drag Captain Kergonan
out of the closet every few months, have himself a good
time. Hell, he was due.
    Xris said nothing, stared out the window at the flar-
ing lightning.
    You're a fool, he told himself. This attractive, vibrant
woman actually thinks you're something special. She's
made it plain that she doesn't mind hearing your insides
whir and hum while you're making love. Jamil's got two
wives on two different planets, for God's sake. Tess's a
career soldier. She knows it's not going to be anything
serious ....
 "I've got a wife," Xris said.
    "Ah, well, that's different," Tess said quietly, with a
half smile, a shrug.
    Xris nodded. He was watching the storm, watching the
lightning flash and spread in sheets over the bottoms of
the clouds. A few drops were starting to splatter on the
windshield. He'd meant to use that as an excuse, a way
to get them both off the hook. It hadn't quite come
out right.
    "It doesn't have to be different," he said. "But it is.
We've been married a long time. Since before the ...
accident. I should have died. I was left to die. Marjorie
was the one who made the decision to turn me into half
man, half can. She couldn't let go. And then, when 1
came home ..."
    Xris stopped talking. He'd give his life for a smoke
about now.
"When you came home?" Tess prompted gently.
Xris shrugged. "I should have expected it. She realized
that she couldn't live with a husband who had to have
an oil change and a lube job every ten thousand
kilometers."
    "Xris, l'm sorry," Tess said. They had reached Jake's
Bar, or so the glaring neon sign informed them. She
parked the staff car in the shadow of an adjacent build-
ing, shut off the engine. She turned to face him. "You'd
rather be hated than pitied. I guess I understand now."
  "She gave me one look," he said. "That's all it was.

But it was enough. I turned around and walked out and
I've never been back. That was ten years ago or
thereabouts."
    "You haven't seen your wife in ten years?" Tess
was amazed.
    "I've seen her," Xris said. His hand went to his
pocket.
    "For God's sake," Tess said, laughing, "if you've got
'em, smoke 'em! You're making me nervous, diving for
your pocket like that all the time."
    Xris hesitated, then reached into his pocket. He drew
out the gold cigarette case, took out a twist, put it into
his mouth. There was a lighter in the staff car (so much
for regulations). He drew in the smoke gladly. "I've seen
her," he repeated.
    He had seen his wife just about a year ago. He'd res-
cued her from a Corasian meat locker--a terrible prison
in which the aliens kept their victims until they were
needed for food. Marjorie had looked at him a lot differ-
ently then. She'd been grateful. Very, very grateful.
Gratitude was the reason why, on the trip back, she'd
told him she still loved him. Told him that she had al-
ways loved him ....
    Xris opened the window, tossed what remained of the
smoldering twist out, closed the window again. He
reached over, took hold of Tess, pulled her close. She
hesitated just a moment, not to make it look good, but
studying him intently. Then she slid into his arms and
they got to know each other a little better.
 "Now I ant thirsty," she said, drawing away.
    "We better go in before the storm breaks," he said
in agreement.
    She tilted her face for one more kiss. then they
climbed out of the car and walked--arm in arm--to
the bar.
    As they drew closer to the bar, Xris reconnoitered.
Jake's was nothing special. A dilapidated, run-down
building made of the Pandoran stone that must be used
to build everything on this planet. It was large, two-
story--the owner probably lived on top--and was lo-
cated outside of town, probably not even in the city lim-

its. Windows ran the length of the front and the sides,
showing those outside what a good time everyone was
having inside. He could see people dancing.
    As he stood in the road, the bar was on his left.
Straight ahead was the construction site. He could prob-
ably follow the same road to reach it. He could see the
green lights of the force field surrounding the downed
spaceplane containing the robot easily from this distance,
calculated that it was probably about two kilometers
away.
    He would welcome the exercise, a nice jog. Too bad
it was raining. He'd have to come up with some excuse
to ditch Tess. It could be done, but it wouldn't be pleas-
ant. She'd be hurt and angry, figure he was a jerk, a cad.
    That's what you want, isn't it? he asked himself. Bet-
ter to be hated ...
    "They're planning a new shopping mall there. First
they're going to build a wall three meters high to sepa-
rate us," Tess informed him, noting his unusual interest
in the construction site.
  "Yeah," he said, "so I heard."
    "That's what they were going to do. But now it's
turned into--of all things--an archaeological dig. You
see that green glow? They found an ancient
spaceplane--"
    "Let's go get that beer, shall we'?" Xris said, rudely
cutting her off. He started walking toward the bar. He
was sorry--damn sorry--he'd gotten her involved.
    "Sure," Tess replied, giving him a puzzled glance. She
pulled her arm away from his and he didn't make an
effort to get it back.
    The rain spit and spattered, the storm was still some
distance away. The thunder rumbled over the ground.
They walked the rest of the way to the bar in silence.
Xris opened the door, Tess walked past him into an
entryway. Raincoats hung on pegs, umbrellas stood in a
stand, hats lined a shelf. A newsvid machine--broken--
stood in one corner, along with a bubble gum machine.
It, too, appeared to be broken. Through the glass win-
dow in a second door, Xris could see the bar. It was
packed with people, most of them in uniform, laughing,

dancing, having a good time. He reached for the inner
door. Tess blocked his way.
    "Look, Xris," she said coolly, "don't think you're obli-
gated to go through with this. We can just call it a night
and drive back to the base, if that's what you want."
    No, that wouldn't work at all. He still had to get that
damned robot. And he didn't want the evening to end,
not yet.
    A couple, giggling and kissing, staggered out of the
bar. The entryway was small, and the coats, the vid ma-
chine, and more people made it smaller. Xris and Tess
were forced back against the wet coats on the wall to
let the other couple pass. On his way by, the soldier
stumbled into Tess. She fell against Xris.
    Xris caught hold of her, steadied her. Tess tried to
pull away, but he didn't let go. The other couple lurched
out the door. It slammed shut behind them. Xris still
didn't let go.
 "You said you studied cyborgs," he said to Tess.
 "Yes," she replied.
 "The psychology as well as the physiology?"
    "Some, not much," she admitted. "Xris, if I said any-
thing--"
    "No, you didn't." He drew in a deep breath. "You've
been great. And that's the problem. If you've studied
cyborgs, you know that it's difficult for people to relate
to us in any sort of romantic way. When most women
hear my arm start beeping, they don't ask me if I'm
suffering from a chemical imbalance. They usually just
turn pale and walk off."
    Tess was smiling at him. She pressed closer, took hold
of his hand---his "bad" hand, his phony hand.
    "I'm going to leave base tomorrow," Xris continued,
"and maybe we'll see each other again and maybe we
won't. Let's not look past tonight. All right?"
    To his surprise, she didn't badger or tease or argue.
She was grave, thoughtful.
 "I understand," she said.
 And Xris had the odd feeling that she really did.

CHnPI[R
       13

Thus it is said that one who knows the enemy and
knows himself will not be endangered in a
hundred engagements.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

The Pandoran stout was as good as its reputation. Xris
regretted he couldn't enjoy it to its fullest, but he had
work to do that night and needed a clear head. He
sipped slowly at his, explained--when Tess asked him if
he wanted another--that the delicate chemical balance
of his body didn't deal well with alcohol.
    Tess's roommates spotted them, came over to take a
good look at Xris, exchange a few bantering remarks
with Tess, then left to return to the dance floor.
    Xris and Tess sat side by side in a high-backed
wooden booth next to a window. They had to sit practi-
cally chin to chin to hear each other over the roar of
the music, which was provided by a couple of soldiers
on portable synthesizers. The soldiers had more enthusi-
asm than talent, but they knew enough to lay down a
steady, thumping beat, which was all the dancers wanted.
Xris and Tess shouted companionably at each other, en-
joying the stout and the company.
    Xris's earlier half-formed plan of ditching Tess to flirt
with another woman--maybe one of her own room-
mates--was out. Tess would know it was an act, she
wouldn't believe it for an instant. And, Xris had to admit
to himself, he just wasn't the type. Women weren't ex-

actly doing nosedives over the bar to get close to him.
He had about decided that the best policy was honesty--
perhaps not complete honesty, but as honest as he could
be. He would simply tell her to drive back to the base
without him. He wanted to be alone, to do some think-
ing. Maybe he wanted to be alone to rehearse his speech.
That was it. Rehearse his speech.
    "Want another?" Tess asked, indicating his empty
glass.
  "No, but you go ahead. I'll get it."
"That's all right. I need to stand up for a while."
Tess joined the line at the crowded bar, waiting to
place her order for another glass of stout. Xris glanced
at his watch. 0100. The rain had quit, but, judging by
the flashes of the lightning on the horizon, the storm
had been the first in a long series. If he was going to
make his move, he needed to make it soon. He stood
up, started to go over to Tess, to feed her his line, when
something large crashed into the door with a thud that
was audible even over the raucous music.
    A soldier, seated at a table near the front windows,
sprang to his feet.
 "Raid!" he bellowed.
The Pandoran police smashed through the front door.
People scattered every conceivable direction. Xris
looked at Tess. She turned to look at him. Flailing, push-
ing, and shoving bodies churned between them. Xris's
instinct was to fight his way to Tess's side. His second
thought was more rational. This is it, fool! This is your
chance! Still, he might have ignored the rational, gone
for the instinctual, if Tess hadn't made the decision for
him. She pointed urgently behind him, directing him to
the windows.
 "What about you?" he mouthed.
    She jerked her thumb in the direction of the women's
restroom and, in the same motion, turned and ran that
way. Xris hesitated one more instant, saw Tess's two
roommates making a dash for the lady's room, as well.
    Xris lost sight of her then. A large Pandoran cop
loomed in front of him, yelling something unintelligible
and swinging a nightstick at Xris's head. Xris caught the

nightstick in his cybernetic hand, squeezed. The night-
stick crumbled into small particles. The cop stared, open-
mouthed, then backed away.
    Xris wasted no more time. He smashed into one table,
leaped onto another, aimed a kick at the window with
his steel leg. Glass exploded outward. Xris dove through,
headlong. Two more soldiers were right behind him, and
more were coming after them.
    Xris landed heavily on one shoulder, rolled across
concrete, bumped against a curb. He picked himself up,
brushed off the broken glass, and took a quick look
around.
    The Pandoran police, in unmarked squad cars, had the
front covered. More were arriving, lights flaring and si-
rens wailing. A large van--presumably to be used to
haul away the unfortunates who got caught--drifted
ponderously down from the sky.
    Tess's staff car was fenced in, fore and aft, by two
Pandoran cop cars. If she managed to escape, she'd be
traveling back to the base on foot,
    Xris fretted over this, reminded himself that she knew
the territory. She was quite capable of taking care of
herself. Still, he hazarded a few more seconds he
couldn't afford, hoping to catch sight of her. That proved
useless. Bodies were diving through the windows. Fights
had broken out. The Pandoran police surged through
the parking lot, attempting to cordon off the back of the
building. Xris didn't dare wait any longer. He ran.
     His running style was clumsy, awkward. His physical
 side seemed always to be in competition with his me-
 chanical side, giving him a peculiar, swing-legged, lop-
 sided gait. But he could move fast and most of him
 didn't tire. The parts that did grow weary or started to
 hurt or cramp he ignored.
     He found the road leading to the construction site~
 discovered that it was also, unfortunately, the main route
 the cops were taking to reach the bar. Headlights caught
 him. He made a mad dash to a culvert on the other side.
 Someone shouted, and one car swerved to try to catch
 him, but he put on some speed, headed straight into the
 desert. The cops gave up the case, went after easier prey.

    Xris loped through the desert, slogging over the shin-
ing Pandoran sand that had now--after the rain--turned
into mud. A particularly clinging, sticky mud that caked
on his boots and made running difficult.
    He kept to the desert until the cop cars and the lights
of the bar and the sound of shouting and swearing were
behind him. The city proper was off to his left. The lights
of the construction site shone ahead of him. The base
lights were to his right. This part of the road was de-
serted since it went essentially nowhere. The pavement
ended in ruts left by the heavy dirt-moving equipment.
    More mud, and puddles of water. Xris had to stop
every half a kilometer to clean the gunk off his boots,
which had become so caked with the gooey gray muck
that they were slowing him down.
    Lightning flared. Thunder crashed. The next storm in
line chose this moment to dump on him. Rain slashed
down in torrents, typical of desert storms. He was
soaked to the skin in seconds. This did nothing to im-
prove his spirits, which were as dark, gloomy, and thun-
derous as the weather.
    He hoped Tess had escaped the police. He felt rotten
enough about using her as it was. If she was caught in
a raid, ended up in a Pandoran prison cell, she'd proba-
bly be a private in the morning. He tried to sell himself
on the fact that she would have gone to Jake's with her
roommates anyway, but he wasn't buying it. If anything
happened to her, it would be his fault.
 And there was tomorrow to look forward to.
    He'd say good-bye to her. They'd exchange a few
wisecracks. He'd promise to vidphone--a promise that
he would never keep. He couldn't tell her the truth.
She'd assume then that he had only been using her to
get off base and she'd assume right. When you peeled
back the layers, the ugly truth was there, like the ugly
mechanics in his arm. All the foamflesh and plastiskin
in the galaxy couldn't hide it. Far better to cut the arm
off clean, never see her again. He might spare her some
pain. She'd be left with the memory of a few laughs, a
few kisses, a pleasant evening.
 At least, Xris hoped, that was how Tess felt about

their time together. As to his feelings, he continued to
pummel himself mentally all the way along the road.
This blasted job. It had come wrapped in brown paper,
looked so plain and simple on the outside, and when he
started to cut the tape, it had blown up in his face. For a
single plastic credit, he'd call the job off, return Sakuta's
money, let the Pandorans keep the antique robot. It was
theirs, by rights.
    Unfortunately, Xris couldn't do that now. He had his
orders. And someone had Jamil.
    He stopped running, bent down once again to clean
the mud off his boots and--now that he was alone--to
equip himself for the job ahead.
    Xris detached his fleshfoam hand, replaced it with his
working hand. His fingers were now tools: drill, cutting
torch, screwdriver. The hand that had appeared ordinary
had suddenly become something monstrous. Tess
wouldn't be so eager to jump into his arms if this steel
hand was attached.
    Sure, he could always take off that working hand, re-
place it with the fleshfoam hand, replace the steel with
Captain Kergonan.
  But he wasn't Captain Kergonan.
     This hand would always be steel, cold, without life,
 designed to do a job.
  That was all it was good for.
  All he was good for.
  Xris began to run again.

CHflPIER
       14

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming
 nights. , .

              John Keats, "This Living Hand"

Xris jogged along the road until he reached the rusty
barbed-wire and wooden plank barricade that had
been erected to protect the construction site. A security
light illuminated the gate, probably for the benefit of the
night watchman. Xris saw no hut, however, no lights
behind the gate. The guard was probably inside the area,
closer to the heavy equipment, the building materials.
Xris glanced behind. He could still see, off in the dis-
tance, the flashing lights of the police cars. He could
hear the wail of sirens.
    Xris leaned down, picked up a good-sized rock, and
heaved it at the light. He missed. He tried another. The
third time, glass shattered. The light went out.
    Crude, but effective. Anyone discovering the broken
bulb would probably put it down to vandals. Now that
every movement was no longer in the spotlight, he
walked over to the gate, studied the padlock. It was a
cheap hardware store lock with a dial on the front. With
his mechanical hand, he gave it a healthy yank. The lock
popped open.
 He entered the construction site, paused to look and

listen. The workers were still in the digging stages; no
one had started building anything yet, though the metal
forms into which they'd pour the concrete for the foun-
dation were stacked in long rows. He could now see,
some distance away, a small shed with a light in it, and
figm:ed he'd found the night watchman. Would the
watchman be making routine inspections of the site?
Doubtful, considering the rain, but Xris was prepared for
that eventuality. He had a tranquilizer dart positioned in
the projectile firing digit of his tool hand. He checked
to make certain all his systems were functioning prop-
erly, then set off at a lope for the crash site.
    It only took him about five minutes of running to
reach it. He saw no one on the way and trusted that no
one had seen him. The rain continued to pour down; his
clothes were soaked, the night air was chill. He'd slipped
and fallen once, done no damage.
    Arriving at the crash site, Xris stopped to catch his
breath, clean the mud from his tool hand, and inspect
the downed spaceplane.
    The force field had one advantage: It lit the place
bright as day.
    The old spaceplane was only partially dug out. The
Pandorans had found enough to determine what the
plane was and then had called a halt to the project,
fearful--according to Sakuta--of contamination. The
spaceplane had apparently plunged nose-first into the
ground, probably long before anyone had come to colo-
nize this planet. Since then, the shifting desert sands had
washed over it, buried it, obliterated all trace of its
existence.
     Xris studied what he could see of the plane. Sakuta
 had provided him with old photographs and vid footage
 of this particular type of craft, known as a Pelican light
 utility plane, which had been mainly used for long-haul,
 light cargo loads. It had also proved excellent for un-
 manned exploratory missions.
     According to Sakuta, in the early days of human space
 colonization, robots like the one Xris was supposed to
 retrieve had been sent out to various sectors of the gal-

 axy to do mapping and surveying, searching for planets
 that would be suitable for human habitation.
     Crashes were relatively commonplace; the robot-
 controlled planes would venture too near a system, get
 caught in its gravitational pull, and, being unable to
 break free, would be pulled down to the surface. The
 shielding on the old planes was highly inadequate. Most
 failed to survive the entry through the atmosphere and
 burned up, which was why finding one in such well-
 preserved condition was extremely rare.
    Xris surveyed the angle of entry into the ground, as-
sessed the amount of damage to the portion of the
spaceplane that he could see, and calculated that the
crash had been a controlled one. Whoever had piloted
this craft had stayed with it all the way, must have used
every bit of ingenuity and skill possible to land this plane
and keep it in one piece. This didn't exactly fit in with
Sakuta's description of these robots as plodding, noncre-
ative space-traveling dummies who did what they were
told, but no more. Such a 'hot would have accepted the
inevitable, plunged to its death without a struggle. Who-
ever piloted this plane had fought hard to survive--al-
most as if it had been human.
    Xris considered the point as being of mild interest,
but nothing more. There were various explanations--
perhaps a human had been aboard, for one reason or
another. Maybe the Pandorans had discovered skeletal
remains. That might be why they thought the plane
could be contaminated. Not logical--if there had been
any germs or viruses on that plane, they would have all
died centuries ago. But then any government that would
go to the expense of building a wall to shield a shopping
mall from off-worlders didn't score high marks on logic.
    Xris glanced over the spaceplane--what he could see
of it that wasn't buried in the gray dirt. The fuselage
stuck out of the ground at a shallow angle, with the tail
and thrusters pointing at the sky. The wings were gone,
probably sheered off in the crash. The nose was mostly
buried, as was the forward cargo area. The only access
was through the top emergency hatch. No windows were
visible. He couldn't get a look inside.

    According to Sakuta's colleague, the hatch controls
were not working. The hatch itself had been discovered
partially opened; it had probably sprung open during the
crash-landing. The Pandoran government had ordered
the hatch sealed shut, in order to keep any stray viruses
from sneaking out into the atmosphere. The seal was a
standard restraining bolt; shouldn't present any prob-
lems. Xris's main concern was getting past the force
field. He walked over to inspect the machine being used
to project the field.
    The device was one of the latest designs for portable
force field projection. The field it generated not only
repelled physical objects, but redirected energy that it
encountered. The machine itself was made of tempered
durasteel, was smooth-sided, no controls on the outside,
except for one and that was an alarm. Touch that box
and the whole planet would know he was here.
    Xris was, for the moment, confounded. He studied the
force field device and it occurred to him that it must be
sucking down one hell of a lot of electricity.
    Xris walked around to the other side of the device,
found what he was looking for, shook his head. He could
use his tool hand, but why bother? Keep the impression
of vandals. A pile of steel bars stood to one side, ready
to be used for reinforcing rods in concrete. Xris picked
up one, balanced it on its end, and directed its fall--
straight onto the portable generator. The top of the gen-
erator caved in, sparks flew, and then all went dark.
    So much for the force field, which might have kept
out a troop of Cub Scouts.
     "Once I finish this job, I think I'll offer the Pandorans
 my services," Xris muttered. "Someone needs to teach
 them a few things about security."
     He walked unimpeded over to the hatch, inspected
 the restraining bolt. A flick of his wrist and the bolt
 came off in his hand. Xris paused again to listen, look
 around. The rain was letting up; the night watchman
 might decide to make his rounds. Xris heard nothing,
 saw nothing. Switching on a hand-held nuke lamp, he
 crawled inside the downed plane.
  The storm had passed. The lightning and thunder had

moved on, rumbled far away in the distance, and could
not be heard inside the spaceplane. A light rain fell.
Drops splatted against the plane's hull, but that was the
only sound and Xris couldn't even hear that as he moved
deeper into the plane's interior, searching for the robot.
The silence was thick and old, dry and oppressive.
    Xris flashed the light around the dusty and cobwebbed
control panels, with their ancient and archaic instru-
ments. The leather on the seats for pilot and copilot was
cracked, split. Bits of stuffing mixed with rodent dung
lay scattered all over the deck. No robot here. And why
seats for pilots? If this ship was robot-controlled, seats
shouldn't be necessary.
    Xris gave a mental shrug. Sakuta would probably
spend years researching that one. The cyborg flashed the
light to the other side of the plane, played it over more
instruments, metal storage containers, dangling ropes of
electrical wire, the smashed front viewscreen. Parts of
the control panel were blackened, covered with soot.
    Xris crossed the deck, bent down over the damaged
panels, rubbed off the dust to take a closer look. He
smiled at the crudeness of the instruments--kids' toys
were using more sophisticated hardware these days. That
wasn't what he found interesting. Damage like this might
have been done on entry. But it was far more consistent
with damage done in battle.
    Xris wished Harry were here. An expert pilot, Harry
would have recognized the signs, been able to confirm
Xris's suspicions. Too bad most of the spaceplane was
buried under half a hill. Xris would have been interested
to see if he could find evidence of damaged shields, car-
bon scoring along the sides, all of which would go to
prove his theory.
    This plane hadn't been sucked into the atmosphere.
This plane had been deliberately shot down.
    Why? Why shoot down a harmless mapping and sur-
veying, robot-controlled spacecraft? And who had fired
on it? If he remembered clearly his Earth history, this
had been a period of peace.
    "'Curloser and curiouser,' as Raoul would say," Xris
said aloud, and it was good to hear a living voice. The

silence and the dust and his speculations were all starting
to act on his nerves. Despite the fact that he couldn't
see any bodies, he felt as if he were violating the sanctity
of a tomb.
    Which was nonsense. No skeletons in flight suits sat
in the pilots' chairs. No one had died in this crash. It
was a robot-controlled craft, remember? Xris left the
control panel, continued his search for the robot.
    No sign of it. He was heading deeper into the plane's
interior, back into what would be the cargo portion of
the spaceplane, when his weight and movement caused the
unstable craft to shift, settle. The door to one of the
metal storage compartments came unlatched, swung
slowly open.
    Eyes, caught in the beam of his light, stared out at
Xris from inside the compartment.
    Childhood memories of ghost stories of pharohs'
tombs, wild thoughts of dead people come to life leaped
from his subconscious and ambushed him. Xris had
heard of being paralyzed with shock and now he experi-
enced it. Lights flashed on his arm, alarms went off. One
more jolt like that and he'd have to go in for a complete
overhaul. He drew in a deep, shivering breath, let it out
in a curse.
 The eyes belonged to the robot, of course.
    Xris focused the light beam directly on the 'bot, stud-
ied it, waited for his heartbeat to return to normal, and
wondered if it was racial memory that caused him to
feel the grip of cold, bandaged mummy hands closing
around his throat.
  Examining the robot, Xris let himself off the hook.
  "No wonder you scared the hell out of me."
    The 'bot had eyes, real eyes--or rather, eyes whimsi-
cally designed to resemble human eyes, with white eye-
balls, blue irises, and black pupils. Sakuta hadn't
mentioned anything in his description about eyes, and
Xris wondered if the eyes worked or if they had been
built in for show. Nothing else about the robot was the
least bit human--nothing except those staring, unblink-
ing, and unaccountably sad eyes.
  The robot itself reminded Xris of a gigantic jellyfish.

Its head was saucer-shaped, made of metal, about a
meter in diameter. A blue light flashed intermittently on
the top. The eyes were located in what Xris presumed
to be the front. The rest of the head was covered with
instruments and small antennae, projecting outward at
odd angles.
    Dangling down from the head were at least twenty--
by quick count--reticulated arms. These arms were of
varied length. Each arm ended in a "hand." Each
"hand" was different, each obviously designed to per-
form different functions aboard the spaceplane.
    The robot huddled in a heap on the closet floor, its
arms all akimbo, and gazed at him with its sad eyes.
Xris had the strangest impression that the 'bot had been
frightened by the crash, had run into the closet to hide.
    "Watch it," Xris cautioned himself in disgust. "Next
you'!! be giving it a name!"
    He took off his tool hand, replaced it with a large
clamp, providing himself with a grip that was--literally--
a vice. He reached into the closet, took hold of the 'bot
beneath the head, and tried to lift it. He managed to
drag it about five centimeters before he was forced to
admit defeat and let it fall back to the deck.
    "Damn!" He grunted, straightening and massaging
his back.
    The 'bot must weigh in at about half a metric ton.
Sakuta hadn't mentioned this little fact, either.
    Xris considered making adjustments to the load-beating
portion of his cybernetic arm, but doubted that would
help him much. The arm's designers had not intended
him to go around hefting small trucks. He'd have to go
out, retrieve the crate, and bring the crate to the robot,
instead of the other way around.
 All of which would take up more time--
    "Central," came a voice, barely heard. "This is Mike.
That blasted generator's shut down again."
    Xris switched off the nuke lamp, froze where he stood.
He could have sworn, in the last seconds before he
turned off the light, that the robot's eyes had widened
in alarm. He slid into the closet next to the 'bot, closed
the door behind him all but a crack, and readied the

tranquilizer dart. The watchman was speaking Pandor,
presumably. Xris had activated his built-in translator
while he was in the bar and now he heard pretty much
what he might have expected to heal'.
    "Must have been the storm. Steel bar blew over,
bashed in the generator," the voice was continuing.
"Guess you better send out the repair crews. No, morn-
ing'll be fine. It's darker'n the inside of a cow's belly
around here."
    A pause in the conversation, then, "Yeah, 1'11 look the
place over. I'm not goin' near that plane, though. I ain't
gonna risk catchin' some alien disease. Plus I got to
make the rest of my rounds. Mike out."
    Xris smiled to himself. He shifted position slightly, to
get better leverage in case he needed to leave the
cramped confines of the closet in a hurry. Moving his
shoulders, he .jostled the robot. Something went snick.
    Lights began to glow in the robot's interior. It started
to hum.
    Xris cursed Sakuta long and bitterly. The professor
had assured Xris that the robot would not be in working
condition. Its systems must have failed long ago, cor-
roded over time. It was just Xris's luck on this blasted
job that the closet had kept the robot in a hermetically
sealed environment, the low humidity of the desert had
prevented the 'bot from rusting.
    Xris glared at the thing, wondered if he should try to
shut it down, though he had no idea how it worked, or
let it be and hope like hell it wasn't equipped with bells,
whistles, wouldn't start singing "God Save the King."
    For the moment, the robot was quiet, except for that
low hum. Its systems were warming up, apparently, for
its interior lights, which Xris could see reflected off the
metal arms, were growing brighter. And, of course, its
manic designer had put lights in the eyeballs. The eyes
began to shine with a luminescent luster, rather like a
girl attending her first prom. The 'bot's arms twitched.
    Xris listened to the footsteps of the night watchman
crunch through the wet sand. The man was walking

 around the crash site's perimeter. The rain would have
 washed away any tracks Xris had made. He tormented
 himself by wondering if he'd left the hatch open, when
 he knew perfectly well that he'd shut it.  The footsteps came to a sudden halt.
 Xris swore silently. He knew what was coming.
 "Central, Mike again." The voice was tense. "The re-
 straining bolt's been removed. Send someone out right
 away. Hell, don't worry about me. I ain't bein' paid
 enough to be a hero. Mike out."
     Xris heard the footsteps, heard the screech of the
 hatch being tentatively lifted. Light stabbed inside.
     "Hey! Anyone in there?" the watchman called ner-
 vously, adding in firmer tones, "I got a gun."
    "Mrp," said the robot. The humming sound was re-
placed by the distinctive whoosh of air jets.
    "Hey! Halt! Stop!" Xris hissed at the 'bot, hoping it
would respond to verbal commands.
    Apparently it didn't. Either that or it didn't under-
stand the language.
    The robot clanged and clattered its metal body parts
against the side of the metal closet. One of its arms
shoved on the closet door, opened it. Eyes glowing, the
robot rose into the air, started to float out the door.
    Xris made a grab for one of the reticulated arms with
his vice-grip hand, intending to hang on to it, keep the
'bot inside the closet.
    The arm detached, came off in his grasp. Remaining
nineteen arms dangling beneath it, the 'bot drifted across
the deck of the spaceplane, heading for the hatch. Xris
stood clutching the robot's arm, felt an absolute fool.
    "Come on out," the watchman was saying. His voice
cracked. He cleared his throat. "I got a big gun."
    And he probably had his shaky finger on the trigger.
Xris had no idea how to stop the 'bot, but at least he
might stop this blaster-happy watchdog from turning the
robot into scrap metal. Xris activated the sleep dart in
his metal hand and chased after the robot.
    As he exited the closet, the metal door banged against
the bulkhead. He stumbled over wires and crates that
he couldn't see in the dark, his feet thudded against the

metal deck plating. With his crashing and the robot's
whooshing, they were making enough noise for an
army--a thought that must have occurred to the
watchman.
    "Come out with your hands up! You hear? I got a
gun!" The watchman's voice shook.
    The robot, humanlike eyes glowing, arms wiggling,
floated out the hatch.
    Xris heard a gasp, a high-pitched shriek, then the
sound of feet scrabbling in wet sand.
    He reached the hatchway in time to see the watchman
disappearing into the darkness. Remembering his own
feelings on encountering the robot with the strange eyes
in this tomblike spaceplane, Xris felt a certain sympathy
for the man.
    Xris could have felled him with the sleep dart easily,
but decided against it. If the watchman didn't report
back, this was the first place security would come search-
ing for him. As it was, security would find Mike running
through the desert as if ghouls were after him. They'd
have to stop to listen to his ghost story first. And that
might take them a while.
    "Minx-not," said the robot, gazing after the watchman
with its unblinking eyes. It sounded extremely puzzled.
    Xris took a moment to determine his next move. He
had a lot of things to do and very little time in which to
do them. He had to get the robot away from the crash
site, safely stowed in its crate, and the crate back on the
base, and he had to do all of that in--he figured--the
next ten minutes.
     The 'bot shifted its gaze back to him, was looking at
 him expectantly. Green lights flashed on its head. The
 pupils of the human eyes opened wide, as if absorbing
 him. A tiny beep sounded in Xris's ear--a warning that
 he was being scanned. Xris held still, hoped the robot
 wasn't going to take long in its investigation.
     It didn't. The light shut off, the eyes returned to nor-
 mal. It had learned something about him, apparently.
 Xris reciprocated. He studied the 'bot.
     Considering how much the thing weighed, the fact that
 it was up and moving was a distinct advantage. If he

 could persuade it to accompany him, his problems would
 be solved. He wondered what the 'bot was thinking, if
 anything. It appeared to be extremely intelligent, but
 that may have just been the impression given by the
 humanlike eyes. Xris was about to reach out his hand,
 to see if he could give the robot a gentle shove in the
 right direction, when it spoke again.
    Its voice was a recording of a human voice, but there
was no doubt it was a machine speaking; the words
lacked all inflection or emotion. It rattled off what may
have been three sentences, since it paused at certain in-
tervals, then it fell silent. The human eyes were solemn,
grave, and, again, expectant. It appeared to be waiting
for him to do or say something in return.
    Which was going to be difficult. He hadn't understood
a single word. His translator was able to translate a few
hundred thousand languages, but not, apparently, this
one.
    "Sorry," Xris said shortly. "I don't understand. Now
here's what we're going to do."
    He raised his hands to indicate he meant no harm.
Moving slowly, as if approaching a fearful child, he ex-
tended one hand, his flesh-and-blood hand, and kept
talking. If he couldn't understand the 'bot, it wouldn't
be able to understand him, but it might pick up from
his tone that he wasn't threatening.
    "Don't be frightened. I got a job to do. You and I--"
Xris stopped talking.
    The blue light had begun flashing again on the robot's
head. The light stopped when he stopped talking and he
halted all motion. He waited tensely a moment, but he
didn't dare wait long.
 "We're just going to take a little walk."
    The blue light began to flash again. Xris experimented,
watched the light. Sure enough, the light's flashes were
pulsing in time to his voice. When he quit talking, the
light quit flashing. It was probably recording his voice.
He'd have to remember that. He had a few choice com-
ments to leave with it, remarks the 'bot could relay to
Professor Sakuta. Xris again extended his hand toward
the robot.

 The 'bot extended one of its hands to him.
    Xris gingerly touched the metal hand, which had two
jointed "fingers" and a "thumb" and had undoubtedly
been designed to perform tasks a human hand could
perform. Xris gave the hand a gentle tug, hoped like hell
it wouldn't come off.
    "Follow me," he said experimentally, watching the
light, which pulsed three times, for the three syllables.
"This way."
    The 'bot's hand did not come off this time. Xris gave
the 'bot a gentle tug, motioned with his other hand that
they were going outside the hatch, indicated that they
were leaving the spaceplane.
    The robot obeyed, floated silently after Xris. It even
switched on a beam of bright light to illuminate the way.
Xris had his doubts about the light, which could proba-
bly be seen on Pandor's moon, but he had no idea how
to shut it off and no way to command the 'bot to do so.
He increased his speed. The 'bot kept up with him.
    They reached the fence. Xris could hear the sounds
of some sort of heavy-duty vehicle approaching, but it
was heading for the crash site and he was a good two
kilometers away from the site by then. From this posi-
tion, he could see the back end of the maintenance
building. He fumbled for the crate's remote, switched it
on, waited tensely.
    At first, nothing happened. He was just thinking up
some truly unique and imaginative swear words--words
he intended to make certain the robot recorded--when
he saw the crate float out from around the corner of the
maintenance building, drift slowly down the alley toward
the fence.
    The thing had only one speed, and that was glacial.
Nothing he could do to hurry it. Xris kept one eye on
the 'bot, kept his ears tuned. He heard voices now. They
sounded excited. They were too far away for his transla-
tor to pick up, and so he had no idea what they were
saying. He could guess, however. He mentally urged the
crate to move faster.
     At last the crate reached the fence. Xris touched an-
 other button on the remote. The crate's jets fired. It

 soared up and over the barbed wire effortlessly, settled
 down on the ground right in front of him. He opened
 the lid.
     This was going to be the tricky part--getting the 'bot
 inside the crate.
     The robot was regarding the crate with interest and,
 by the green light flashing on its head, Xris guessed it
 was scanning the crate as it had scanned him.
     "Inside," said Xris, pointing to the crate. "You go--
 inside."
    The voices were coming closer, within range of the
translator. He had deliberately left tracks for them to
follow. They had spotted the indentations of his boots
and had figured out quickly enough that they weren't
dealing with some sort of space ghost.
  "Go. Inside," Xris repeated, more urgently.
    The robot completed its scan. It drew its nineteen
arms into its interior, flew over to the crate, and nestled
down into it.
  "Grnx," it said, and then all its lights blinked out.
  The robot had shut itself down.
    "Sleep tight." Xris breathed easy for the first time
since he'd entered that tomblike spaceplane. He placed
the robot's missing arm gently next to it and shut the
lid of the crate. He even took time to make sure all the
instruments were reading correctly. After all the trouble
he'd gone through to get this 'bot, he didn't want any-
thing happening to it during transit. Everything
checked out.
    Using the remote, Xris sent the crate back up and
over the fence. It drifted effortlessly to the ground. He
ordered it back to the maintenance shed, told it to
shut down.
    The voices were headed his direction, following his
tracks. Keeping near the fence line, staying well clear of
the r6ad he'd taken into the construction site, Xris re-
turned to the main road, loped back in the direction .of
the town. He took care to keep his tracks visible, step-
ping in muddy patches, crashing through undergrowth.
    He soon outdistanced the voices, but they were hot
on his trail. When he reached the outskirts of town, ho

stopped, cleaned the mud off his boots, and after that
took care to leave no trail at all. He circled back around
to Jake's Bar.
    He'd left security a nice puzzle to solve. He hoped
security would read it this way.
    The night watchman catches a thief looting the
spaceplane. He scares the thief away. The thief flees
across the desert, only to run smack into the fence which
surrounds the Army base. The thief spends a few pan-
icked moments trying to figure out how to climb the
fence, gives it up, and follows the fence line back into
town. This scenario should draw suspicion away from
the Army base.
    Of course, the charade might be completely useless,
given the fact that whoever had snatched Jamil knew
about them, the robot, everything. But Xris figured he
should at least make the effort. He took a few moments
to detach his tool hand, replace it with the "pretty"
hand.
      Captain Kergonan returned and began to wonder just
how the hell he was going to get back on base.  Xris turned his steps that direction.
    The rain continued to fall. He reached the main road,
decided to take it, not risk getting himself lost in the
unfamiliar territory. He hadn't been on the road long
when car lights beamed in the distance. They were com-
ing from the base, not from the town. He could hide in
the ditch ....
  The hell with it. Jail would be dry. And warm.
  Xris stopped, waved his arms.
  The hoverjeep pulled over. An MP climbed out.
    Xris put on his best contrite, shamefaced air. "Good
to see you fellows," he said.
  A nuke lamp flashed in his eyes.
  "Captain Kergonan?"
"Yeah, that's me. You must be wondering--"
"Excuse me, Captain. We were ordered out to search
for you. Captain Strauss told us that your colonel had
sent you off base. You probably don't know this, sir,"
the MP continued, keeping a straight face, "but there
was some trouble at one of the local taverns tonight.

 Captain Strauss was worried that you might have acci-
 dentally become involved. Maybe ended up in a Pan-
 dot jail."
     "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I did happen to be in
 the vicinity. In all the confusion, I guess I got turned
 around. I've been roaming around this damn desert half
 the night."
     "Yes, sir," said the MP. "If you'll climb into the car,
 sir, we'll take you back to base."
     Xris climbed in, settled down in the seat. Tess again.
 He'd have to send her something. A present. He had no
 idea what she might like, but Raoul would know. He'd
 get Raoul to pick out something nice ....
    It was after midnight when Xris arrived back on base.
The MPs drove him to his quarters, gave him a brief
scolding on letting someone know when he left base, let
him go. He headed for his quarters, just in case anyone
was watching, then--halfway there--he took a detour.
    Arriving at the maintenance shed to check on the 'bot,
Xris felt like a parent going to a child's bedroom to
check on its slumbers. After some searching in the dark,
he discovered the crate nestled between a hoverjeep
with a banged-up fender and a light truck with a recoil-
less launcher on the fritz. He opened the crate. There
was the 'bot.
    Xris debated briefly hauling the 'bot's crate back to
his room. The sound of measured footfalls decided him
against it. He could not have explained to anyone's satis-
faction what he was doing taking his crate for a walk at
this time of night. Patting the 'bot solicitously on the
head, Xris shut the crate, returned to the transient offi-
cers' quarters.
    His clothes were soaked. He was cold clear through
to his bones. He had aches in muscles he hadn't even
thought were real muscles. He was dead tired--a reac-
tion to spending half the night living off adrenaline. He
would have given six robots in six fancy crates to be able
to go to his room, lie down and relax. Unfortunately, he
still had more work to do.
 He went to Jamil's room, packed up Jamil's gear, and

hauled it back to his own room, Xris still had to get
ready for that damn speech tomorrow.
    He luxuriated in a hot shower. Lying down on his bed,
a twist in his mouth. Xris took out JamiFs electronic
notepad, brought up the file on "Foreign Object Damage
to Spaceplane Engines," and began to read.
 Within five minutes, Xris was asleep.

CHR PTER

'Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act 3,
                          Line 198

Nightfall on Adonia. This was the evening that was to
see the vanquishing of the enemy--Raj Vu. Raoul's
party commenced precisely at 1800 hours. That is to say
the party began then. The guests did not start to arrive--
nor were they expected--much before 2200 hours. Most
would show up after midnight and more than a few
would appear the next day, somewhere around the din-
ner hour. Adonians take a ?ery relaxed view of time.
    Raoul was up early, however, as are all generals on
the day of the big battle. He crawled out of bed around
noon, applied a cucumber mask to alleviate the effects
of the stress of the last few days on his complexion,
soaked in a seaweed bath to boost his metabolism, and
confided to Darlene that he'd taken only the mildest of
artificial stimulants, in order to keep his thinking clear.
    He spent the rest of the afternoon shampooing and
styling his hair, applying his makeup, took two hours to
decide what to wear--this crucial decision had been
preying on his mind for days--and finally, at about 1800,
appeared clad in a black unitard trimmed with black
sequins, accompanied by a white and black feather cape,
sequined black high heels, and an armload of red ruby
bracelets.

"I'm dressing down, my dear," Raoul said to Darlene.
"It's impolite for the host to outshine his guests."
    Darlene, in a simple silk suit devoid of decoration,
hoped she could stay awake for the guests to arrive. The
Little One kept to his room, partly in order to spare
Raoul's nerves and partly to avoid being trampled by
the armies on the side of good.
    Off-worlders often expressed sympathy for those on
Adonia who were forced to work for a living, those who
were the props and mainstays of the decadent lifestyle
of the other Adonians. What off-worlders failed to real-
ize was that most Adonians work for a living; it just
doesn't show.
    Work takes second place to pleasure. Office hours do
not exist. If there is ever anything on Adonia that has
to adhere to a schedule, has to be done on time--the
taking off and landing ot' spaceplanes, for example--the
Adonians hire off-worlders to see to it.
    The caterer was actually early, but she compensated
for this marvel by bringing the wrong food. This occa-
sioned a fight in the kitchen, which ended with Raoul
pink-cheeked and overheated but victorious, a cherry
torre on the floor, and the caterer made to deliver the
layer cake made with nine different flavors of chocolate
as she'd been ordered.
    "I can't believe she thought 1 wouldn't know the dif-
ference!" Raoul sniffed.
    The two bartenders arrived on time, which proceeding
made Raoul suspicious, but they assured him it wasn't
intentional. The bartenders were extremely handsome
young men, tanned and muscular and highly ornamental.
Raoul tasted the champagne--just to make certain it had
not been replicated. Finding the bubbles genuine, he for-
gave the bartenders and, after an exchange of kisses all
around, showed them where to set up the bars--one in
the atrium amid the orchids and one by the side of the
swimming pool.
     The pool cleaners arrived with the first of the guests,
 who were highly entertained by the proceeding and
 stood around sipping champagne and offering helpful
 suggestions. The people hired to pitch the tent never

came at all, but since it wasn't raining, Raoul didn't miss
them. The orchestra began as a soloist, grew to a trio,
expanded to a quartet, and by the end of the night had
almost enough members to play the Mozart symphonies
that had been commanded, if you weren't picky about
lack of violins.
    Darlene sat outdoors at a table near the swimming
pool, drinking champagne, enjoying the pageantry, the
beauty, the splendor. And that was just the pool
cleaners.
    Raoul was the perfect host, relaxed, charming, unper-
turbed, unruffled, no matter what the emergency (such
as when a group of guests set the deck on fire). He was
wherever he should be and wasn't where he was not
wanted. He mingled and chatted and kissed and hugged,
he welcomed Raj Vu as one long-lost brother might have
welcomed the twin he hadn't seen in twenty years. And
if Raoul made a disparaging remark about Raj Vu ap-
pearing at an evening affair in blue jeans--though they
were decorated with rhinestones--this was only after Raj
Vu had been heard to make cutting remarks about the
food.
    Breathless and panting, the Little One planted himself
in front of his friend and made wild gestures with his
hands.
    Raoul, preoccupied with his insult, could think of
nothing else. "Did you hear what Raj Vu said? That my
truffles were ... were ... were mushrooms!" Raoul was
faint from the shock, forced to fortify himself with cham-
pagne. "That man may be a swine, but he wouldn't know
a genuine truffle if it bit him in the snout!"
    The Little One flung himself on Raoul, began to pum-
mel him on his shapely legs. "Forget the truffles!" The
frantic command made its appearance in Raoul's head,
seeming to flash on and off in bright colors, like a
neon sign.
 This, at least partially, captured Raoul's attention.
    "Forget the truffles?" he repeated, dismayed. "But
Raj Vu said--"
    "Boil Raj Vu's liver in vinegar!" was the next remark,
pertaining perhaps to some quaint Tongan custom of

which Raoul was not, thankfully, familiar. He was about
to remark that, although the man undoubtedly deserved
it, this operation might be somewhat messy, when the
Little One interrupted.
    "What do you know about the bartenders?" The ques-
tion jabbed Raoul's brain.
    "Well"--Raoul was thoughtful--"they're both quite
good looking and very charming, especially the blond.
He's invited me to his gym to work on my triceps. I
don't know what they are, but he says they need devel-
oping. I said that 1 was looking forward to whatever
developed and he--"
    The Little One took off the fedora, flung it to the
floor, and stomped his foot emphatically. Raoul was
struck dumb, stared at his friend in astonishment. The
Adonians are froted for their beauty and so, since every
action requires an opposite and equal reaction, it is not
surprising that there existed a race known for its ugli-
ness. The Little One belonged to such a race.
    It is difficult to describe his physiognomy, except to
say that once Xris had come across the Little One after
he'd been attacked by members of the now defunct
Knights of the Black Earth. It was the first Xris had seen
of the face beneath the fedora. He had thought, in hor-
ror, that the Little One's face and head had been
smashed into a bloody, misshapen mass of bone, blood,
and brains, only to find out that his injuries were rela-
tively minor. The Little One's face normally looked
like that.
    Raoul averted his head, shaded his eyes. He had gone
quite pale. "Please, dear friend, you know how this af-
fects-"
    The Little One lunged, grabbed hold of Raoul's wrists,
forced his friend to look at him. "The bartenders are
assassins! They're here to murder Darlene!" The
thoughts, materializing in Raoul's head, were tinged
with blood.
    Raoul stared, aghast. "Here? Now? During my
party'?"
 "Yes! Any moment!" This flashed red with alarm.
 "But ... someone dropping dead at my party! That

would ruin it!" Raoul clung to the kitchen counter for
support. "Absolutely ruin it."
    The Little One's thoughts became very black and sav-
age. "It won't do Darlene a whole hell of a lot of
good, either!"
    "Oh, yes. Quite," Raoul murmured, and after some
consideration, he added, "I see your point. Where is
she? Is she all right? We should warn her--"
    He started to leave, was accosted by his small friend,
who grabbed hold of a handful of unitard and jerked
Raoul back. The Little One pointed out the kitchen
door.
 Raoul looked.
    Darlene was seated on a wicker settee in the atrium,
near a group of Adonians--Raj Vu among them--who
had gathered together to exchange the latest gossip. She
was listening to their conversation and, judging by her
wide-eyed and slightly shell-shocked expression, she was
eavesdropping on a lifestyle that she had probably only
previously witnessed under the rating of Triple X. She
appeared amazed and bemused but, otherwise, quite
healthy..
    Raoul breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps his party
could be salvaged, after all. "How do they intend to
perpetrate the crime?"
    The image of a vial appeared in Raoul's mind, a vial
filled with a clear substance and marked with a label.
Raoul was familiar with the chemical composition.
    Recovering his composure, he sniffed, disapproving.
"How gauche. How unimaginative. Putting the poison in
her champagne. Not to mention risky. What if she de-
cides to quit drinking? Or takes it into her head to
leave? Now, if they had only consulted with me, I could
have told them fifty far more reliable ways to poison
her. Ah, yes. Pardon me. I am forgetting myself. It's the
professional in me. I do so hate to see a job bungled."
    He continued to keep watch over Darlene, who did
not, Raoul noted, have a glass in her hand. One bar-
tender had set up his bar in a picturesque area near the
smaller of the two waterfalls. He was pouring cham-
pagne into a number of fluted glasses on a silver tray.

Every so often, a guest would come to the bar. take a
glass, walk off with it. The bartender was smiling at Dar-
lene, who so far had not noticed him. He was obviously
trying to catch her eye.
    "Cheap little tart," Raoul remarked, favoring the bar-
tender with a scathing gaze. "After going on about my
triceps. He can't be certain she will actually ingest the
poison. What is his backup plan?"
    An image of a nasty-looking weapon blew apart the
other assorted bits of irrelevancies that had drifted into
Raoul's mind. He shuddered. "What is' that thing?"
    "A scrambler," was the Little One's reply, which filled
Raoul's head with hideous reds and oranges.
    "Ah, yes. I remember our former employer, the late
Snaga Ohme, had a number of those weapons in his
keeping. Rather nasty devices. As I recall, they used
some sort of random alpha wave transmitter to foul up
everyone's brain processes. However," Raoul added,
looking puzzled, "I seem to recall from our time spent
with our former employer and from certain facts I have
since picked up during our sojourn with our present em-
ployer-referring to, of course, Xris Cyborg--that these
'scramblers' were designed for crowd control and that
they are not lethal. Also that they affect everyone in the
vicinity. Their range is quite extensive.
    "I do say, dear friend," Raoul added plaintively,
"would you mind putting on your hat?"
    The Little One picked up the fedora, thrust it on his
head, pulled it down low over his face. He made a fist,
smashed himself on the forehead several times.
    "Ah, I see," Raoul said quietly. "The weapon can be
altered so as to be lethal, which is what they have done.
I begin to understand their plan. If they do not manage
to kill Darlene this night, or if their plot is discovered,
they will activate the weapon and scramble the brains
of everyone at my party! How ghastly!" The Little One made a comment.
    "Well, certainly I think they'd notice!" Raoul dabbed
at two tears with the corner of a cocktail napkin, taking
care not to smudge his makeup. "And I could do with-
out the sarcasm. I am having trouble enough as it is.

Instead of being heralded in the society pages as the
host who gave the best party of the season, I shall be
mentioned as the one with the highest death toll!"
    Raoul gave a sob, hid his face in the napkin. The
Little One gave him a punch in the thigh.
    "I know," said Raoul, gulping down his tears. "This
is no time to fall apart. I'm calm now. Very calm. Let's
see. What can we do to stop this?"
    The Little One patted the inside breast pocket of his
raincoat, where he kept his favored weapon--a blowgun
filled with poisoned darts.
    "Yes, we could kill the two bartenders--you say
they're both assassins?"
 The Little One nodded.
    "But," Raoul continued reflectively, "we would have
a difficult time explaining their deaths to the police with-
out revealing the truth about Darlene, destroying her
cover, and thereby exposing her to even greater danger.
Not to mention the fact that it would be most difficult
for me, in the future, to hire a bartender. No, there must
be a better way."
    Raoul was thinking this over when the Little One sud-
denly began jumping up and down.
 "Now what?" Raoul demanded in despair.
    The Little One pointed frantically into the atrium.
Darlene was on her feet, approaching the bar. Either the
bartender's smile had won her over or she was thirsty.
    Raoul and the Little One exchanged glances. A plan
flashed between them. The Little One didn't appear to
like it. He shook his head vigorously.
    "My friend," said Raoul gently, "we have no choice.
If Darlene does not die this night, everyone will die this
night. You know what I need. You know what you
must do."
    The Little One shook his head morosely, but then
gave the fedora a nod and, after grabbing Raoul's hand
and squeezing it tight, the Little One dashed off. He ran
from the kitchen into the atrium, pushing and shoving
his way through a jungle of plants and legs. He hurtled
past Darlene, wringing his small hands, and headed for
the living room.

    Raoul turned to an ornate wooden rack that occupied
one corner of the kitchen counter and was marked
smcEs. He selected a vial from among the extensive col-
lection and, after taking a brief moment to ensure this
was the vial he wanted, he slid it up the sleeve of his
black unitard.
    Moving swiftly but unobtrusively, Raoul left the
kitchen, walked through the crowd, dodging those who
wanted to engage him in conversation--or any other
acts--with a charming smile, a kiss for the air, a wave
of his hand. On his face, the vacuous, vague, and eu-
phoric look of the Loti. His eyes, hidden beneath blue-
shadowed lids, glittered clear, keen, focused. Their gaze
was fixed on the bartender's hands, never left them.
    Darlene started to reach for one of the glasses of
champagne on the silver tray. Th'e bartender intercepted
her. Raoul couldn't hear their conversation over the
nmsic of the orchestra, but he could guess what the bar-
tender was saying. "The wine's been sitting there too
long, ma'am. It's far too warm. 1'11 pour you a chilled
glass."
Raoul watched closely the man's every move.
Darlene was not watching the bartender. She had no
fear. She was completely unsuspecting. Swaying slightly
on her feet in time to the music, she leaned her hands
on the bar, looked back at Raj Vu and his friends. The
bartender said something to her, reached one hand
under the bar. Darlene glanced at him over her shoulder,
laughed appreciatively, looked away.
    For an instant, both the bartender's hands disappeared
beneath the bar. He brought forth a fluted crystal glass
seconds later.
    "The clean glasses are on the table behind him,"
Raoul murmured. "That's it, of course. He put the poi-
son into that glass while he had it under the bar."
    The bartender was pouring champagne into the glass.
Raoul observed the glass closely, but could not see any
other substance in the glass itself. Not unusual, he re-
flected. The poison, according to the Little One, was a
derivative of a lilylike plant which grew on Adonia and,
though it had a formal, scientific name, was more corn-

monly known as the Good-bye Kiss. The poison was said
to have a faint and not unpleasant taste, as of camellias,
and produced death by causing every cell in the body to
view all other cells as the enemy and immediately launch
an attack. The body, essentially, rejected itself.
    The poison came in many forms, including clear liquid,
and a single small drop was enough to start the cellular
chain reaction, enough to kill.
    Lifting a glass of champagne from the hand of Raj
Vu--ignoring that gentleman's indignant protest--Raoul
glided forward. He deftly fingered the vial that he had
positioned up his sleeve. Removing the cork, he passed
his hand over the champagne glass, shook out a fine
white powder into the glass. He deposited the vial in a
nearby orchid plant, continued on.
    The champagne poured, bubbled, and sparkled. The
bartender handed the glass to Darlene, with some com-
ment that made her laugh again. She took the glass,
turned away, was bringing the glass to her lips. "My dear!" Raoul called out. "A toast!"
    Darlene was right-handed. She was holding the glass
in her right hand and, at Raoul's call, she lowered the
glass from her lips.
    Raoul's mincing footsteps carried him to her side. He
observed, as he approached, the bartender frown. The
bartender put down the champagne bottle. He was keep-
ing both hands free. The weapon, the scrambler, was
probably located underneath the bar.
    Dancing up on Darlene's left side, Raoul raised his
arm, slid it around Darlene's shoulders, turned her so
that her back was to the bar. Raoul's white feather cape
blocked the bartender's view. As he turned Darlene, in-
corporating the move into an elegant waltz step, Raoul
slipped his right hand over her right hand, lifted the
glass from her fingers. He shoved his glass, which he was
holding in his left hand, into her right hand. Giving her
a dazzling smile, he lowered his arm, stepped back away
from her, providing the bartender with an unob-
structed view.
    Raoul touched the glass to his lips, but did not drink.
He noted the lipstick--his own special Rogue Red

color---on the rim. He then plucked the first glass from
Darlene's hand, gave her the original glass back, and
then--before she could take a sily--he cried, "Switch
glasses. Whatever your neighbor's drinking, you drink!"
    Darlene's neighbor was Raj Vu, who was ingesting
some sort of syrupy red concoction adorned with a
bunch of fruit on a stick. Noticing this, Darlene gri-
maced. "I'll stick to champagne," she said and, once
again, raised her glass.
    Raoul leaned over and, under cover of the music, said,
"An Adonian party game, my dear. Don't be a stick-in-
the-quagmire."
    Before she could protest, Raoul removed the cham-
pagne glass from Darlene's hand and gave it to Raj Vu.
who--most obligingly--handed the fruit drink to
Darlene.
    Just as Raj Vu was starting to drink, Raoul snatched
the glass from the hand of his rival. Handing Darlene
the champagne glass that he'd been holding, Raoul took
the fruit drink away from her, handed it to back Raj Vu,
and, lifting the glass of champagne to his own lips, Raoul
drank it down.
    "Can I drink this now?" Darlene asked, amused.
"You're not going to take it away from me again, are
you?"
    "Drink up, my dear," said Raoul complacently. He
raised his empty glass. "To your health."
    Darlene raised her champagne glass in return, toasted
Raoul and the highly annoyed Raj Vu, who pronounced
it a "stupid game" and tossed his red concoction into a
fish pond. Darlene took two swallows of her champagne.
    Raoul stole a glance at the bartender. Obviously con-
fused by all the shifting of glasses, the man was watching
them closely. He might have been extremely suspicious
and figured his plot had been discovered, had not Dar-
lene ended up with a champagne glass. As it was, he
would wait to see the consequences.
  Those should not be long in coming.
     Darlene was about to take another swallow when the
 expression on her face altered. Her features contorted,

her eyes widened. Sweat broke out on her forehead
and lips.
  "l ..." she began faintly. "I don't ..."
    The glass fell from her nerveless hand, smashed at her
feet. She made a choking, retching sound and suddenly
slumped to the floor. She lay there, unconscious, amid
the spilled wine and broken glass.
    Raoul promptly screamed. Raj Vu turned. Fie and the
rest of the guests in the atrium looked over to see what
had happened. The bartender poured someone a
whiskey.
    Raoul, hands fluttering, bent over Darlene. "She looks
ghastly!" he cried.
    "It's the dress," said one woman, standing nearby.
"She should never wear that color."
    "I don't mean that!" Raoul returned indignantly. "I
mean that she appears to be very ill. Someone call a
doctor!"
 'Tm a doctor," Raj Vu announced.
 "You would be," Raoul muttered.
    Taking care to keep his designer jeans out of the
spilled wine, Raj Vu crouched down beside Darlene. He
lifted her wrist in his hand, held it a moment. A crowd
had gathered. They awaited the verdict in breathless
anticipation.
 "This woman's dead," Raj Vu pronounced.
 She did look extremely dead.
    Raoul had a moment's misgiving. Perhaps he'd truly
gotten the glasses mixed up. Then he felt a sudden tin-
gling in all his nerve ends, a jabbing pain in his head.
He relaxed.
    Despite the pain, he had the sublime satisfaction of
hearing a guest remark, "1 say, Raj Vu, no one ever
died at one of your parties!"
    And though the pain was now intense and he was
having difficulty breathing, Raoul smiled.

EHRPI[R

What is food to one, is to others bitter poison.

Lucretius, De Rerum Natura

Raoul held a vial under Darlene's nose. She breathed
deeply, choked, coughed. Her eyelids fluttered,
opened, She stared at him bleary-eyed.
    "What ... the hell... happened?" she demanded daz-
edly. "Where am I?"
    "In your room," Raoul replied. "I had them carry you
up here. I know one isn't supposed to remove the body
from the scene of the crime, but after the initial excite-
ment of the murder, your corpse was casting rather a
pall over the party. I'm sure the police will understand.
Particularly when they learn that it was all a hoax."
    The Little One tugged on Raoul's sleeve, motioned at
the French doors, which led from the room to a deck
with a seaside view.
    "Ah, yes, speaking of the police"--Raoul put his arm
around Darlene's shoulders, helped her sit up in the
bed--"they'11 be here any minute. You should really
be leaving,"
    "Tell me what happened," Darlene said, clutching
Raoul and giving him a shake. "I have to know what
happened! It was the Hung, wasn't it?" "They tried to poison you."
    "In the champagne. That's why you switched ..." She
paused, stared at him. "Good God! You drank it!"
  "One of us had to," Raoul said simply. "The Little

One read their minds. The assassins were prepared to
kill everyone here in order to make certain of you. They
had with them devices known as scramblers."
    "Yes, that would have done it," Darlene said. She
was regarding Raoul anxiously. "Are you sure you're
all right?"
    "Don't worry. I-- Whatever is the matter?" Raoul
demanded.
    The Little One had gone stiff, rigid. Suddenly he
threw himself down face-first on the floor, began to kick
his feet and beat his fists into the carpet.
    "What is it? What's wrong?" Darlene asked, alarmed.
She stared at him. "I've never seen him behave like that.
Have you?"
    "Well, yes, but not generally when we have company.
Don't worry, my dear, I've taken the antidote." Raoul
pointed to a hypo lying on the nightstand. "And, really,
considering the number of chemical substances of which
my body is the humble repository, I am not certain I
needed the antidote at all. The poison, once it reached
my bloodstream, must have been in a highly confused
state of mind."
    "You could have been killed!" Darlene said, shud-
dering. She put her arm around Raoul, hugged him
close. "And you know it." She kissed him. "You saved
my life!" She looked over at the Little One, who had
rolled over onto his back, was beating his heels on the
carpet, pounding himself on the head.
    "Just ignore him," Raoul said lightly. "And now, my
dear, the police are notoriously slow to respond to calls
during Carnival season, but the prospect of a murder to
investigate might give them some incentive."
    "Yes. You're right. I'm going." Darlene rose hurriedly
to her feet. She staggered, swayed, sat back down just
as hurriedly on the bed. She put her hand to her fore-
head. "Whoo, boy. Just a minute. What was that stuff
you gave me? No, on second thought, I don't want to
know. There." Taking it slower, she stood up again.
"That's better."
    "Here's your overnight bag." Raoul handed it to her.
"I packed it."

    "Where am I going?" Darlene asked, taking the bag
without being cognizant of either the fact that she'd
taken it or the bag itself.
    "Out the French doors. Across the deck. Climb over
the railing. Descend the stairs down the cliff side to the
beach. Once you reach the beach ... reach the beach--
that rhymes," Raoul added, charmed. "Yes?" Darlene prompted.
    Raoul recalled himself to the task at hand, though he
could not forgo repeating his ascension to the poetic.
"Once you reach the beach, take the boardwalk to the
magnet, the magnet to the spaceport. Cruise ships leave
from there all the time."
    Darlene opened the French doors, looked out into the
night, which was beautiful, as are all nights on Adonia.
The sounds of music, voices, and laughter wafted in from
the garden. A splash and another splash. People were
jumping into the pool. She paused, her hand on the or-
nate door handle. "I wonder how the Hung found me.
The Little One was positive no one was following us."
    The Little One let out a savage howl. Jumping to his
feet, he raced across the room, shut himself up in the
closet.
 Darlene gazed after him in astonishment.
    "He admits that he is sometimes mistaken," Raoul
said quietly. He edged her out the French doors. "But
at least now they will think you are dead. This should
effectively throw off all pursuit."
    "Yes ... good-bye. And thank you." She started out
the doors. She halted, looked about vaguely. "My
computer."
    "Leave it," Raoul said, shoving her along. "You have
your clothes, that's most important."
    "Hang the clothes!" Darlene dropped the bag on the
floor. "Hand me my computer."
    "You can't go on-a pleasure cruise without clothes!"
Raoul stated firmly. "Not, that is, unless you're planning
on taking one of the nude--"
  "No, no," Darlene said hastily.
  "I packed them all specially."
  "Very well, then," she said, knowing that she'd never

 get away otherwise. "I'11 take my clothes and the
 computer."
    Raoul picked up the computer case. Regarding it with
distaste, he handed it to her. "I packed all your new
clothes. Your old clothes, I'm sorry to say, met with
rather an unfortunate accident. Here you are."
    Darlene grabbed the bag, clutched at her computer
case. She kissed Raoul again on the cheek. "Thanks
again, for everything. You and the Little One. Tell Xris
I'll be in touch."
  "Yes," Raoul said, smiling airily. "I'll tell him."
    Muffled howls and thumps could be heard coming
from the direction of the closet.
    Darlene gave it a worried glance. "Are you sure he's
all right?"
    "Positive. Don't worry. Take care of yourself." Raoul
had hold of the French doors. He was drawing them
shut when he recalled last-minute instructions. "Remem-
ber to smooth the blush in the hollow of the cheek. Use
that cream I gave you to get rid of those lines around
your eyes. Keep the bangs soft and don't wear red. It
makes you look anemic."
    Darlene waved from the deck railing. She climbed up
and over and, the next moment, had vanished from
Raoul's sight. He could hear her footsteps as she ran
down the wooden stairs. He shut the doors, an unusually
thoughtful expression on his face. Ordinarily, Raoul took
care not to think--it was damaging to the complexion--
but matters had taken a serious turn. A knock came, the
bedroom door opened. The butler entered.
 "Pardon me, sir, but the police have arrived."
    "Have they?" Raoul asked, preoccupied. He waved a
negligent hand. "Give them something to eat."
    "Very good, sir," the butler replied. His gaze shifted
to the bed. He raised one eyebrow. "I beg your pardon,
sir, but wilere is the corpse?"
    "Corpse," Raoul repeated vaguely. His gaze was fixed
on the closet, which had suddenly fallen silent.
    "The young woman, sir, who collapsed and died in
the atrium."

    "Ah, that corpse." Raoul shrugged. "I assume it must
be around somewhere."
 "Am I to understand, sir, that you have misplaced it?"
    "Yes, that's it," said Raoul. "We'll hold a scavenger
hunt. The first person who finds the corpse wins a prize."
    "Very good, sir. Oh, and I should inform you, sir, that
the bartenders say their time is up. If you require them
to stay longer, they are to be paid triple."
    This caught Raoul's attention. "Indeed? Their time is
up? I should say that it very well might be. Send them
to me." Reaching for his handbag, Raoul took out a
tube of lipstick. "I have a little something to give each
of them."
    He walked over to the mirror, began to carefully apply
the lipstick to his lips, taking care not to touch his lips
with his tongue.
    "Very good, sir. And, in the interim, sir, I am a bit
concerned about that missing corpse .... "
    "Don't worry," said Raoul. "I'm certain it will turn
up. If not that particular corpse, then some other. I sup-
pose the police are not fussy?"
 "I'm afraid I couldn't say, sir."
    "Discuss the matter with them while they are dining,"
Raoul instructed. "Give them some champagne. Show
them the scene of the alleged crime. Let them question
a few witnesses. See to it that they are occupied for the
next thirty minutes. By that time, I'm certain a corpse--
or maybe even two--will have surfaced."
    The butler lifted a second eyebrow to match the first,
but he said nothing. He had his orders. Bowing, he with-
drew, shutting the door softly behind him.  Raoul went immediately to the closet.
    The Little One was sitting on a hat box in an attitude
of the deepest dejection. His head clutched in his hands,
he rocked back and forth, making small feral sounds.
Raoul put his arm comfortingly around his friend's
thin shoulders.
    "It's not your fault. How were you supposed to have
known?"
    The Little One pulled his fedora down over his head,
shook it vigorously.

    "We don't have much time," Raoul said. "The bar-
tenders are coming to be paid. After that. I suggest that
we embark on a cruise ourselves. The Adonian police
are generally fair and open-minded, particularly to those
who have contributed to their association generously in
the past, but with one corpse gone missing and a couple
of new ones showing up in its place, this is likely to
tax the sheriff's patience. While we're waiting for the
bartenders, fill me' in on the details. Xris and Jamil are
in danger, you say?"
    The Little One shoved his hat back; his eyes gleamed
from beneath the brim. Lifting his hands, he pointed to
his head, described circles with his fingers around his
temples.
    "A telepathic scrambler! That's what has been both-
ering you, ever since we visited the museum. The name
of the weapons known as scramblers. That made you
realize what had happened. Professor Sakuta is not what
he seems. He was lying to us all the time. Have I under-
stood you?"
 The Little One gave a gloomy nod.
    "l don't suppose," Raoul said, "that you have any
idea what Professor Sakuta's true thoughts were?"
    The Little One shook his head morosely, beat himself
on the forehead with his small fists.
    "It's not your fault," Raoul repeated kindly. "No one
blames you. Don't blame yourself."
    Raoul was again thoughtful, again risking damage to
his complexion. The urgency of the situation appeared
to warrant the sacrifice.
    "There is only one thing to be done," Raoul decided.
"Darlene is safe, for the time being. The Hung tl~inks
she is dead and we'll make certain that they don't find
out otherwise. It seems to me, therefore, that our next
priority must be to rescue Xris Cyborg and Jamil from
whatever it is that threatens them. We could undertake
to do this ourselves--"
 The Little One growled.
    "No, you're right," Raoul agreed. "We must assemble
the team." The idea appealed to him. He smoothed his
hair. "I will assemble the team. I've never done that

before. It should be quite thrilling. Well, of course they'll
listen to me," he added, offended. "Why shouldn't they?

 A knock on the door interrupted him.
    Raoul rose to his feet. Opening the door, he saw the
two bartenders--handsome, charming, smiling, con-
fident.
 "Dear boys," Raoul said. "Do come in."
 He greeted them each with a kiss.

CHRPIER
       l?

    "1 can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir," said Alice,
"because I'm not myself, you see."
 "1 don't see," said the Caterpillar.

Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

~[4ting James Control, this is Navy Three Five Niner
 I\Zircon. Please clear for priority landing."
    "Navy Three Five Niner Zircon, you are cleared for
immediate landing in Bay One Forward. All other traffic
is diverted. Do not exit your spaceplane until the Marine
Guard is in place. Understood, Navy Three Five Niner
Zircon?"
    "Roger that, King .lames Control. Beginning landing
sequence now. Navy Three Five Niner Zircon, out."
    The bomber cruised toward the massive ship. Jamil
studied it, memorizing detail for possible use later. The
aft engines were modular in design and were fitted out-
rigger style, so that they could be jettisoned in case of
an engine overload. Below the engines, the hull formed
a flight deck and landing platform.
    The bomber gracefully arced toward the platform, and
gently touched down. Maneuvering thrusters kept the
spaceplane from bouncing off the deck, until the mag-
netic clamps took hold and trundled the spaceplane
along the deck into the hangar.
    The hangar's blast doors did not shut behind it, once
they had cleared the atmosphere shields, The pilot did
not leave her seat. The bomber would not be staying

here long. Once the bomber was stationary, the ground
crew scrambled over the wings and up the side of the
spaceplane for servicing. The hatch popped, and both
VanDerGard and Jamil exited, climbing down the ladder
to the deck.
    A colonel, accompanied by two Marines armed with
beam rifles, awaited them. Behind the colonel, a platoon
of Marines were assembled.
    "Oh, God. This is it," Jamil said to himself, blinking
in the bright lights.
The colonel stepped forward, extended his hand.
Jamil stared at the hand in astonishment--he'd been
expecting a rifle in his gut, not a handshake. Belatedly,
awkwardly, he reached out, shook hands.
    The colonel had a firm, confident grip. He was in his
early forties, freckled, with buzz-cut red hair, a warm
smile, and a friendly manner.
    "Colonel Jatanski, I'm Colonel Michael Ponders, Gen-
eral Hanson's chief of staff. You're to come with me."
    Ponders had to nearly shout to be heard in the hangar
bay, which was echoing with the banging and clanging
and swearing of maintenance crews at work on the
spaceplane. He and Jamil started walking, heading for
the blast doors that led off the hangar deck. Major
VanDerGard fell unobtrusively into step behind them,
as did the two armed Marines.
    The doors opened, slid shut. Jamil and the Colonel,
the Major and the Marines entered a corridor that was
sleek, carpeted, quiet. They could talk normally now.
    "Where are you taking me, Colonel?" Jamil asked,
figuring he knew the answer but thinking it was about
time somebody said it.
    "To meet with General Hanson, of course," Ponders
said, looking surprised that Jamil would even ask. "She'll
be briefing you on the Katchan case."
    "Oh, ah, I see," Jamil said, just for the sake of say-
ing something.
    He was starting to wonder if he'd slipped through a
worm hole and had ended up in an alternate universe
where he really was a colonel. He tried to think of what
might be a logical question to ask that would clarify this

bizarre situation, but he was so confused that nothing
came immediately to mind. He was like an actor in a
play who's not only forgotten his lines, he's forgotten
the plot as well. Fortunately, Ponders was the gossipy,
sociable type, who carried on without prompting.
    "Yes, I'm afraid it looks bad for the lieutenant colo-
nel. Katchan must have stolen some pretty sensitive ma-
terial. I guess you can't tell me what he was working
on, eh?"
    "Well, actually. uh, n-no. I can't say," Jamil stam-
mered. "Security, and ... all that."
    "Right, right. I understand. It must be top-level,
though." Ponders glanced over his shoulder. "These two
Marines have orders to accompany you wherever you
go. General Hanson's direct command."
    "1 see," Jamil said, eyeing the Marines, who were re-
garding him with the impassive detachment of men who
have been ordered to shoot to kill. Jamil experienced an
odd sense of relief. This--at least--made sense!
    "I sure would like to know what this poor bastard
Katchan did. You two in some sort of Special Ops? No,
don't answer that." Ponders raised his hand. "Listen,
when the General's finished with you, give me a call on
the comm and we'll go grab a bite in the Senior Officers'
Wardroom. A pity we can't get you something to eat
now, but I'm supposed to take you straight to your
briefing."
    Jamil glanced at the Marines and the eyes of one man
flicked over to meet his. The eyes were cold, did not
blink. Jamil could have sworn he saw the man's hand on
the beam rifle tighten.
    "Sure thing. Thanks," Jamil said, and accompanied
the colonel down the corridor. The Marine guards
marched behind.
    Three times he, Ponders, and the Marines had to stop,
identify themselves, show ID cards, and submit to retina
scans, all before proceeding to the next level of the gi-
gantic cruiser. JamiFs ID card stated he was Colonel
Jatanski, his retina scan matched that of Jatanski--all
thanks to Darlene Rowan and her skill at breaking into
computers. Security passed him without a murmur. The

Marines proved a comfort. They continued to give him
the fish-eye. Someone on this ship knew Jamil was Jamil
and not Jatanski. At least he hoped so. He was starting
to doubt it himself.
    Ponders talked the entire time, trying to elicit informa-
tion without really trying to elicit information. He was
either a very good actor, truly endeavoring to make
Jamil incriminate himself, or he was what he appeared--
a gregarious man who made himself popular on board
ship by spreading the latest rumor, dishing the latest dirt.
    They passed through a fourth set of guards, who stood
with their backs against yet another set of closed blast
doors, and again they all presented their ID cards. The
blast doors opened onto another corridor. Ponders
walked up to a door, punched in a code. The door slid
open.
    "Here's where I leave you," Ponders said regretfully.
"Good luck with Katchan. It sounds like he's in one hell
of a mess. Give me a call later--we'll do that dinner."
He nudged Jamil. "You can fill me in on everything
then. After your meeting with the general."
    Ponders left. Jamil entered the room. The door slid
shut behind him.
    He might have been in the waiting room of the office
of some high-priced attorney. The room was small but well
furnished, with expensive-looking leather-upholstered
chairs, carved wooden end tables, a coffee table with a
few slick mags arranged artfully upon it. Ambient light-
ing from the ceiling softened the fact that the room had
no portholes. A smaller door opened to his touch, turned
out to be the head. He made good use of it, studied
himself in the mirror, did what he could to smooth out
the rumples in his uniform, then returned to the waiting
room. There were even a few paintings--spacescapes by
Gutierrez. Jamil was impressed. Someone who designed
this room had good taste in art.
    All in all, it was a comfortable waiting room and only
the fact that the paintings were bolted to the wall and
the furniture was bolted to the floor gave any indication
to Jamil that he was on a ship of war, which might be
called to go into action at any time.

    He sat down in a leather chair, fidgeted, stood up,
fidgeted, sat down, flipped through a mag. He stood up
again, walked over to the door. A touch of his own on
the keypad and the door slid open. The two Marines
stood there~ one on either side of the door.
    Colonel Jatanski had every right to leave. Jamil, con-
fidently, stepped out.
    Two beam rifles snapped up in front of him so fast
they nearly clipped him in the nose.
    "Sorry, sir. General Hanson's orders," said one of
the Marines.
    "It was a long flight," Jamil said in iced tones. "I have
to use the head."
    "In there, sir," said one of the Marines. "Touch that
panel on the wall on the far side."
    Jamil muttered and stalked back inside. The door slid
shut behind him.
    He now knew all he needed to know. Sitting on the
couch, he picked up one of the mags--this one on golf,
his favorite game--and settled down to read how to im-
prove his putting.
    Some of these minimum-security prisons had pretty
good golf courses.
    He had just finished the article and was on his feet,
an imaginary putter in his hand, testing what the author
had said about wrist action, when the door opened. One
of the Marines looked in.
 "They're ready for you, sir."
    Jamil was about to make some suitable remark, but
his throat was dry, he suddenly couldn't talk. He was
surprised. He hadn't thought he was nervous. He drew
in a deep breath, stepped into the corridor. Another of-
ricer was waiting for him, a black-skinned human male
who said something--Jamil didn't hear for the blood
pounding in his ears.
    The officer led Jamil into yet another room. This room
was plush----carpeting wall to wall. A large round wood
table stood in the center of the room. Crests of all the
ships serving in the fleet the King James H commanded
lined the bulkheads. A man and a woman sat on the
opposite side of the table. The officer saluted smartly.

    "Here is the prisoner, my lord. Jamil Khizr, of Mag
Force 7."
    "Thank you, Commander," said the man behind the
table.
  Jamil stared, sucked air.
    The commander made introductions. No need. Jamil
knew one of these people by sight.
    "General Irma Hanson, commander of the Second Ar-
mored Drop Corps. Lord Admiral Sir John Dixter,
commanderqn-chief of the Royal Military."  "Holy shit," Jamil said softly.
    "You could say that, Khizr. And--holy or unholy--
you're into it up to your armpits." Dixter issued orders.
"Tusk. reseal the doors. Post the guard. No one without
authorization has entered this room since we did the last
security sweep, have they?"
    "Yourself, myself, General Hanson, and the prisoner
are the only three to be admitted. The prisoner was
scanned, my lord. He's clean."  "Fine, carry on."
 Tusk saluted, turned on his heel, walked out the door.
 The prisoner--that's what they'd termed Jamil.
    He cleared his throat. "My lord, General Hanson, it
is an honor to meet you both."
    Dixter grunted. "An honor I'll wager you wished had
been deferred, right, Khizr? Or perhaps I should address
you as 'colonel'?"
    Jamil felt his face grow warm. "My lord, I can ex-
plain-"
    "And you will," Dixter said gravely. "General, hand
me the file."
    General Hanson passed over an electronic file viewer.
Dixter took it, instructed it by voice to bring up the
information on Mag Force 7.
    "You may be seated," he told Jamil, adding dryly,
"This could take a while."
    A chair had been placed for him in the center of the
room. Jamil sat, hunkered down, and waited for the bar-
rage to start.
    "First," said the Lord Admiral, reading from the file,
"there was the raid on a company known as Olicien Pest

Control, the theft of a spaceplane belonging to that com-
pany, and the deliberate drugging of the employees by the
admittance of a sleeping gas into the air-conditioning
system."
    Jamil shook his head. "My lord, I've never been
near--"
    "We have positive IDs," Dixter said. "That job could
get you twenty years. Next file," he told the computer.
    "The assault on RFComSec, a secret naval base. Dis-
guised as exterminators for Olicien Pest Control, you
and your accomplices lied your way onto the base. Once
there, you sabotaged the robots designed to rid the base
of its flea infestation. You then proceeded to kidnap a
Naval officer, one Darlene Mohini, and take her off the
base, meanwhile disrupting base communications and its
computer system, putting at risk the entire Royal Navy,
not to mention the people of the galaxy, whom we are
responsible for protecting. Again, we have positive IDs."
    Jamil settled into his chair, maintained silence. The
shells were falling thick and fast, the flak was flying. He
had one small bit of hope to cling to in his exposed
position, and that was the fact that he was sitting here,
right now. Ordinary prisoners headed for the disrupter
were not brought before the Lord of the Admiralty to
hear their cases reviewed. This barrage was simply clear-
ing the way for the main advance. He had only to endure
it, wait it out.
    "Then," said Sir John, referring back to the file,
"there is the attack on an unarmed research vessel
known as the Canis' Major. You were acting under the
belief that one of your comrades was being held prisoner
aboard that vessel. As it turned out, you were correct in
your assumption. The Canis Major was afterward proven
to belong to the terrorist organization known as the
Knights of the Black Earth. But," Dixter added, his
voice cold, "you had no way of knowing this at the time.
You took the law into your own hands. No positive IDs
on this one, but that's only because the knights are no
longer around to press charges.
    "To continue. There is next the matter of the hi-
jacking of an Army Special Forces drop ship from a

NOROF rebuild and overhaul facility. Not only do we
have positive IDs on this, your leader, Xris, actually had
the nerve to send me a message. As for the rest of your
adventures after that. they were recorded and broadcast
by every news station in the galaxy!"
    "Yes, my lord." Jamil was on secure ground here. "I
assume Your Lordship is referring to the time we saved
His Majesty, King Dion Starfire, from the assassin. And,
my lord, may I respectfully point out that we did give
back the drop ship."
    He'd meant that as a little joke. Neither the Lord
Admiral nor General Hanson was amused. Dixter put
the file down, folded his hands on the desk, and regarded
Jamil with an intense gravity that was more disturbing
than the previous accusations. It was like the period of
eerie silence which comes when the artillery barrage has
ceased and you know that the enemy is preparing to
advance. Jamil braced himself.
    "Jamil Khizr," said the Lord Admiral, "I have, right
here, warrants for the arrest of"--he read the list--
"Xris, a cyborg, Harry Luck, Dr. Bill Quong, Raoul de
Beausoleil--which, by the way, is just one of his
aliases--a being of unknown origin known as the Little
One, Tycho, a 'chameleon,' and you, Jamil Khizr." Dix-
ter taped his hand on the computer. "I can issue these
warrants in a single second, by simply pressing 'Enter.'
The charge is murder."
    "Murder, my lord?" Jamil shrugged. "If you mean the
assassin, yes, I admit we were responsible for his death,
but--"
      "You saved the life of His Majesty. I'm well aware of
that," Dixter said coolly. "And that is not it."  "Then what?" Jamil was truly puzzled.
    The Lord Admiral was grave. "Jamil Khizr, you and
all the rest of the people previously mentioned are
charged with the kidnapping and murder of Naval officer
Major Darlene Mohini."

CHAPTER
       18

Crime like virtue has its degrees.

Jean Racine, Ph~dre

The bombshell landed squarely in Jamil's foxhole, burst
above his head. He was stunned from the concussion,
could only gape at the Lord Admiral, while trying to
gather together the scattered bits and pieces of his brain.
    "The game's up, Khizr," said John Dixter. He lowered
the file, looked over the top at Jamil. "We have you on
vid at RFComSec. We have vids of Xris and Major Moh-
ini together; Xris is holding the major hostage at gun-
point. That was the last time anyone ever saw Major
Darlene Mohini alive. An excellent case, don't you
agree, Khizr? Men have gone to the disrupter on less."
    Jamil leaned an elbow on the armrest, shifted his
weight in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other,
tapped the fingers of one hand lightly on his knee. All
the while, he kept his gaze fixed on Lord Admiral John
Dixter. The dust had settled. Jamil had to figure out now
how to escape from the wreckage.
    He didn't see much hope. In fact he was in one hell
of a mess.
    The major picked up me alone, Jamil reminded him-
self. They left Xris behind. They ordered him to "carry
on." They wouldn't have done that if they seriously
thought we'd murdered someone. They're after some-
thing, but what? How should I answer this?

    Advice once offered by Raoul came to mind: "Try the
truth .... But only as a last resort."
    Jamil uncrossed his legs, sat up straight. "My lord,
Darlene Mohini is alive and, as far as I know, she's
well."
    Dixter raised an eyebrow. "Is she? That's good
news--for everyone. If you'll tell me where she is, how
to contact her, we'll clear the record of this matter."
 "I'm sorry, my lord," Jamil said. "But I can't do that."
 "And why not?" the lord Admiral asked grimly.
    "I think you know the answer to that, my lord," Jamil
said, taking a big risk, but figuring he had nothing to
lose. "It's because Darlene Mohini isn't really Darlene
Mohini. She's someone else and that someone could be
in serious danger if her true identity ever became
known. If she came forward now, there'd be all sorts of
publicity. Her face would be transmitted from one arm
of the galaxy to the other. The people who are searching
for her would recognize her from the news reports.
She'd be dead before the first break to go to the local
sponsor."
 "We could guarantee her protection."
    Jamil decided this had gone far enough. He was tired
of playing blind man's bluff, of fumbling around in the
dark.
    "Begging Your Lordship's pardon, but that's a crock
of bullshit. His Majesty the King rides in an armored
limo, he's surrounded by the best-trained bodyguards in
the business, and if it hadn't been for us and Darlene
Mohini, His Majesty would be dead right about now."
    Silence settled over the room. General Hanson, a
stringy, scrawny, tough old bird in her sixties, who was
not known as Iron Guts for nothing, tightened her lips,
cast a sidelong glance at the Lord Admiral. Dixter gazed
steadily at Jamil.
 "You won't tell us where Major Mohini is."
 "No, my lord," said Jamil respectfully.
    "You and Xris have been caught impersonating offi-
cers in the Royal Army. You finagled your way onto a
military base. You were on that base with the intention
of stealing an object which, if it falls into the wrong

hands, could endanger the lives of every person living
in this galaxy, not to mention disrupting trade routes,
destroying the economies of hundreds of worlds, and
very possibly plunging this galaxy into chaos and
anarchy."
    Jamil shook his head. "You've got it all wrong, sir.
We weren't hired to steal anything like that. We were
hired to steal some moth-eaten old robot."
    Dixter was grim. "Moth-eaten old robot. You and the
rest of Mag Force 7 are in trouble, Khizr, more trouble
than you can possibly imagine. There are only six people
in the universe who know about the existence of this
robot--myself, General Hanson, His Majesty, the prime
minister, the head of Naval intelligence, and one of our
operatives on the Pandoran military base. This is so god-
darned classified it's not even classified. We couldn't risk
it. Nothing's been written down about it, nothing's been
entered into any computer. Hell, I don't even let myself
dream about it!"
    Dixter leaned forward, hands on the table. "Imagine
my surprise when you and Xris suddenly show up on
base with a container that just happens to be the right
shape and size for transporting one moth-eaten robot!"
  "My lord, I can explain ...."Jamil began, then hesi-
tated, wondered if he could.
    "Yon better," said John Dixter, his tone cold with
fury. "1 can't charge you with anything concerning this
case. 1 don't dare risk any hint of this robot's discovery
leaking out--at least any more than it apparently already
has. But I can and I will bring you up on charges of
murdering Major Mohini, which puts you in one hell of
a fix. Either you produce her alive, in which case you
blow her cover and the Hung will find out that she was,
once upon a time, Dalin Rowan, former FISA agent who
was personally responsible for the downfall of the Hung
... or you refuse to admit you know anything about her,
in which case you and Xris and everyone else involved
on that raid on RFComSec are convicted of kidnapping
and murder and you end up on death row. And you
wouldn't be there long," Dixter concluded, his mouth
twisting.

    Jamil listened in silence; then, with dignity, he stood
up. "You don't need to threaten us, my lord. Like I said,
we didn't know anything about this 'bot, except that
some museum wanted it and was willing to pay us to
snatch it. If that roboffs as hot as you say it is, we don't
want any part of it. You can have it and we'll forget we
ever heard of the damn thing. But first I want two things
from you, my lord.
    "One, I want assurances that Darlene Mohini is taken
off the record books, that as far as the Navy's concerned,
she never existed. Second, I want to know why--after
all this--you gave orders that Xris was supposed to con-
tinue with the plan. That he was supposed to go ahead
and steal that robot. You've set him up for something
and I want to know what. Otherwise," he continued
coolly, forestailing an attempt by General Hanson to in-
tervene, "the only words you're going to hear from me
after this are: 'Where the hell's my attorney?'"
  Dixter eyed Jamil narrowly.
    Jamil held the man's gaze, didn't flinch beneath the
intense scrutiny.
    The Lord Admiral let out a deep breath. "I didn't
think Xris would take on a job like this if he knew the
whole story, but ... I had to be sure."
    He closed his eyes, wiped his hand over his face. Gen-
eral Hanson asked him in a low voice if he needed some-
thing, started to pour him a glass of water. Dixter shook
his head. Opening his eyes, he gazed steadily at Jamil.
    "I can't promise you anything regarding Major Moh-
ini, but I'll take the matter under advisement. At least
I can promise that I will keep her identity secret. As for
setting up Xris, I'm giving both him and you a chance
to try to repair some of the damage that you two have
done. Inadvertently, perhaps," Dixter added, seeing
Jamil about to protest, "but Xris knew what he was
doing was breaking the law."
"In the interests of science, my lord," Jamil protested.
"In the interests of your bank balance, is what you
mean. You'll pardon me if I don't feel particularly sorry
for you. Sit down," Dixter concluded wearily, waving

his hand. "You're not going anywhere. Not for a while,
at least."
    "Yes, sir." Jamil sat down again, breathed a careful
sigh. Sweat trickled down his back, beaded on his brow.
That had been close. Really close. But they weren't out
of this yet. Which brought up an important point. "One
thing I need to know, my lord. Is Xris in any danger?
If he is--"
    "No, he's not. In fact, our operative reports that he
was successful in removing the robot from the crash site.
He is, I presume, at this moment boning up on his notes
for his speech. What was that topic again? 'Foreign Ob-
ject Damage to Spaceplane Engines.'" Dixter shook
his head.
    "It's a serious problem," observed General Hanson,
looking quite fierce. "Tears the hell out of them. Some
bonehead leaves a Coke can on the runway, it gets
sucked into the engine of a Claymore bomber, and you
can kiss sixty billion eagles good-bye. I wouldn't mind
hearing that lecture myself."
    John Dixter's face relaxed in a smile. "Xris is safe and
sound, Khizr. Set your mind at ease on that point. You'll
be rejoining him--soon, in fact. We wouldn't want any-
one on the base to miss that lecture."
 "And after that?" Jamil was tense, wary.
     "You're going to deliver the robot to the man who
hired you, to 'Professor' Michael Sakuta." "I take it he's no professor."
    "Oh, yes, he is. But he's not connected with any Space
and Aeronautics Museum."
    "That's funny," Jamil said warily. "Because he had an
office in the museum on Megapolis. Xris met him there."
    "And if Xris had bothered to check, he would have
discovered the business offices of the Space and Aero-
nautics Museum on Megapolis had been closed for a
week in order to remodel."
    "Oh," said Jamil. He squirmed in his chair. "What do
you want us to do, sir?"
    "Deliver the robot as agreed. Collect your paycheck
and leave. That's all you have to do. We'll handle it
from there."

    "Begging your pardon, my lord. but if this job is as
hot as you say, what's to keep Sakuta from spending his
money on our funerals, not our paychecks?"
    "There is always that possibility," Dixter conceded,
"but I assume you knew that was a risk when you under-
took this job. Xris must have known Sakuta was a
phony."
    "Well, no, my lord, we didn't," Jamil admitted, his
face burning. "We thought he was an egghead--a
cracked one, at that--but not dangerous. The Little
One--he's our telepath--he verified that Sakuta's
thoughts matched up with his words."
    "Telepathic scrambler," Dixter said succinctly. "He's
used it before."
    "But how would he know about the Little One? Xris
never said--"
    "Sakuta did his homework. He learned all about Mag
Force 7. He learned all about Xris. He knew what type
of jobs Xris would take, what kind he wouldn't. Sakuta's
a skilled actor. I've no doubt he played the role to per-
fection. And, of course, he was just exactly what Xris
expected an 'egghead' professor to be. Khizr, I'm going
to level with you."
    "Begging your pardon, my lord, but it's about time,"
Jamil said bitterly.
    "No apologies, Khizr. You're damn lucky--you and
Xris both--that you're not sitting behind a force field
about now. You came that close to blowing this case all
to hell. Instead, I'm going to give you a chance to set
it right."
     "We'll be glad to help you out, my lord," Jamil said
respectfully. "How much does the job pay?"
  "What?" Dixter was incredulous.
    "How much does the job pay, my lord?" Jamil re-
peated. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other.
"I figure, say ... twice what Sakuta was prepared to
pay us ....
    "Don't bother with the brig. Throw him out the air
lock, John," General Hanson said.
    "Calm down, Irma," John Dixter returned. He put the
tips of his fingers together. "There's the small matter

of kidnapping and murder charges. The small matter of
impersonating an officer in His Majesty's Army. The
small matter of working for an enemy of the state. What
do you think this job is worth to you, Khizr?"
 Jamil sat up straight. "My skin, sir?"
 "Your skin, Khizr."
 "Plus expenses," Jamil added.
    Dixter stared, then he started to chuckle. He caught
himself, rubbed his eyes, drew in a deep breath. "All
right, Khizr. Plus expenses. Tell Xris to send me a bill."
The Lord Admiral activated the commlink.
    The door slid open. The admiral's adjutant entered,
saluted. "Yes, my lord,"
    "Take Khizr and get him something to eat and drink.
Fill him in on all the details of this job, tell him what
he's supposed to do. Good luck, Khizr." The admiral
rose to his feet. He was no longer laughing. "I can't
begin to tell you how critical this assignment is. If you
fail, God help you."
    "God help us all," General Hanson intoned. She no
longer looked fierce. She looked just plain worried.
    "Yes, my lord. Yes, ma'am," said Jamil, subdued. He
stood up, started instinctively to salute, as Sir John and
General Hanson departed. He stopped himself just in
time, changed the salute to an awkward scratching of
his jaw.
    He remained standing until the Lord Admiral and the
general had left the room through a side door.
    "If you'll come with me, Colonel Jatanski," Tusk said,
motioning Jamil toward the open door, where stood the
two armed Marines.
 Jamil had had enough. "Look, I'm not--"
    "Not ready to leave yet, sir?" Tusk interrupted.
"Sorry, colonel, but I'm afraid your time's up."
    Jamil sighed. He knew when he was licked. "Very
well. Carry on, Commander."
 Tusk was grave. "Yes, Colonel, sir. This way, sir."
    Jami} walked out the door. The armed Marines fell
in behind.

CHAPT[R
       19

ú . . the articulate and audible voice of the Past...

Thomas Carlyle, The Hero and Hero Worship

At just about the time Xris was dreaming of robots
with human eyes doing irreparable damage to
spaceplane engines, and Jamil was sweating it out with
Lord Admiral Dixter, a human named Jeffrey Grant,
who lived in another part of the galaxy and who had
never heard of the planet Pandor and who only knew
the Lord Admiral from the news vids, was taking his
usual morning stroll to work.
    Grant lived on a world known as XIO, short for some
number that had been assigned to it by ancient explor-
ers. It says a great deal for the creativity and originality
of XIO's inhabitants that they had never bothered to
come up with anything different. The planet was rich in
mineral resources and was therefore heavily industrial-
ized. Factories belched untold poisons into the air, the
people breathed them and breathed money. Profit was
king. Pollution laws were nonexistent and, to be honest,
XIO polluted wasn't much worse than XIO in pristine
condition.
    Its people were hardworking, no-nonsense, solid
union, and almost predominantly members of the middle
class. The few wealthy business magnates who ran XIO
did not live there. As for the poor, XIO was proud to
boast that, like Adonia, their world did not have any
poor. On XIO, if you were union, you had a job, or you

were retired and living off your pension. If you were not
union, you didn't belong on XIO.
    Jeffrey Grant had been a union worker for thirty-five
of the fifty-five years of his life. Now he was retired and,
because he had no family, was able to live quite well on
the generous pension plan his union provided. He was
a gray man in appearance. His hair was gray, he wore
gray off-the-rack suits. His eyes had probably started out
blue but had now faded. His complexion had a grayish
tinge to it, but that may have been due to the dust and
soot of his environment. He was short, inclined to be tubby
around the waist, with a preoccupied smile and a benign
expression. A gray, ordinary man, you would guess.
    You would be wrong. Jeffrey Grant was a man with
an obsession.
 He was obsessed with space flight.
    Grant had been a pilot of sorts, his job having con-
sisted of flying an orbital shuttle from one side of XIO
to the other. Lesser minds might refer to Grant as more
bus driver than pilot. Grant never argued the matter,
but merely responded with a secret smile which implied
a wealth of adventures equivalent to those of any Royal
Navy hotshot and known only to Grant himself. Such
secret adventures did exist, if only in the head of Jef-
frey Grant.
    A quiet, somewhat shy, and retiring man, Grant had
entertained himself on the long shuttle flights by imagin-
ing his Ladybird orbital transport was a sleek fighter and
that he was the flying ace of every major space combat
battle from the time of the Black Earth forward. His
shuttle bus never deviated from its set course, its fixed
speed. It was run by computer. Grant had little to do
but watch the stars flit past him.
    Jeffrey Grant saw more than stars. Jeffrey Grant saw
squadrons of Scimitars swooping in to attack the planet
in the name of some rogue dictator. He saw Claymore
bombers fly off to do battle for the new king. He saw
deadly dogfights between Flamberge bombers and Cora-
sian fighters. He saw Jeffrey Grant, in his Scimitar or
his Claymore or his Flamberge. He saw Jeffrey Grant,
the wing commander.

    Since the hated Corasians--who were on the other
side of the galaxy--never attacked XIO, Grant never
had a chance to put his dream into action. Considering
that his shuttle bus was not armed, this was probably
just as well. He didn't really want the Corasians to at-
tack, nor did he particularly want XIO to fall to a blood-
thirsty dictator. But he did admit to a feeling of
disappointment that the most exciting thing to have hap-
pened to him in thirty years of space piloting was the
malfunction of the toilets on the shuttle bus, which had
resulted in a flood of a most unpleasant nature.
    He spent thirty-five years piloting the shuttle bus by
day, piloting Scimitars on his flight simulator by night.
When retirement was forced upon him at age fifty-five
by a benevolent union, which needed to make room for
younger employees, he was provided with an adequate
pension. In addition, Grant had quite a tidy sum of money
saved, all of which enabled him to make at least one of
his dreams come true. He opened a space museum.
    His museum was as different from the Megapolis
Space and Aeronautics Museum as Grant's shuttle bus
was different from a sleek Katana fighter prototype. The
museum was located in a dusty storefront on a side
street in a part of the city that no tourist in his right
mind would have any inclination to visit. This was per-
haps just as well, since Grant neither liked nor trusted
tourists, and if any happened to wander into his mu-
seum-perhaps to use the bathroom--he did his best to
get rid of them.
    He had on display in his museum various antiques
from bygone eras of space travel which he had collected
over the years. These included boost engines from an
original Arc-Class Terraforming Transport, two small
Type F-66 fighter spaceplanes with no guns. (Originally
in service with the Galactic Express, the spaceplanes had
been painted bright orange. Grant had repainted them
their original gray.) He was the proud possessor of a
jump-juice distillery (not in working order) and owned
innumerable flight and computer instruments from very
early space flight in various stages of disrepair.
 Grant spent his days dusting his treasures, poring over

his books and old papers, playing games on his flight
simulators (he owned forty-seven), and browsing
through vid antique catalogs, searching for material to
add to his collection.
    A new arrival was expected today, in fact. A gun site
simulator for a Scimitar Type A, still in working condi-
tion. Grant smiled in pleasant anticipation.
    The morning was fine--a rare commodity on XIO.
The sun struggled to shine through a haze of smoke and
fumes, but at least the sun was shining. Grant enjoyed
his short stroll between his small brownstone and the
museum. He nodded the usual greetings to his neighbors
(he'd never spoken to any of them in the twenty-five
years he'd lived in the neighborhood, except once, when
the house next door caught fire, and then he felt com-
pelled the next day to politely inquire if anyone needed
a blanket).
    His part of the city was a very old part, containing
crumbling brick buildings that had once housed impor-
tant firms, but were now reduced to selling adult rids
and renting out clown costumes. It was the last place
one would have expected to find a museum. Grant con-
sidered himself lucky to have discovered it.
    He inserted the key into the lock of the wooden door,
pausing as he paused every morning to admire the gold
lettering on the glass pane which read: GR^~*'S ^m ^NO
SPACE MUSEUM2 AN OUT-OF-THE-WORLD EXPERIENCE.
Pleased with the sign and himself and the sunshine, look-
ing forward to a day filled with dusting and puttering,
unpacking and perusing, Grant opened the door and
switched on the overhead light. Something was wrong.
    Jeffrey Grant didn't know quite what yet, but he was
so attuned and accustomed to the atmosphere of his
quiet little museum that the slightest change registered
instantly. He stood in the door, nervous and wary, trying
to figure out what was disturbing him. A first cursory
glance around the room seemed to indicate that all was
exactly as he had left it the night before.
    Of course, he couldn't see every part of the museum
from where he stood; the one-room museum was filled

from floor to ceiling with his collection, and what portion
the helmets and gloves and hull plates from rocket
boosters and instruments did not take up, his books and
papers did. The book he'd been reading was still on the
vidscreen; his prized artifact--a graduation ring from the
Mars Terran-Command Flight School--was still in its
glass case. He hadn't been robbed.
 Yet something was most definitely wrong.
    Standing, alarmed and troubled, in the open doorway,
Grant deliberated his next move.
 He decided, on consideration, to shut the door.
    This done, he was immediately cognizant of a strange
sound, a high-pitched and annoying hum that had not
been there yesterday, nor any days prior to yesterday.
    He relaxed, relieved, no longer alarmed, merely an-
noyed. The furnace was old enough to have almost qual-
ified as an exhibit. It required constant attention and
was a considerable source of trouble to him. True, the
furnace had never made a sound like this before, but
Grant was confident that it could if it truly put its mind
to it. Muttering mild imprecations, he made his way
through the clutter to the back of the room, opened a
door, and began to descend to the cellar, where the fur-
nace was located.
    He stopped halfway down the stairs, puzzled. The
sound, instead of growing louder, as it should have if
the furnace was the source, was growing softer. Grant
paused on the staircase, head cocked to one side, lis-
tening intently. Yes, the hum was not nearly as pro-
nounced down here as it had been up above.
    Grant experimented, walked down to the bottom of the
stairs. He could not hear the hum at all. He checked the
furnace, just to be certain. The furnace was not at fault.
    "I see," said Grant to himself. "Sorry," he apologized
to the furnace, then turned and went back up the stairs.
"It must be one of the computers. Or maybe I forgot to
shut off the flight sim."
    He knew that wasn't the case. Grant was a creature
of habit. (It had taken him a week, following his retire-
ment, to break himself of the habit of going work. He'd
finally accomplished this only by writing the words NOT

NEEDED on a large placard and posting it on his refriger-
ator.) Grant habitually turned off the flight simulators
every time he was through with them. If not, his electric
bill--already substantial--would have been astro-
nomical.
    He stepped out into the museum. The hum was dis-
tinctly audible.
    Methodically, Grant checked all the computers, then
began walking down the line of flight simulators that
took up one entire wall. He turned each one on, listened
to it, turned it off, and moved to the next. He was fairly
certain that they were not to blame; he had excellent
hearing and the hum seenled to be coming from another
part of the room. It was best to rule out the obvious,
however, before investigating further. He was switching
off the twenty-third simulator when it occurred to him--
rather uncomfortably--that the hum might be the pre-
lude to something nastier. An explosion, perhaps.
    Grant wavered in his determination to check out all
the rest of the flight simulators. He looked about fear-
fully, thinking he should carry all his valuables out of
the building, but that would take days. Then he thought
he would only carry out his most valuable artifacts, but
that meant choosing between them, and that was impos-
sible. Then he thought that perhaps he should call in an
expert. But ... an expert in what? Annoying hums? Per-
haps he should call the police, firemen. He had a vision
of the firemen, with their laser cutters and foam canisters
and water hoses, entering his beloved museum, and he
shuddered. He'd rather be blown up.
    It was at this point, during his dithering and his fitful
darts to grab something beloved, only to put it down
distractedly to pick up something else, only to put that
down and finally head for the phone in back, only to
reconsider and pause in confusion, that Jeffrey Grant
saw the light.
    It was a blue light and it was flashing on an antique
machine, an ancient antique machine, a machine that
was one of Jeffrey Grant's most valuable artifacts, a ma-
chine that--as far as he had been able to ascertain--had

not worked in centuries. This was the machine that was
flashing. This was also the machine that was humming.
    Grant stared, began to tremble, as if an icon of a duti-
fully worshiped saint had suddenly begun shedding tears
of blood. He approached the machine--which had a cor-
ner location of honor all to itself--with timorous foot-
steps, regarded it with reverential awe.
    He had acquired the machine several years previous.
It was very old and had run off electrical power supplied
by lines run through the walls. No building on XIO oper-
ated with such antiquated equipment; Grant was forced
to hook the machine up to a nuclear-powered battery.
The cost of the battery had been considerable, but Grant
deemed it worth the price. The machine had a large text
screen on the front, and though it had never displayed
any information, Grant kept it turned on. The screen
cast a soft glow which bathed the back portion of the
room in white luminescence. In other words, Grant used
the machine for a lamp.
    The machine was truly antique. It had a keyboard in-
terface on the front with a track-ball built into the key-
board. The central memory and functioning hardware
were housed in a small box attached behind the key-
board. The front of the box was avid unit that provided
the wonderful white glow. Along the side were six small
lights, about two centimeters in diameter. One of these
lights was flashing a bright blue this morning.
    Grant was careful not to touch the machine; he was
afraid he might do something wrong, might cause it to
shut off. He examined the machine closely, intently,
studied every part of it, rotating it by turning its stand
in order to see the back.
    Finished with his inspection, he regarded the machine
in doubt. He had read up on the machine, knew all
about it, what it did, why it did it, was completely famil-
iar with its workings, and there was only one logical
explanation as to why it had suddenly begun, after all
these years of silence, to speak.
    But that explanation was so bizarre, so strange, so
impossible, that Grant had to consider some other cause.

More practical, less wonderful: a malfunction, a short in
the wiring, a lightning strike.
    He wanted so much to believe. He wanted to fall
down on his knees and give praise. And therefore he
knew he had to consult some higher authority. He had
to prove the saint's tears were blood, as it were, not
streaks of rust.
    Leaving the machine to hum to itself--a hum that was,
for Grant, no longer annoying, but a chorusing of
angels--he headed for the reference library part of his
museum. He was forced to stop, however, to calm him-
self. His heart was racing in a most unhealthy fashion,
his hands shook, the palms were clammy with sweat. He
began to see spots in his vision and was horribly afraid
he was going to pass out.
    "Get hold of yourself, sir," he counseled himself
sternly. "I expect you to set the example for the younger
pilots. Enemy sighted. Lock onto target."
    Since the only people with whom Grant communi-
cated were the fellow pilots and commanders inside his
space games, he was used to talking to them and inter-
acting with them. He took all the parts and, in this in-
stance, considered himself as being chewed out by his
commander.
    The momentary dizziness passed. Grant felt better. He
locked onto his target--the bookcase--and proceeded
toward it. Once there, he studied the shining metallic
disks in their plastic cases, selected three, pulled them
out and carried them to his computer. He inserted the
first, brought up the file.
    He spent the remainder of the day in study so intense
and rewarding and exalting that he lost all notion of
time, forgot even to eat his baloney and mustard sand-
wich for lunch, something that had not happened in
thirty-five years. He ascended to a higher state, reveled
in the ecstasy of his discovery, forgot everything on the
more mundane levels of existence.
    How long he would have remained at his work is open
to question, Mankind being heir to the weaknesses of
the flesh, Jeffrey Grant was brought back to this realm

rather abruptly by the rude insistence of his bladder that
he go to the bathroom and that he go now.
    Returning from the communal bathroom he shared
with the other tenants of the building (or would have
shared had there been any other tenants)~ Grant glanced
out a window and was astonished to see the sun was
sinking low into the smokestacks. The machine was still
flashing, still humming. Grant knew that it would con-
tinue to flash, continue to hum. He knew that it was not
going to explode. His faith had been rewarded.
    "Good work, men." He congratulated his squadron of
research material.
    Walking over to the machine, with which he now felt
sufficiently aquainted to be able to call it by its correct
name: Collimated Command Receiver Unit. Grant gave
it a moment of reverent, silent respect. His research had
proven that the miracle wasn't so miraculous, but this
had not lessened his awe. If anything, it had enhanced
it. He had formed a theory as to why the unit had sud-
denly been activated. His theory was perfectly sound,
borne out by his research, and if what he theorized was
true, then he stood a chance of making one of the great-
est scientific finds of this millennium.
    First, Jeffrey Grant must find the courage inside him-
self to touch the unit. He must type in the correct com-
mand sequence to engage the Command Decoder. Just
placing his fingertips on the keys of the machine, such
an old machine, was a sin of immeasurable scale, but
Grant reminded himself that this was for a greater good.
This was a Command Receiver Unit. It was now receiw
ing. The manuals described the method by which Grant
could ask the unit for the coordinates of the device
which was sending the signal which had caused his Colli-
mated Command Receiver Unit to flash its message-
received light.
    What Grant was about to do was something he had
never before done in his life, something he had never
considered doing, something that, with all his imagining,
he'd never imagined himself doing. Picking up the ma-
chine, handling it with extraordinary care and gentleness,
Grant rested his trembling fingers on the keyboard.

After a few moments of impotence, when his fingers
refused to obey the admittedly weak orders coming from
his brain, Grant regained hold of himself. He typed in
the requisite series of commands. The screen went dark.
    Grant experienced a moment of fear that would have
served him well had he ever faced any Corasian fighters.
    And then the screen returned to life. Information
scrolled rapidly past his wondering gaze. The scrolling
stopped.
    He didn't understand most of it, but he didn't need
to understand most of it. All he needed was a number,
and there it was, at the bottom of the screen.
    Grant copied the number onto a pad, took the pad to
his personal computer, pulled up a stellar map, and
typed in the numbers he had on the pad. The computer
gave him his answer.
    He then placed the unit in the old worn leather con-
tainer in which it had been originally found, strapped
the straps, made certain the unit was still humming. He
slid the three disks into a pocket of the leather case.
After a moment's consideration on proper wording, he
wrote a note stating: "Closed. Indefinitely."
    He put on his hat and coat and left the museum--a
full half hour ahead of his usual time. Shutting the door,
he locked it, slid the key into his pocket, and posted the
note on the glass.
    This done, he stood a moment on the sidewalk, feeling
tense and light-headed and buoyant and nervous and,
above all, determined.
    "You can do it, Captain," he said to himself. "The
admiral has every confidence in you."
    Tightening his grip on the machine's case, which was
heavy and rather awkward to carry, Grant walked down
the sidewalk. In the distance was his home.
 He took a right--not a left--at the corner.
    He did not go home. He went to an automated bank,
removed his entire life savings from his account, in-
dulged in a taxi ride to the nearest spaceport, and rented
a spaceplane.
    "Destination?" the attendant asked Grant, handing
back his pilot's license.
 "Pandor," said Jeffrey Grant.

CHRPIER

Now the dang robot's a-wearin' my shoes.
I got the robot blues...

Anonymous, "Robot Blues"

The robot was no longer confused. It had received an
answer to its signal. The Doctor had responded. Di-
rections were given. The robot knew now what it was
supposed to do, if not necessarily how to go about
doing it.
    The robot had been busy during the night it had spent
in the packing crate. It had taken the opportunity pro-
vided it by the Rescuer to assimilate the situation, deter-
mine what had happened in the past, decide how best
to proceed in the present. Also, during this time, the
robot set its programming to work, studying the un-
known speech pattern of the Rescuer in an attempt to
open channels of communication, should that eventuality
become necessary.
    The robot did a complete scan of its own memory
banks, starting from the time that memory had been ini-
tiated, up to the present. It had a memory of the Doctor,
whose commands must be obeyed without question, al-
though the 'bot was free to use its own determination
on how best to carry out those commands. It had a mem-
ory of its spaceplane--a nonentity, as far as the robot
was concerned; a mindless machine that did what it was
told to do in a plodding manner, had nothing to say for

itself, and was incapable of acting on its own. The robot
also had a memory of that spaceplane being shot down.
    The Doctor had Enemies. Information on the Enemy
had been entered into the robot. Information on evading
the Enemy had been entered into the spaceplane.
 If approached, retreat.
 If fired upon, retreat.
 If hit, self-destruct.
 At all costs, avoid capture.
    The robot had no difficulty with these orders, but the
spaceplane did, apparently. The plane had been both
approached and fired upon. The spaceplane had been
unable to retreat and should have blown up itself and
the robot. Destruction had not occurred, with the result
that the plane had plummeted down through the atmo-
sphere, ended up by burrowing nose-first into an enor-
mous sand dune. To give the plane credit, it had
attempted to self-destruct, but something had gone
wrong. The robot did not know this, however, and had,
in its report--recorded on the way down---castigated the
plane quite severely.
    At this point, the robot noted a blip in its memory.
Nothing really very serious, rather like a hiccup, but
there was definitely a segment of time missing. The robot
determined that this blip must have been due to damage
sustained in the crash. It had detected a loose connector
in its neural pathway circuitry. Logic dictated that the
loose connector had been put back into place by the
first Rescuer, when that Rescuer found the robot in the
storage closet.
    As to what the robot had been doing in the storage
compartment--that was uncertain. The 'bot's last mem-
ory before the blip was of the plane descending at a
steep angle, the robot sliding across the deck, the storage
closet door flying open, sudden darkness, and nothing.
 Until the Rescuers.
    In the event that any of the robots ran into trouble,
the Doctor had provided them with a "help" signal. The
cry for help was not general, it would not bring ships
from all over the quadrant to the rescue. The cry was
specific, would reach only the Doctor and his team. The

robot sent out its call for help as the spaceplane
descended.
    Then came the slide into the closet, the crash, the
momentary blank-out. Then the Rescuer, with repairs.
    The robot found it impressive that help arrived so
quickly. And it noted, in its report, that haste was proba-
bly the reason the Rescuers acted in such a peculiar
and illogical manner. The robot also noted, for future
reference, that it would be useful if the Rescuers spoke
a language which the robot was programmed to
traderstand.
    Looking back on its encounter with the Rescuers, the
robot could make very little sense out of what had hap-
pened. However, since the incident involved humans,
this was only to be expected.
    Rescuer A had discovered the robot in the closet, re-
paired the robot, and then, instead of bringing the robot
out of the closet, had entered the closet with the robot.
    When Rescuer B had arrived on the scene--standing
outside the damaged plane and yelling something unin-
telligible-the robot had started to leave the plane to go
to the Rescuer--as it was programmed to do. Rescuer
A, for some unknown reason, had attempted to keep
the robot inside the closet.
    This was illogical. The robot was not going to be able
to perform its functions inside the closet. And so it had
left. Detaching the arm onto which the Rescuer was
holding, the robot had floated through the damaged
plane, had reached the open hatch. The robot had con-
fronted Rescuer B, who had then behaved in the most
illogical manner thus far recorded.
  Rescuer B had screamed and run away.
  Really, the Doctor needed to hire better help.
    The robot had spoken to Rescuer A, who did not
understand. Rescuer A had spoken to the robot~ who
did not understand. The robot had scanned Rescuer A,
discovered it to be a mixture of human parts and ma-
chine parts--a cyborg. The robot had set about re-
cording the cyborg's speech, storing it away, analyzing it
in order to learn the language.
  The Rescuer had been able to communicate his wishes

to the robot by means of gestures. The robot was able
to deduce that the Rescuer wanted the 'bot to accom-
pany him. The logic for this move became apparent
when the robot saw the storage crate.
 Which was where the robot was now.
 But not for long.
    Safely tucked away inside the storage crate, the robot
assumed it would be placed aboard a plane in order that
it could, once more, commence with its duties.
    The robot was extremely discomfited when it found
its crate being deposited in what its scanners revealed to
be some sort of storage facility for broken-down
machinery!
    The robot was willing to give the Rescuer the benefit
of the doubt. The Rescuer obviously thought the robot
was in need of repair, did not realize that the robot was
designed to repair itself. Which reminded the robot--it
was missing its #20 arm. It needed to make a note to
have the arm replaced. This accomplished, the robot
beamed its customary signal to the Doctor. Do I have
my orders straight? Am I supposed to return to duty?
    Ordinarily the response was immediate. This time, the
wait was rather longer and, when the response came, it
was extremely weak. Investigation revealed that the sig-
nal was emanating from a different portion of the galaxy.
The signal was clear, however. The robot was to carry
on.
    Escaping from the storage crate was easy. The robot
selected a tool built into one of its many arms, adjusted
a valve, which caused the air pressure inside the com-
partment to increase. The pressure grew until the lid on
the storage container popped loose. Using a second arm,
and a levering device, the robot pried the lid of the con-
tainer open. Activating its air jets, the robot floated out.
The 'bot reattached its arm, then closed the lid to the
crate. The crate had been really quite comfortable. The
robot did not want all these strange-looking machines
sitting around the crate to contaminate it.
    Once free of the crate, the robot began its search for
a suitable transport spaceplane. The robot's spectrum

analyzer isolated no less than forty different space-to-
tower communications. A launch facility must be nearby.
    The robot tucked its twenty arms up inside its head
and soared off in the direction of the communications
tower of the spacefield.

CHnPTER

Grasp the subject, the words will follow.

Marcus Porcius Cato, Ars Rhetorica, I

"The topic of this lecture, is 'Foreign Object Damage
    /to Spaceplane Engines. I regret"--Xris paused, re-
peated himself, with emphasis--"I truly regret the fact
that Colonel Jatanski, who is an acknowledged authority
on this subject and who was supposed to be here today
to deliver this lecture, was called away last night to serve
at a court-martial proceeding. It has fallen to me to carry
on in the colonel's absence. I'll . . . do the best I can,"
Xris concluded, and, because he'd moved his head too
close to the antiquated mike, the last statement was lost
in ear-piercing feedback. "Oh, sorry."
    Xris stepped back hastily from the mike, nearly fell
off the rostrum. He caught himself by grasping hold of
the podium. In the audience, Tess ducked her head, put
her hand over her mouth to smother her laughter. Xris
recalled what she'd said yesterday about imagining the
audience completely naked. Contrary to popular opin-
ion, this did nothing to help his composure.
    Unfortunately for Xris, the turnout for the lecture was
quite good. He'd been nursing a secret hope that no
one would show up. He couldn't understand why anyone
would want to attend who wasn't ordered to do so. A
few whispered words exchanged with Tess prior to the
speech gave him the explanation.

    "Life is so boring on Pandor that any break in the
routine, even a speech on foreigners stuck in spaceplane
engines"--she had grinned at him--"is a welcome
change! I predict a sellout crowd."
    "Wonderful," Xris had muttered. "You know what 1
said yesterday about fainting during show-and-tell, that
wasn't exactly the truth. I didn't faint. I threw up."
    "You're not joking, are you?" Tess had regarded him
in concern. "You really hate this. It'll be over soon. I'll
buy you a drink later."
    "After last night, I may never drink again. You made
it back okay? The MPs didn't stop you?"
    "No, but then they weren't trying real hard. How
about you?"
    "They had me surrounded," Xris had told her.
"Brought me in at gunpoint. I asked to be locked up in
the brig for life, but they said no, my sentence was to
give a speech."
    Tess had laughed, kissed him lightly on the cheek "for
luck," and had gone to sit next to her roommates.
    The small auditorium held about two hundred people
and, as Tess had predicted, it was practically a sellout.
Someone in back shut the doors leading into the audito-
rium. The crowd settled down, if not to enjoy the speech,
at least to find some amusement in the discomfiture of
the speaker.
    Xris opened his mouth. His voice cracked. He
coughed, cleared his throat, and looked around ner-
vously. "If I could ... uh ... have a glass of water?"
    Colonel Strebbins himself rose from the seats in the
front row to pour Xris a drink, placed it next to him on
the podium. He patted Xris on the back, said gently
"You're doing fine, Captain," and resumed his seat.
    "Thank you, sir," Xris mumbled. He looked down at
JamiFs notes, which now appeared to have been written
in hieroglyphs. He could make nothing of them.
    Lifting his head, he looked again out into the audience
and was immediately sorry he'd done so. His panicked
thoughts flitted to the time he'd gone behind enemy
lines. sneaked into a Corasian "meat locker" to rescue
his estranged wife. He was being hunted by the deadly,

flesh-devouring aliens. Breaking out of their robotic
cases, the fiery orange blobs oozed across the floor
toward him. He fired at them, but they kept coming ....
    Xris stared into the flesh-devouring eyes of his audi-
ence and would have liked to do now what he had
done then.
 Run. Run like hell.
    Colonel Strebbins gave a polite cough. "Anytime
you're ready, Captain."
    Xris gulped down more water, sucked in a breath, acti-
vated the holographic display, and launched into his
speech.
    "Er, um, as you well know, the delicate Clormin
Turbocharged Hyper Velocity Spaceplane Engine used
on the lighter spaceplanes can be a difficult maintenance
job. Even when working correctly, the engine can act up
for a variety of reasons. Now let's imagine ..."
    Xris paused, fumbled with the controls, and finally
brought up the first holograph--a beautiful human fe-
male clad in the uniform of a maintenance worker, hold-
ing a soft-drink can. A Dirk fighter was warming up in
the background.
    "Let's imagine," Xris continued, "what would happen
if our corporal here were to let go of that Coke can .... "
    Xris shifted to the next holographic image, which
showed the same Dirk fighter, smoke billowing out the
engine port, and the beautiful woman running for her life.
The audience was highly amused, and someone in the back
gave the holographic woman a cheer to spur her on.
    Colonel Strebbins turned, glared at the unknown of-
fender. The audience quieted.
    Xris lost his place. By the time he found it, he had
decided that the best thing he could do was get this over
with as quickly as possible.
"Just imagine what a plasma retainer screw or ..."
Proceeding at a rapid pace, without any real idea of
what he was saying, he tried, at all cost, to avoid looking
at his audience. He kept his gaze fixed on his notes in
order not to lose his place again. But the sound of the
door opening at the back of the auditorium drew his

attention. A man in uniform was attempting to sneak
in quietly.
    The door shut behind the man. Xris went back to his
notes. Suddenly he realized who the man was. Xris
looked up in astonishment. What he had been going to
say dribbled away to an incoherent burble,
    Dr. Bill Quong, wearing the uniform of any Army
medical officer, attach6 case in hand, was seating himself
in the back row. Quong might have made some hand
sign to Xris, but at that moment Colonel Strebbins, at-
tracted by the sound of the door opening, again whipped
around to glare at whoever was interrupting.
    Seeing a strange medical officer, Strebbins stared,
turned to his aide, whispered something.
    The aide glanced back, spotted Quong, who gave a
slight nod of apology and subsided into a seat. Shrug-
ging, the aide turned back to the colonel, who shrugged
and turned back to Xris.
    Xris had no idea what Quong was doing here. Why
had he come? How had he known that the job had gone
sour? Xris wasn't at all sure he was glad to see him. The
fewer of them involved in this mess, the better.
    The audience began to stir restlessly. Xris tried to re-
member where he'd left off, didn't have a clue. In at-
tempting to bring up the next holograph image, he
accidentally shut off the machine and had no idea how
to start it again. Choosing a place in the notes that
looked as good as any, he began to speak. By the time
he'd reached the third sentence, he realized he was re-
peating himself. At that point, it didn't matter. He
floundered on.
    "Uh, oh, yes, sorry, I said that already. Yes. Urn, now,
about those pesky turbine blades twirling around to keep
the reactor core, um, well, cool, and then this object
comes hurtling in, sucked in by the air intake, and strik-
ing the blades. Catastrophic results would occur. The
object might glance off the blades and impact the plasma
bottle, causing ..."
    The door opened again. Xris continued talking during
this second interruption, fighting gamely to retain his
hold on his audience. He had no idea what he was say-

ing, but it didn't matter, because no one was listening to
him. The colonel had again turned to see who was enter-
ing late and this time his stare attracted the attention of
everyone in the room.
    An excessively tall and extremely thin humanoid,
whose skin had assumed the same gray shade as his uni-
form, stood just inside the door. Tycho spotted Quong,
pretended not to see him, took a seat at the aisle. The
people next to him immediately moved a seat or two
away. Not because they were prejudiced against aliens,
but because Tycho wore the gray uniform of the branch
of the military known as Unconventional Warfare. The
insignia on his shirt identified him as a SyOps with
BCW--Biological and Chemical Warfare.
    BCWs were notoriously unpopular, being generally
suspected of harboring all sorts of deadly viruses.
    Tycho folded his long body into the chair, which was
not made for "chameleons," and sat, arms and legs
akimbo, his knees practically up to his shoulders.
    "What the hell is he doing here?" Colonel Strebbins
demanded of his aide in a voice that was meant to be
low but--due to the excellent acoustics--carried
throughout the auditorium.
    "Possibly something to do with contamination ... the
crash site ..." his aide was heard to respond.
    Xris plunged loudly forward. "And, um, then there is
always the problem of indigenous life acting as foreign
objects being ingested into the intake of a spaceplane.
One small sakira lizard sleeping in the engine cowling
could cause ..."
    Tess was gazing at him. She wasn't smiling; she looked
... bemused.
    Xris was feeling bemused himself. Fortunately, due to
unintentionally cutting out three paragraphs, he had ar-
rived at the halfway point. The end in sight, he was
racing on to the finish when he heard several members
of the audience start to snicker. A faint scent, as of or-
ange blossoms, wafted through the air.
    Xris jerked his head up. The door at the rear re-
mained shut. No one had walked in. But the audience

was now chuckling. People pointed to something hap-
pening on the stage behind Xris.
 Colonel Strebbins, eyes bulging, gaped.
 Xris turned to look over his shoulder.
    Raoul was mincing across the stage on tiptoe. Seeing
himself noticed, he halted, waved a delicate hand.
"Don't mind me."
"Who the devil are you7" Strebbins demanded.
"Ah, Colonel, darling." Raoul advanced to the front
of the stage. He was dressed in a uniform that, by its
tailored cut and elegant material, was obviously not
Army issue. His hat sat at a jaunty and strictly nonregu-
lation angle on his head. His salute, accompanied by a
wiggle of his hips, brought down the house.
    "Corporal de Beausoleil. Morale Troops. Here for next
week's show. Just thought I'd sneak a peek at the stage. I
had no idea anyone was in here. Silly me! Carry on, Cap-
tain," he said to Xris. "So sorry to interrupt. Bye."
    With a kiss of his hand, he left the stage, to the accom-
paniment of whistles and cheers. Colonel Strebbins's
aide rose to his feet and turned to face the crowd, which
suddenly fell silent.
    Xris sought refuge in another glass of water. He had
seen, in the wings, the Little One peering at him from
beneath the fedora. Xris opened his mouth when the
door at the rear of the auditorium banged open.
    At this point, Xris wouldn't have been surprised if His
Majesty the King had entered. The sight of Harry Luck,
wearing a Naval pilot's flight suit, his helmet dangling
by a strap from his hand, his flight suit torn and ripped,
a trickle of blood running down his face, didn't phase
Xris in the least.
    Harry dashed in, saw Xris, saw the audience--every
one of whom had turned at the sound of the door bang-
ing to stare at this new arrival.
    Harry's jaw sagged; his mouth fell open. He flushed a
deep and unhealthy shade of red. Dr. Quong was on his
feet, taking charge of the situation. Grasping Harry
firmly by the arm, the doctor led the big man to a seat,
shoved him into it.

    "Even the Navy showed up to hear this speech,"
Strebbins said, awed.
    The audience was having a hard time settling back
down. Judging by their grins, this was the most fun
they'd experienced in a year. Under cover of the whis-
pers, coughs, and muffled laughter, Dr. Quong frowned,
leaned over to Harry, said something on the order of
"What the devil do you think you're doing?"
    Harry, looking aggrieved, responded. Xris knew ex-
actly what the big man was saying.
 "But I heard Xris was in trouble ..."
    Xris pitched out two pages of notes, found the ending,
delivered it.
    "And, in conclusion, I just want to apologize for the
fact that, due to the lack of time, I am unable to show
you the exhibits I brought with me. I leave you with this
important reminder: FOD, or Foreign Object Damage,
cannot only kill you, it can ruin an otherwise clean main-
tenance record!"
    The audience, in a good humor, gave Xris a rousing
round of applause. Most even remained in their chairs
a few extra seconds, obviously hoping for more.
    The colonel ascended the stage, congratulated Xris on
a fine job, shook his hand. "Sorry about the interrup-
tions," the colonel said. "1 had no idea this topic would
prove so popular!"
"Me either, sir," Xris said with heartfelt sincerity.
He tried to catch Quong's eye, but the Doc was deep
in a low-voiced conversation with Harry. Tycho was on
his feet, moving to the back of the auditorium. Xris had
no idea where Raoul and the Little One had gone,
though obviously not far. He could still smell orange
blossoms.
    "We'll have you back next year," the colonel
promised.
    Turning on his heel, he walked up the aisle, headed for
the door. The other officers filed out behind him. The en-
listed personnel were on their feet, waiting their turn. Xris
cast a quick look about for Tess, but couldn't find her.
    The colonel had just reached the back of the audito-
rium when the door opened yet again.

 Jamil walked in.
Xris didn't know whether to kiss him or slug him.
"Colonel Jatanski!" Colonel Strebbins was enthusias-
tic. "You just missed it. Captain Kergonan did a fine
job. A fine job. I guess the court-martial proceedings
were pretty rough, huh? You don't look as if you'd slept
much. You can tell me all about it at dinner."
    Jamil mumbled something unintelligible. The colonel
took a close look at the new arrivals. Dr. Quong and
Tycho both saluted smartly. Harry saluted, but only after
Quong elbowed him in the ribs.
    The colonel made a short speech of welcome,
walked out.
    Jamil, carrying a metal briefcase, shoved his way
through the departing audience, continued down the
aisle. Handsome, suave, urbane, Jamil invariably looked
as if he'd just stepped through the doors of a modeling
agency. Now he looked as if he'd just stepped through
the gates of hell. His handsome features were soft and
blurred from fatigue, his eyes were bloodshot. His uni-
form was rumpled and sweat-stained. He didn't see
Tycho, though he walked right past him; didn't notice
Quong and Harry.
    Xris waited, tense and nervous, beside the podium.
Whatever had gone wrong had obviously gone wrong
big-time. The auditorium was emptying out. Quong,
Harry, and Tycho lingered behind, watching for a sign
from Xris, who--not knowing what was going on--de-
cided to leave them where they were, for the present.
    He would have given anything for a twist now, was
wondering if he might not be able to slip one into his
mouth when he felt something cold and hard press into
the small of his back.
 "This is a .10 decawatt lasgun," said a voice.
 Xris went rigid.
    "Continue to act naturally, Captain," the voice went
on. "Keep your hands where I can see them. You and
your friends are going to join me for a nice, quiet little
chat. But first you're going to answer one question."
    Tess jabbed Xris painfully in the back with the gun.
"What the hell have you done with the robot?"

CHRPTER

The past is but the beginning of a beginning and all
that is and has been is but the twilight of the
dawn.

H. G. Wells, The Discovery of the Future

"All right," said Xris, keepine his hands in plain sight,
    t"~"I think it s about time someone tells me jnst what
the hell is going on!"
    "Isn't that a coincidence," Tess said coolly, making
certain he continued to feel the pressure of the gun in
his back. "I was thinking the same thing. We'll wait right
here for those men of yours to come up to be intro-
duced. Oh, and don't worry about your pretty boy and
his funny little friend. I have them tied up at the back
of the stage."
    "What men? What pretty boy?" Xris asked in-
nocently.
 "Nice try, Captain. I've got files on all of you."
    The last of the base personnel were leaving the audito-
rium. Xris motioned. Harry, Quong, and Tycho started
to walk down the aisle toward the stage.
    Jamil arrived first. He looked at Tess, standing behind
and to one side of Xris, and put on a charming smile,
only slightly frayed around the edges. "Captain Strauss.
Good to see you again. If you would excuse us, Captain,
I'd like to talk to Captain Kergonan--"
    "Forget it," Xris said laconically. "She's got files on
all of us. Not to mention a gun in my back."

    Jamil dropped the smile. He eyed Tess. "She does,
huh?"
    "Yes," Xris said, shrugging. "Though I don't really
think she'd use it."
    Jamil grunted. "Yeah, well, think again. She's not reg-
ular Army. She's NI. Naval Intel. You're one of Dixter's
people, aren't you, Strauss?"
    "That's right," Tess returned crisply. "The first move
you make I don't like and I'll shoot. Nothing personal,
Xris," she added, her voice softening. "I had a lot of
fun last night."
    "Yeah, me, too," Xris said bitterly. "For someone
who was set up, I had a great time!"
    Tess shifted her attention to Jamil. "I take it you just
came back from your 'briefing' on board the King
James."
    Jamil nodded, wary. "My orders are to grab the robot
and be on the first spaceplane out. Take it straight to
Sakuta."
    "And, of course, that's what you were planning to
do," Tess said, her lip curling.
 "Certainly!" Jamil returned, scowling.
    "Sure you were. You called for all this backup to help
you carry the 'bot to the staff car. I think you're trying
to double-cross us. I think you're going to take off with
the 'bot yourselves. Make a tidy profit putting it up on
the open market."
    "Look, lady," Jamil growled, "after what I found out
about that 'bot, the only thing I want to do is fling it
out the air lock! As for calling in the team, how could
I? I've been on that mother of a command cruiser with
two trigger-happy Marines breathing down my neck the
entire time."
    "And i'd like to remind everyone that I still don't
know what's going on!" Xris said savagely. "Why would
I call in the team?"
 "Because you want the robot," Tess returned.
    "I don't even like the damn robot! It's got eyes. It
gives me the creeps. Look," Xris said, "there's a real
easy way to solve this." He glanced over his shoulder at
Tess. "You know everyone from our files, so that will

save long introductions. Tycho, Harry Luck, Dr. Bill
Quong.
    "Doc," Xris continued, as the rest of the team gath-
ered around him, "this woman, who is currently holding
a gun to my back, would like to know who told you to
come here and why."
    Dr. Quong raised an eyebrow. "I am with the Army
Medical Corp. I was told to report--"
    Jamil shook his head. "On the level, Doc. She has
files."
    "Oh. I see." Dr. Quong made Tess a formal bow. "I
was told to report to the military base on Pandor by a
colleague of mine, Raoul de Beausoleil."
    "Raoul called me, too, Xris," Harry offered. "He said
you were in some kind of trouble. I crashed my plane
getting here to rescue you."
    "You crashed the plane," Xris repeated. He knew the
answer, but he asked the question anyway. "Why?"
"I had to, Xris. They weren't going to let me land."
Xris sighed, glanced at Tycho. "What about you?"
"I spoke to Raoul. He stated that there was an emer-
gency and we were to meet here on the Army base on
Pandor."
    "Now, I wonder why Raoul--" Xris realized suddenly
that they were minus one team member. "Darlene!
Something's happened to Darlene!" Forgetting about
the gun, he started to turn, only to feel the barrel gouge
him painfully in the ribs. He held still, but he was rapidly
losing patience. "Look, Captain Strauss, the only way to
clear this up is to talk to Raoul."
    Tess hesitated, then said, "Come on. Back of the
stage. The four of you"--she motioned to Quong, Harry,
Jamil, and Tycho--"first. Remember that I have the
gun."
    Tycho gave Xris a look that said as plainly as if he'd
spoken through his translator. There are five of' us. We
can take her out.
    Xris shook his head emphatically. The agents for NI--
Naval Intelligence--were highly trained and dedicated
to their work. Tess meant what she said: she'd kill him
without hesitation. And then, of course, she'd be the

next to die. If everyone kept cool, they might all get out
of this alive.
     "Start walking," Tess ordered. "And you still haven't
answered my question about the robot."
  "It's someplace safe," Xris said,
  "Where?" Tess demanded.
    Xris shrugged. "After all, Captain, how the hell do I
know I can trust you? I don't suppose you have any
identification on you. Or maybe you could kiss me again.
Then I'll tell you all my secrets." "Just keep walking, Captain."
    Tess herded them all to the rear of the stage. Parting
the back curtains, they found Raoul seated in chair, his
wrists and ankles locked in disrupters, a gag in his
mouth. The Little One crouched on the floor beside his
friend. Disrupters were too big to fit on the small wrists
and ankles. His hands and feet were tied with what ap-
peared to be nylon stockings.
    Dr. Quong, on Tess's command, removed the gag
from Raoul's mouth, the disrupters from his hands and
feet. Quong untied the Little One.
    Raoul drew in a deep breath, let it out in an indignant
explosion. He pointed a quivering finger at Tess. "She
wiped off my lipstick!"
  "She's read your file," Xris said grimly.
    "Oh." Raoul thought this over, was considerably re-
lieved. "I'm glad it's that. I thought perhaps she was
making some sort of fashion statement. Which, consider-
ing her choice of--"
    "Can it!" Xris said irritably. "In case you haven't no-
ticed, she's holding a gun on me!"
    "Oh, I noticed," Raoul said, taking a mirror from his
handbag and attempting to assess the damage. "I
thought perhaps you were enjoying it."
  "Where's Darlene?" Xris asked nervously.
    Raoul glanced sidelong at Tess. His eyelashes flut-
tered. "She decided to take a pleasure cruise. I believe
she's heading for Moana."
  "You let her go? By herself?" Xris was furious.
    Raoul looked up at Xris. The Loti's eyes widened. "I
am sorry, Xris Cyborg. I did not realize that Darlene

was my prisoner. She was not having fun on Adonia and
so I suggested that she try a pleasure cruise. I would
have accompanied her, but at the time I was somewhat
occupied."
  "She's all right?" Xris asked, tensely.
  "She's all right," Raoul said, his voice quiet.
    Xris relaxed. He wasn't being told the whole story,
but he didn't dare ask for more, not with an NI agent
listening in. Tess was suspicious as it was.  "Who is this Darlene?" Tess asked.
    "What's the matter?" Xris retorted. "Don't you have
a file on her, too?"
    "I'm asking the questions." Tess smiled at Raoul.
"Who told you to come to this base, Adonian?"
    Raoul gave her a charming smile. "I guess that would
be me."
 "You told yourself."
     "I suppose I must have. I told everyone else. That
meant I was next in line. May I touch up my lipstick?"
 Tess shook her head.
    Raoul sighed bleakly. Looking at himself in the mir-
for, he shuddered and snapped the compact shut.
    "All right," Tess continued, "why did you tell yourself
to assemble the team here?"
    "We thought that perhaps Xris Cyborg might be in
trouble." Raoul glanced at the Little One, who nodded.
"Considering that Professor SakUta was not what he
claimed to be. And he was so perfectly beautiful, too."
Raoul sighed again. "Beauty is as beauty does,
however."
    "What's this? How could he be someone else?" Xris
asked, puzzled. "The Little 'One read Sakuta's mind. The
Little One told me---"
     "Wait a minute," Tess said. "As you say, I have files.
The Little One. He's supposedly the telepath?" "He is a telepath, Captain," Xris said.
    "It comes with age to certain members of his race,"
Dr. Quong added didactically. "I am writing a paper on
the subject, which I plan to present at the next Confer-
ence of Surgeons. If you would be interested in reading
it, I could make a copy available--"

    "Yes, I would be," Tess said softly. She frowned,
stared intently at the Little One, who stared just as in-
tently back at her.
    "Anyone can claim to be a telepath," she said finally.
"Let's see how good he is. He couldn't have heard us
talking out front. What organization do I work for?"
    The Little One tilted his head back, to see her better
from beneath the brim of the fedora. Then, making a
snorting sound, he rubbed his hands together and, fold-
ing his short arms across his chest, he turned his back
on her.
    Raoul nodded in approval. "The Little One says that
he doesn't need to prove his talents to anyone, particu-
larly a woman with little or no fashion sense. That last
bit," Raoul added unnecessarily, "was mine."
    "Uh-huh." Tess smiled wryly. "Go on with your story,
then, Adonian. Your friend, the telepath"--she lifted an
eyebrow--"was supposed to read Sakuta's mind. And
he failed."
    "It was not his faultW Raoul rushed to the defense,
put his arm protectively around the Little One. "You
cannot blame him! Sakuta used a telepathic scrambler
on him."
"Oh, a telepathic scrambler." Tess rolled her eyes.
"There are such devices," Dr. Quong stated. "They
use a high-frequency resonator that produces alpha
waves. The mind targeted wanders but does not notice
anything wrong. As it detects an anomaly or error, an-
other random alpha wave interrupts it, and so on."
  Tess shook her head, unconvinced.
    The Little One, when he thought the woman wasn't
looking, jerked his head toward Xris, sniggered, reached
out a small hand, and made a swipe at Raoul's upper
arm. Raoul's lashes fluttered: a side of his lipstick-
smudged mouth twitched. He nudged the Little One in
the ribs with an elbow.
    Xris figured he could guess what that charade was all
about. He'd have a talk with those two later.
    "Let's say that Sakuta did use a telepathic scrambler."
Xris looked at Tess, who shrugged. "If that's true, this
is finally beginning to come into focus. This whole job

is a setup. Sakuta hires us to steal this 'bot, tells us it's
worthless except to a museum. And we fall for it." Xris
reached for his pocket, took out a twist. He didn't give
a damn who saw him anymore. He put the twist in his
mouth, bit down on it, hard. "He played us for suckers."
    Xris was silent, chewing. Then he demanded, "All
right. Who the hell is Professor Sakuta?"
  "His real name is Nick Harsch," Tess answered.
    "According to Tess, Harsch's a Corasian agent, Xris,"
Jamil finished.
  "Son of a bitch," Xris said, soft, bitter.
    "l didn't know who he was," Raoul stated. "But I
reasoned that anyone who would use a telepathic scram-
bler was doing so only because he desired to hide his
thoughts. And if one is hiding one's thoughts, one must
be thinking bad things. Bad thoughts in such a lovely
head."
    "Son of a bitch," Xris said again. "And I fell for it.
One of the oldest con jobs in history. All so damn obvi-
ous! The museum offices are being renovated, so every-
one takes the week off. Sakuta and his people show up
to do the work. They slap paint on the walls, no one
asks questions. One afternoon, Sakuta cleans the paint
off his hands, dresses up in a suit and tie, and meets
with us for an hour or so, gets rid of us, goes back to
painting. The job's done. Everyone goes home. Son of
a bitch."
  "You're saying    that's what happened?" Tess
sounded skeptical.
    "Look, Captain, you can contact the Lord Admiralty,"
Jamil offered irritably. "They'll tell you we're acting on
Dixter's orders."
    "I've been in contact with the Lord Admiral," Tess
returned. "You and Xris ... yes, you have your orders."
She waved her hand. "It's the rest of the floor show I
wasn't expecting. But, just to prove we're all on the same
side, tell me this. Where is the robot?"
    "In a crate in the maintenance shed," Xris said.
"For repair."
    Tess eyed him, smiled. "I think you're telling the
truth."

    "I don't much give a damn what you think, sister,"
Xris returned. "Go check it out, if you don't believe
me."
    Tess regarded him intently. Her expression softened.
She lowered the gun, tucked it into the holster on her
belt. "Don't beat yourself up, Xris. Nick Harsch is slick.
You're not the first person he's fooled. If it's any com-
fort, you've managed to come closer to him than any of
our people."
    Xris snorted. "Just tell me what the devil's going on.
What does a Corasian agent want with an antique
robot?"
 Tess glanced around.
    They stood in the wings to the left of the stage. Any-
one approaching would have to climb the stairs leading
up to the stage from the side. The back of the stage was
accessible only by a door leading into the wings.
    "This is as good a place to talk as any." Tess touched
a button, lowered the stage curtains. "We're not likely
to be interrupted here. You'll find more chairs in the
back. I think they're props."
    Raoul cast himself on a love seat, hid his lipstick-
smeared face in his arms. The Little One stood by his
friend, patted his shoulder in a conciliatory manner. The
rest of the team took their seats in the semidarkness.
    Xris drew out another twist. "This robot must be
pretty damn important."
    Tess drew in a deep breath, let it out with her words.
"It is. There's a possibility that it's a Lane-laying robot.
And if it is, it will be the first one we've ever found with
all its programming and memory intact."
    Harry's eyes widened. He gave a low whistle. "I'll be
swizzled," he said, awed.
    Quong evinced interest by sitting up straighter in his
chair. "It is in working condition?"
    "We think so," Tess replied cautiously. "We can't be
certain until we run tests on it--"
    "It works," Xris stated. "At least it lights up and talks.
And it's mobile. And it may or may not lay lanes. What
does that mean? It works in a bowling alley? I still don't
get it."

     "Space Lanes, Xris," Harry said, eager, excited. "We
 studied about these robots in school. I did a report on
 them in sixth grade. I got an A. Hey, I think I've still
 got the report back home. I could ask my mom to send
 it--"
  "How is your mother?" inquired Quong.
  "Oh, she's fine. She sends her best."
     "A very gracious lady," Raoul murmured, his voice
 muffled in his arms.
     "Yes, our best to Mrs. Luck," Xris said through
 clenched teeth. "Now, if we could return to business?
 Fine. Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing
 in physics class something about Lane-laying robots.
 They built the hyperspace Lanes, or some such thing."
    "Yes, indeed," said Tess. "And if this robot is, in fact,
one of those very same robots, and is in working condi-
tion, then this discovery is of monumental importance.
And it could be very dangerous if it fell into the
wrong hands."
    "Why? I admit it would be interesting from a scientific
standpoint. A real museum piece, but--"
    "It's like this, Xris," Tess explained. "Back in the
early days of space travel, about the time of the Black
Earth wars and the ecological disaster which followed,
these robots---or rather, the scientist who created
them--"
    "Professor Colin Lasairion," Harry interjected, proud
of his knowledge. "He discovered how to warp space in
order to form the hyperspace Lanes that let us move
through space but not time. That was always the main
problem with faster-than-light travel. Professor Lasairion
was of Irish descent and he--"
    "Save it for the term paper," Xris snapped. "Go on,
Captain Strauss. The short form."
 "The short form is Tess," she said.
 "I meant about the robot."
    "Oh, that. Well, Pilot Luck is right," Tess continued,
"Professor Lasairion built over one hundred of these
Lane-laying robots, sent them out in unmanned
spaceplanes to 'build' the Lanes. For forty years, the
robots traveled throughout the galaxy, using the Lanes

they'd built in the beginning to reach other Lanes, ex-
panding ever outward. The professor kept an enormous
and complex map of all the Lanes, ensuring that no Lane
would intersect with another or travel too close to an-
other because, of course, any ship moving that fast col-
liding with another ship ..."
    She shrugged. "They'd both be vaporized. The profes-
sor also developed the scanning devices that ascertain
whether or not a Lane is clear before a ship makes the
Jump into it. Professor Lasairion made it possible for
thousands to flee a dying Earth, find new lives on new
worlds in outer space."
    "Throw the man a fish," Xris stated. "He was a genius
and now we're left with an old robot. I still don't see
what makes this 'bot valuable--outside of the science
fair at Harry's grade school."
    "Lasairion was a genius. He was ahead of his time,"
Tess said gravely. "So far ahead, in fact, that no one
since has ever been able to duplicate his work."
    "I can't believe you don't know about this, Xris!"
Harry was shocked. "Didn't you ever wonder why no
one's ever built any new space Lanes?"
    "Yeah," Xris said, taking out another twist. "I lay
awake nights worrying about it."
    "That is because you are not a pilot, my friend," Dr.
Quong said. "Or a merchant in one of the newly emerg-
ing planets that are light-years away from the Lanes. If
you were, you would know that the need for more Lanes
is critical. This robot could provide us with the basics
scientists could use in order to duplicate the professor's
work. I congratulate the NI, Captain," he added, making
Tess a small bow. "This was excellent detective work."
    "We've been searching for such a robot for years,"
she said. "Every time an ancient crash site is uncovered,
we always hope that this will be the site to contain one
of the Lane-lying robots--one that either crashed or was
shot down--"
    "Shot down?" Xris halted her story. "You said the
planes were unmanned. Someone went around shooting
down Lane-laying robots? What for? Some crazed
'bot-hater?"

    "The professor had enemies. A lot of enemies. Reli-
gious fanatics, who believed that man was not meant to
leave Earth, travel among the stars. Despots and dicta-
tors, criminals and corporations, who wanted the profes-
sor to work for them, give them control over the Lanes.
One or more of these groups tried at various times to
buy him. They offered him fabulous amounts of money.
He accepted only public funding. He allowed no one
government or person or corporation to control the
Lanes. The Lanes were free for anyone to enter; they
were dedicated to the service of mankind and, later, to
other races living in the galaxy.
    "When it was clear that the professor couldn't be
bought, someone tried to kilt him.
    "It was only by a stroke of luck that the professor
escaped his assassin. He fled Earth, sought refuge on an
unknown planet. His enemies couldn't find him, but they
could find the robots. They tried to capture the robots,
in order to study them, emulate them. The robots were
programmed to destroy themselves if capture appeared
imminent. Many of them did so, which is why they are
so rare and valuable.
    ~'When the professor died--of natural causes, I'm
happy to say--his family, acting on his orders, retrieved
those robots that were left and destroyed them. The fam-
ily trashed all his notes and files, making it impossible
for anyone to duplicate his research."
    "What about that rumor that one of his children stole
some of the equipment and sold it?" Quong asked.
    "That was never verified," Tess answered. "I tend to
doubt it. The equipment would have been useless to any-
one who didn't have the background information on how
to operate it. Why waste your money?" Quong nodded in understanding.
    "I would have," Harry said in a low voice. "Just to
have something that was once touched by Professor
Lasairion."
    Tess smiled. "Yes, me, too. You can imagine our ex-
citement when this ancient spaceplane actually proved
to be one of those used by the professor in his work. A
Pandoran NI operative was able to verify the fact that

a robot was inside the wreckage and that the robot was
intact and, apparently, in working condition."
    Dr. Quong's expression altered. No much. Probably
no one else noticed. But Xris had been watching Quong
closely, to see his reaction to Tess's words. Something
was eating the Doc now, to judge by the narrowing eyes,
the deepening frown line between the brows. Xris made
a mental note to talk to Quong somewhere in private.
    "We immediately went to work, through diplomatic
channels, to recover the robot/' Tess was continuing.
"The Pandoran government was a pain. We thought that
they were just being reactionary. They're always difficult
to deal with. They have an overinflated view of their
own importance. They're convinced that there is some
giant conspiracy at work in the galaxy. That the king
and his ministers do nothing all day long but plot to
seize Pandot. If it wasn't for its strategic location near
the Void and the Cotasians--"
Xris interrupted, "Save it for your thesis, Captain."
Tess glanced at him, looked away. "Sorry. I get a bit
carried away," she said coolly. "Suffice it to say the Pan-
doran government used every legal manuever in the
book to keep us from taking the robot."
    "Maybe they weren't being difficult just to be diffi-
cult," Xris suggested. "Maybe they were being paid to
be difficult."
    "By Nick Harsch, you mean. Yes." Tess nodded
gravely. "Yes, that's what we now believe. We thought
we kept the lid on--"
    "He did his homework," Tcyho said. "Like friend
Harry here."
    "He did his homework, all right. Sakuta--I mean
Harsch--told me he had an informant on Pandor," Xris
said. "He provided me with detailed information on the
'bot. Either he's got someone on his payroll or he came
to take a look at it himself."
    "However he found out about it, he found out. And
we found out that he found out." Tess spread her hands.
"Don't you see? This was our chance. We've been trying
for a long time to catch Nick Harsch. We know he has

sold information, weapons, and technology to the
Corasians.
    "The Corasians have used his information to launch
attacks on the outer systems. Harsch has been responsi-
ble for the deaths of hundreds of thousands. I think you
all know how horribly those people died, too," Tess
added somberly.
    "I saw Chico die," Harry said. "They ate him. Started
from the feet up. He--"
    Xris interrupted, not liking to think about Chico. Xris
had been the one forced to put his friend out of his
misery. "So you figured that when Harsch showed up
to steal the 'bot, you'd nab him. That's why NI posted
you here."
    "A little more complicated than that, but something
like that, yes. To be honest, I figured one of you"--
Tess's gaze went from Jamil to Xris--"for Harsch."
 "You don't know what he looks like?"
    Tess shook her head. "We know very little about him
at all. He's good, really good. That's why we decided to
use the robot as bait. We figured that this was so impor-
tant, he'd come himself. We were wrong. Your photos
were picked up on security cams when you landed, sent
to the Admiralty. They spotted you immediately. I be-
lieve the Lord Admiral's response was, 'Oh, shit! Aren't
we in enough trouble?'"
"Nice to know we're appreciated," Xris growled.
"At that point," Tess continued, "it was either have
you both arrested and locked up or use you to get to
Harsch."
    "You pick up Jamil and haul him off on some phony
court-martial scam--"
    "--to meet with Dixter," Jamil said. "That's where
I've been for the last twelve hours."
 Xris cast his friend an interrogative glance.
    Jamil nodded. "Yeah, she's telling it straight. At least,
she's telling it the same as the Lord Admiral's adjutant
told me. We deliver the robot as planned--with one ex-
ception. This." Jamil reached into the metal briefcase,
brought forth a small object that looked rather like an
ordinary writing pen, except that it had magnetic grap~

pies at both ends. He held it up. "Tracking device. We
insert this in the robot's innards. The device leads the
NI to Harsch."
 "Our orders are--"
    "Deliver the robot and collect our payment. That's it.
The tracking device"--Jamil slid it back into the case--
"does the rest."
    Xris snorted. "Who's the bright person thought this
one up? What happens if Harsch decides to run a scan
on the 'bot? He finds out it's wired. The man is under-
standably upset and, to even things out, he blows our
heads off! Has N1 considered this little possibility? Or
don't they give a damn?"
    Tess was attempting to be patient. "It would take a
very sophisticated scanner to detect the tracking device.
And I doubt if he's going to have such fancy equipment
with him. Where are you supposed to rendezvous?"
  Xris muttered something.
 Tess leaned forward. "What was that?"
"Hell's Outpost on the frontier. Near the Void."
"Near the Corasians," Tess said, exasperated. "And
didn't you think this was a strange place for a rendez-
vous with a professor?"
    "I was the one who suggested it," Xris snapped. "How
the hell was I supposed to know any different?" He
shook his head. "I'm still not keen on this. What hap-
pens if we refuse?"
    "Go to jail," Jamil said. He flicked a glance at Tess,
looked back at Xris. "Go directly to jail. After we stand
trial, of course. For the abduction of Major Darlene
Mohini."
      Raoul lifted his head, stared. The Little One shivered
all over. Harry's forehead creased in puzzlement.
  "But Darlene isn't--"
  "Ahem!" Xris coughed loudly, interrupted.
    "Uh? Oh." Harry blinked. "I get it." And he
scratched his head.
    "Quite the nice little setup," Xris said quietly. "What
did you tell the Admiralty?"
    "To go play with themselves." Jamil was blunt. "No
offense, ma'am," he added, his brow dark, "but 1 don't

 like threats. I told them we'd take the job, but we do it
 for our own reasons, on our own terms. Not because
 we're being blackmailed."
     "Good man." Xris smiled, took out a twist. He
 glanced at Tess. "What happens if that fancy gadget of
 yours doesn't work? Suppose you lose track'of the 'bot
 or Harsch or both?"
     "Oh, did I forget to mention?" Jamil was grim. "The
 tracking device is also a remote-controlled bomb." He
 patted the briefcase. "Touch a button in here and
 boom."
      "We don't want to destroy the robot, of course," Tess
 said. "We'll do everything possible to keep it intact."
   "And us along with it, I hope," Xris said dryly.
     Tess nodded absently. "But we're prepared to destroy
 it, rather than allow the robot to fall into enemy hands."
    In Xris's view, a lot of things weren't adding up. He
tried an experimental question, waited to see the
reaction.
    "Seems to me that the Navy's making a hell of a sacri-
fice just to take out one Corasian agent. If this robot's
all you say it is."
  Xris wasn't watching Tess. He had his eyes on Quong.
    The Doc lifted his hand and rubbed the side of his
nose.
    I was right, Xris thought. Something smells. And it
isn't Raoul's perfume.
    Quong suddenly began to cough. He coughed until he
was red in the face. Harry reached around, gave him a
sound slap on the back.
    The doctor glared at him. "What are you trying to
do?" he demanded, in between hacks. "Dislocate my
spine?" Choking, he turned to Tess. "Excuse me,
ma'am." He jumped to his feet, headed for a drinking
fountain at the far end of the theater.
    "Why don't you build a fake robot?" Harry asked.
"Pull the old switcheroo."
    "We considered trying to replicate the robot," Tess
answered, "but iffs just not possible. Some of the materi-
Ms-metal alloys, for example--used in that 'bot can't
be re-created today. Harsch is intelligent. One look

would tell him he'd been double-crossed. As for the
robot, NI intends to retrieve all the information stored
inside the 'bot first, before you take it to Harsch. The
information is what's most important. Not the robot it-
self. I have with me all the equipment necessary to
download ..."
    She continued talking, but Xris had stopped lis-
tening-to her, at least. Quong's voice was in Xris's ear,
coming over the commlink that was part of the cyborg's
inner workings.
    "She is not telling us the truth, my friend. The robot
would be worthless to the Corasians and my guess is that
she knows it. Even if the 'bot is in working condition, it
would not be able to perform its function of laying space
Lanes. Professor Lasairion equipped all his 'bots with
fail-safe devices. Before the robot could go ahead and
lay a space Lane, the professor sent the robot a confir-
mation signal. If it did not receive confirmation, it would
not lay the Lane."
    "Uh-huh," Xris said aloud, as if talking to Tess.
"Thanks. That clears a lot up."
    He could hear the sound of Quong noisily gulping
water. The doctor, his coughing fit eased, returned to
the stage.
    So, reasoned Xris. This whole scheme is a bait to trap
Harsch. The Navy makes a big commotion over this 'bot,
stirs up the political hornets, attracts Harsch's attention.
He figures there's something to this, sends in his agent,
who confirms that this robot must be highly valuable
because the Navy is making such a fuss over it--top-
level security, all that. When, in fact, the blasted 'bot
couldn't lay a Lane if its life depended on it.
    "As for killing Harsch," Tess was saying, "don't waste
your pity on him. He intends to sell a Lane-laying robot
to the Corasians. Can you imagine what that would
mean? It has always been difficult for the Corasians to
mass their forces due to the lack of space Lanes within
their own galaxy. They would now have the capability
to lay Lanes wherever they wanted. They could send
immense armadas to attack us.
  "Once here, the Corasians could continue to build

 their own Lanes, travel unimpeded to any portion of the
 galaxy. They could also disrupt our Lanes, making it
 difficult, if not impossible, for the Navy to come to the
 defense of planets under attack. The death and devasta-
 tion would be incalculable."
     Tess was pale and serious and earnest. And it was all
 a lie. You're good, sister, Xris told her silently. You're
 real good. I wonder what else you're not telling us.
    "1 know there are rotten people in this galaxy," Harry
Luck was saying, "but I can't imagine how anyone could
be twisted enough to work for the Corasians."
    "Money has a lot to do with it," Tess said. "But it's
more than that with Harsch. Or so we think. He could
make a fortune--hell, he cold make a hundred for-
tunes--by selling the robot to any number of people in
our own galaxy. Our people believe that he has some
sort of weird fascination with the Corasians."
  "Probably sexual," Raoul commented.
    "Sex?" Harry guffawed. "The Cotasians are big blobs
of molten lava--"
    "Not technically." Quong, having returned from the
drinking fountain, interrupted. "The Corasians are actu-
ally a protoplasmic mass that is about ninety percent
pure energy with just enough fleshy matter to ensure
that they can interact with the material world."
    "So they're not lava," Harry carried on, undeterred.
"They're fiery, flesh-eating blobs of goo that haul them-
selves around in plastic cases. I don't see anything so
very sexy about all that."
    "You have no imagination," Raoul stated loftily. His
eyes grew dreamy, unfocused. "Think of being con-
sumed by flames, of tongues of fire licking your loins...
of the sweet, terrible pain ..."
 "That's sick!" Harry protested, disgusted.
    Raoul gave a delicate shrug. "As I said, you have no
imagination."
    Jamil rubbed his eyes, flexed his shoulders. "Could we
get on with this? All I want to do is go to bed and sleep
for about twenty-four hours." Yawning, he shook his
head to clear it, then hunched forward on his chair. "lt

seems to me that this is all settled. We deliver the robot
to Harsch. We get paid. That's that."
    "Speaking of payment, since the government now
knows about this job, we'll have to declare it as income,"
Tycho said in gloomy tones.
    Xris eyed Tess. "I don't understand, Captain. Why
don't your own people deal with this? If this robot's so
damn dangerous and so damn valuable, why didn't you
just snatch it?"
 Tess made no answer. She merely smiled.
    "Ah," Xris said in sudden understanding. "I inter-
rupted something, didn't I? Of course. You had that raid
on the barroom planned in advance. That was the diver-
sion you were planning to use to sneak off base! Until
I wandered onto the set. Worked out great for you,
didn't it? You let me go pick up the robot. If I get
caught, I take the fall. You bat your innocent eyes, give
a little horrified scream--"
    "Cut the self-pity," Tess snapped. "You were op-
erating on the edge, and you knew it. You were happy
enough to use me to get off base. You took off like
you had a missile up your ass when that diversion
came down. You thought you were so smart! Thought
you were in control of the whole situation! If you could
have seen your face when you heard Jamil had left the
base ..."
    Xris took out a twist, but he didn't put it in his mouth.
He held it in his hand, stared at it, tapped it against the
gold case. "Yeah, I guess I must've looked pretty funny
at that."
    In the silence, Xris could hear the whir of the machin-
ery that kept him alive. Everyone in the place could hear
it. Great acoustics, this theater.
     Tess's hand touched his shoulder. His good shoulder.
 "Look, we both know that this is a hell of a way to earn
 a living. But I think we'd both have to admit we enjoy
 it." Her hand slid gently around to his back. "And if it's
 any comfort to your poor bruised male ego, those kisses
 were on my own time. They weren't government-issue."
     Xris tried hard to stay angry, but he couldn't. What
 she said was absolutely true. She had used him. He had

used her. She had lied to him. He had lied to her. And
he'd known all along those kisses hadn't been bought
and paid for. He lifted his head, looked up at her, and
smiled.
    "So we've managed to prove that each of us is a
sneaky, conniving liar and a cheat. Sounds like the basis
of a great relationship to me. Where do we go from
here?"
    "To bed," Jamil muttered, yawning again. "I meant
to sleep," he added.
    "No imagination," said Raoul, sighing. Once again he
regarded himself sadly in his mirror. "I, for one, am
going to have to find someplace to repair the damage."
    "Me, too," said Harry. "My plane's a mess. I've got
a broken front gear and number two engine is out.
Something flew off the tarmac, ripped up the turbines.
Don't the people here know that FOD can ruin an
engine?"
  Harry was incapable of being witty. Xris could only
assume he    was serious--which was even more
frightening.
    "Well, Captain, what are our orders?" Xris turned
to Tess.
    "Bring the robot to me. I have the equipment needed
to download the data. When that's finished, you fly off."
    Xris chewed on the twist. "We're taking a hot robot
wired with explosives to a guy who turns people into
Corasian lunch meat." He glanced around at the team.
"Everyone got their life insurance paid up?"
    "Harsch won't figure it out," Tess said firmly. "He
couldn't possibly. We've kept the lid on this, tight. No
one else knows about this robot. No one." Xris grunted. "Whatever you say."
    He had another problem to solve, and that was the
disappearance of Darlene Rowan. He hoped twenty-four
hours would give him time to establish contact with her,
make sure she was all right. He turned to Raoul. "Mind
if I come along'? Watch you put on your lipstick?"
    Raoul was pleased, flattered. "If you truly think you
would enjoy it, Xris Cyborg. So few people realize that
it is an art form--"

    The Little One nudged his friend. Raoul's eyelashes
fluttered. "Oh. Yes, well." He gazed at Xris from be-
neath lowered lashes. "If you would accompany me to
the little boys' room ..."
    Tess suddenly put her hand to her ear. She listened a
moment, said "Excuse me, gentlemen," and walked to
the back part of the stage.
 "Implanted commlink," said Harry knowingly.
    "Gee, you're a scientific wonder today," Xris re-
marked caustically.
    He was watching Tess. He didn't like the way her
shoulders slumped, the way she slowly lowered her hand
from the commlink implanted beneath her skin behind
her ear, the way she stood a moment, as if trying to sort
out what to do next.
    "Something's gone wrong," said Jamil in an
undertone.
    "Surprise, surprise. Look, next time you hear me say
'This is the easiest job on record,' just shoot me, will
you?" Xris returned. "Point-blank. Through the heart.
Get it over with."
    Tess began to walk. She was headed off the stage,
moving rapidly.
  The entire team was on their feet.
    Xris was the first to catch up with her. He grabbed
her elbow, "What gives, Captain? Where are you off to
in such a hurry? We're on the same side, remember?"
    Tess shook him off, glared up at him. She was clearly
furious. "Mag Force 7. And there's only six of you. What
a chump I am. Let go of me."
  Xris didn't. "What are you talking about?"
  "Your number seven just showed up."
     Xris silenced the others--particularly Raoul--with a
 flashing glance.
     "And," Tess continued, "he's raising one hell of a
 row. He's blabbing his head off about the robot!"

CHSPIER
       23

And trust me not at all or all in all.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King,
                       "Merlin and Vivien"

~l]...]ere goes my nap." Jamil groaned.
    I I Tess fixed them all with a grim stare. Her hand
rested on her holster. "You want to tell me what you're
up to?"
    "I don't know who this guy is. He's not one of ours.
Maybe," Xris said, "he's one of yours. Maybe this is
something you've cooked up for us?"
    Tess flushed in anger. She started to retort, caught
herself, swallowed her words. After a moment, she was
calm again. "I suppose this is inevitable. We neither of
us can trust the other."
     She looked narrowly at Xris, at the rest of the team.
"You're saying that this man isn't one of your team?"
 "Yes, that's what Fm saying. Is he one of yours?"
 "No, of course not! But then who? . . . How? . . ."
 Tess sighed, put her hand to her forehead. "I don't be-
 lieve this."
    "Maybe it's Harsch?" Jamil suggested. "Or one of his
agents? Maybe he got suspicious, decided to check things
out himself."
    "That was the first thing I considered," Tess said, "but
NI doesn't think so. He calls himself Jeffrey Grant. He
flew to Pandor in a rent-a-plane. He requested clearance
to land. When that was refused, he said he had to see

someone about the 'old robot.' The Admiralty's been
monitoring all air traffic on this planet. They stepped in
at that point, ordered that Grant be allowed to land.
He was immediately taken into custody. He hasn't been
permitted to leave his plane. He's being held incommu-
nicado at the airfield."
    "Harsch wouldn't be likely to broadcast the fact that
he knows something about the robot," Jamil pointed
out.
    Tess was silent, thinking. She glanced at Xris. "You've
seen Harsch. Could you say for certain whether or not
this might be him?"
    "I might not be able to." Xris said. "I saw Sakuta.
remember? He may or may not have been Harsch. But
the Little One could. He could also tell if this guy is
Harsch or is working for Harsch."
    "And I'm supposed to rely on what he says? Oh, very
well. You and the hat come with me."
    "Sure," Xris answered. He rubbed the right side of
his nose. "But what about the robot? I don't think any-
one will bother it, not with all those biohazard warnings
decorating the crate's exterior. But you never know--"
    "Tycho and I could go collect the robot," Quong of-
fered, picking up on the cue. "Our friend is also decor-
ated with biohazard warnings--so to speak." He
indicated Tycho's biochemical warfare patches.
    "And it would be consistent with my story that I sus-
pected something was wrong with the crate," Xris said.
    Tess was regarding him with renewed suspicion. "You
know, I might almost think you had this planned."
    "Yeah, I'm a genius," Xris returned, shrugging. "I'm
such a genius I get taken in by a Corasian agent posing
as a museum curator and an NI agent posing as a
human."
    Tess contemplated him a moment longer, then smiled
a half smile. "The number-one rule for someone in my
business is don't get personally involved--"
    "--because you may have to shoot the involvee," Xris
finished. "Yeah, I know. You've got a job to do. And
so do we. Why not let us do it? Quong and Tycho collect
the robot. You can send an armed escort with them if

you want. Harry, you go make certain the Claymore's
in shape to fly us out-- What's the matter, Harry?" Xris
interrupted himself. "You do remember where you left
the bomber, don't you?"
    "Uh? Oh, yeah, sure, Xris. I remember where I left
it. It's just how I left it--sort of sudden-like. You see, I
really wasn't supposed to have left it at all, only I said
I had to go to the can and-- For God's sake, Xris,"
Harry expostulated. "I heard you were in trouble!"
    Xris thrust a twist into his mouth. "Still think I
planned this?" he asked Tess in an undertone. Aloud he
said, "Jamil, go with Harry. See if you can keep him out
of the brig. Doc, you and Tycho meet us at the airfield
with the 'bot. I'll take the Little One With me."
    Xris turned to the small raincoated figure. "Would
you know this time if Harsch was using a telepathic
scrambler?"
    The Little One nodded emphatically, smashed his two
small fists together.
    "And if the Little One comes along with you, Xris
Cyborg, I come along in addition," Raoul announced.
"After I repair my makeup, of course." Tess glanced sidelong at Xris.
     "I'm afraid he's right. He has to come," he said, grin-
ning. "They're a team. We all are." "God help us," Tess muttered.
    She left to arrange for an armed escort for Tycho and
Quong and the robot. ("It's not that I don't trust you.
Let's just. say that I don't want anything else to go
wrong.")
    Jamil and Harry left to try to retrieve Harry's
spaceplane. ("1 know where I left it. It's sitting right on
the tarmac. Jeez! I wish you guys would forget about
that other time .... ")
    Once Tess was gone, Raoul drew out a pocket mirror,
began redoing his lipstick. Xris bent down, said quietly,
"What about Darlene?"
    Raoul answered in the same soft tone, pausing at in-
tervals to examine the tracings of the lavender-colored
pencil around his lips. "It was close, Xris Cyborg. Very

close. The Little One discovered the plot and warned
me in time."
 Xris's stomach clenched. "The Hung?"
    Raoul looked not at Xris but at Xris's reflection in
the mirror. "Yes, my friend. That is what the Little One
says. They were Adonian assassins, hired by the Hung.
Third-rate, mind you." Raoul sniffed and concentrated
on his work. "No delicacy. No finesse. And they used a
poison to which there was an antidote. Still, I suppose
that a mob can't be all that selective--"
  "She's all right," Xris repeated urgently.
    "She's fine. She left on a pleasure cruiser to Moana.
She chose that planet because it is near Pandot. ! have
... somewhere"--he glanced at his handbag--"exactly
where and when we are supposed to meet her. She sent
it in code. She said you would know how to decode it,"
    "How the devil did they track her?" Xris demanded
angrily. He grabbed hold of Raoul's arm roughly. "Stop
painting your face and listen to me. Damn it! You and
the Little One were supposed to be on the watch--"
    "We were, Xris Cyborg," Raoul interrupted. He re-
garded Xris with mild reproach and put his arm around
the Little One, who shrank into a heap of wrinkled rain-
coat at Xris's furious tone. "No one followed her. We
kept close watch. We would have known. After all, we
are fond of Darlene, too."
     The Little One darted forward, grabbed hold of Xris's
 pants leg, tugged on it fiercely, and pointed a jabbing
 finger at Raoul. The Little One put his finger to his
 mouth, pointed at Raoul again, repeated this gesture
 twice. Raoul had returned to his interrupted beauty re-
 gime, was again complacently regarding himself in the
 mirror.
     Xris suddenly understood the pantomime. "You in-
 gested the poison."
     Raoul gave a delicate shrug. "My body is able to
 adapt. Hers might not have been." He searched through
 his purse, found the note with the coded message. It was
 scribbled on the back of a shopping list.
     "I'm sorry." Xris took the list, tucked it carefully in
 his pocket. "It's not your fault. I brought this on her.

This is my fault. If I'd left her alone, she would have
had the whole goddamn Royal Navy protecting her!"
      "Like they protected her from you?" Raoul asked,
with a slight, sweet smile.  Xris stared at him.
    "You found her," Raoul continued. "It would have
only been a matter of time before the Hung accom-
plished the same task. She would have died at their
hands. And she would have died alone."  "She's alone now," Xris muttered.
    "No, Xris Cyborg. For you are in her thoughts. And
she is in yours."
 "A lot of help that's going to be."
    "There is nothing you can do, my friend. The matter
is out of your hands, beyond your ability to control. And
that, of course, is why you find it frustrating. It is very
presumptuous, not to mention egotistical, for you to take
responsibility for the odd quirks and twists of fate. Only
the Creator--should He, She, or It exist--may lay claim
to that, for which blessing we should all be'extremely
thankful."
    "You've been hanging around Quong too much," Xris
snapped. He was silent a moment, brooding, then said
abruptly, "Anyhow, thanks for what you did for her.
And, again, I'm sorry I yelled at you."
    "No thanks are needed, Xris Cyborg," Raoul re-
turned. He shut the compact, placed it back in his purse,
along with his makeup kit. ,'Although the apology is
accepted. As you said, Darlene is one of the team. One
for all and damn the torpedoes, as our friend Tycho
has been known to say. And here comes that wretched
woman!" He glanced at Xris from beneath lavender eye-
lids. "I can't think what you see in her!"
    Xris patted reassuringly the pocket where the coded
message resided. The first moment alone on Harry's
spaceplane, he would try to get through to Darlene
    Tess motioned them to join her. She was brisk, cool,
a demeanor put on--Xris guessed--to conceal her ner-
vousness and anxiety. This job had every prospect of
blowing up in her face now. He should have felt a little
vindictive satisfaction, but he was gloomily aware that--

if the bomb went off--he was standing right beside her.
Tess managed a smile for Raoulú
 "You look lovely," she said sincerely.
    "No thanks to you!" Raoul sniffed, tossed his hair,
and--well-groomed head held high--flounced past her.

     Jeffrey Grant sat in his spaceplane, eating a chocolate
 bar and watching the two armed MPs standing guard
 outside the hatch. He wasn't surprised at the reception
 he'd received. He was actually pleased. It restored his
 faith in his government. He was glad to think that they
 were on top of this matter, that they were treating this
ú with the respect it was due. He'd been worried that no
 one here would understand the danger, that he would
 have to be firm and persuasive.
     If there were two things he was not good at, it was
 being firm and persuasive.
     As it was, obviously these people knew the treasure
 they had and were guarding it carefully. Grant settled
 back and finished the chocolate bar.
     He had enjoyed the trip. It felt good being at the
 controls of a spaceplane once more, even if it was a
 rental, and a cheap one at that. He threw the candy
 wrapper in the trash compactor, took another look at
 the antique machine that he'd brought with him. He'd
 strapped the unit into the copilot's seat to keep it from
 being jostled. The machine was still humming, loudly,
 contentedly. Grant found himself humming, too. A tune-
 less song, a song whose words he'd long since forgotten
 ... or had never known. Something about robot blues.
     He puttered around the plane, tidying up, for he knew
 he would be receiving visitors. This done, he went back
 to his chair and amused himself by watching the comings
 and goings of the squadrons, naming each type of plane
 as it landed or took off, imagining himself at the con-
 trols, wondering what missions they were flying. He was
 so absorbed in watching and imagining and wondering
 that he didn't, at first, notice the rather odd procession
 advancing across the tarmac toward his plane. When he
 did, he glanced at them, said to himself "Time for your
 debriefing, Captain," and returned to revel in the glori-

 ous sight of a Claymore bomber thundering into the
 Pandoran sky.
     The MPs saluted. Grant was quick to open the hatch,
 so as not to annoy anyone. He met his guests at the
 entrance to the small plane.
    "Please come in, Captain, sir, Captain, ma'am." he
said shyly, speaking standard military, to put them at
ease. "You. too, uh ..." He was momentarily stumped
on the lovely personage with the lipstick, long hair,
pants, and an Adam's apple. He finally gave up and
coughed to cover his embarrassment. As for the small
figure in the fedora and the raincoat, Grant looked at it
with interest. Turning to the female captain. he said po-
litely, "Your child, ma'am?"
"Uh, no." the woman replied, taken aback. "He's--"
"A spy," said the lovely long-haired person. "He's in-
cognito. So am I." The lovely person sat down. crossed
his legs. "You won't tell, will you?"
"No, certainly. Of course not," Grant murmured.
The female captain appeared to be under considerable
strain and this exchange did nothing to relax her. She
frowned and bit her lip and shot an irritated glance at
the male captain.
    "Won't you all please sit down?" Grant said, recalling
the duties of a host. "Would you care for refreshment?
I have soft drinks and chocolate bars."
    "No, thank you," the male captain said, smiling po-
litely. "My name is Captain Xris Kergonan. This is Cap-
tain Tess Strauss. This is my aide, Corporal de
Beausoleil. and this person"--he indicated the small
being in the raincoat--"is known only as the Little One.
I can't tell you his real name. Military security."
 Grant nodded. "Very sound."
 "What?" Captain Kergonan appeared confused.
    "1 said, 'Very sound,'" Grant reiterated. "In light of
the circumstances. Now"--he clasped his hands together,
to keep from wringing them, which would have looked
undignified--"please tell me. Where is the robot?"
    "Robot?" Captain Kergonan leaned against the con-
trol panel. "I must tell you. Mr."--he lifted his hand,
glanced at the pilot's license he held: the MPs had con-

fiscated the license immediately upon Grant's arrival--
"Mr. Grant, that you are in very serious trouble. The
people of Pandor do not like off-worlders. They have
laws which prohibit them from visiting this planet--"
    "Oh, dear," said Grant, truly distressed. "I didn't
know. I'm terribly sorry. Will this cause an ... an ..."
Momentarily he couldn't think of the word. "An inci-
dent, do you suppose?"
    "That's why we're here," said Captain Strauss. "We're
going to try to smooth this over. I'm sure you don't want
to cause trouble."
    "I really didn't mean to violate any laws," Jeffrey
Grant said, worried. "I suppose I should have checked
first, before I came, but I was so upset about the robot,
you see. I didn't know who had it and I was afraid they
might damage--"
    "Excuse me. What robot?" Captain Kergonan asked
mildly.
    At this point, the lovely person--Grant couldn't recall
his name--reached out with a delicate hand and tugged
on the back end of Captain Kergonan's uniform.
    "Give it up, Xris Cyborg," said the lovely person. He
indicated the small being in the raincoat. "The Little
One says to inform you that this drab gray person is not
Sakuta or Harsch or anyone else except himself. And"--
dramatic pause--"he himself knows more about the
robot than anyone else here in this spaceplane."
     Jeffrey Grant smiled shyly, proudly, glad to be
 appreciated.

CHfiPIER

Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.

Francis Bacon, "Apophthegms contained in
                      Resuscitatio" No. 36

Dr. Quong and Tycho, accompanied by two MPs,
walked over to the maintenance shed. The MPs had
been briefed by Tess, who told them that a problem had
developed with the colonel's exhibit materials; the crate
appeared to be malfunctioning. Although it presented
no threat at the moment, Dr. Quong and Tycho, expert
on biochemical warfare, were going to check the crate
out, remove it to a place of safety. The MPs were or-
dered to show Quong and Tycho the way to the mainte-
nance shed, go along to see that no unauthorized
personnel obstructed the proceedings.
    Not being required to strictly guard the two, the MPs
walked several paces ahead, clearly not wanting to come
any closer to Tycho than was necessary. The "chame-
leon," for his part, altered the shade of his skin to a
sickly bluish gray, which, with his excessive thinness,
made it look as if he were in the last stages of some
wasting disease. He and Quong were able to talk freely
without fear of anyone overhearing.
    "Why is it," Tycho grumbled, his translator giving his
voice a tinny, mechanical sound, "that no one ever hires
us for a normal job?"
 "Define normal," Quong said.

    "I could if I wanted to," Tycho said, taking offense.
"In several different languages."
    "No, no. That's not what I meant. What do you con-
sider to be a normal job for people such as ourselves?"
    "Ah, I see. Yes, well.. 7' Tycho gave it some thought.
"Not the job itself so much as the fact that it should
have a clear-cut beginning, a clean middle, and a swift
and satisfactory finish. And the money should be good
and in no way traceable. With us, it's always the same.
Either the job gets screwed up somehow or we end up
having to report the income. Or both."
    "Friend Tycho, as a citizen, it is your duty to pay
taxes," Quong said seriously.
    "And who tries, every year, to take the payments on
his sports runabout as a medical deduction?"
    Quong bristled. "Driving the runabout is a reliever of
stress, as I have several times informed you. I have a
written medical opinion--"  "Of your own writing."
    "--that it is necessary for my mental well-being-- Ah,
I think we have arrived at our destination."
    The MPs had stopped, were talking to a sergeant, who
was wiping greasy hands on a rag and looking consider-
ably alarmed.
    "The crate is over there in the corner, sirs," he said
as Tycho and Quong approached. He nodded in the gen-
eral direction, apparently had no intention of getting any
closer. "There's nothing wrong with it, is there?"
    "We certainly hope not, Sergeant. Now, have you or
any of your people come within a three-meter distance
of the crate?" Dr. Quong asked crisply.
     "Three meters." The sergeant ruminated, shook his
 head. "Nope, sir. Why? What would happen if we did?"
     Tycho produced a strange-looking instrument from his
 briefcase. Activating it, he pointed it at the sergeant and
 touched a button, producing a slight whooshing sound.
 A series of lights began to flash different colors.
 "What's that, sir?" The sergeant eyed it suspiciously.
 "Have you experienced any of the following in the
 past twelve hours: dizziness, nausea, trouble swallowing,
 fever, swelling of the hands or feet, bloody stools,

 coughing, vomiting, or premature ejaculation?" Dr.
 Quong asked, electronic notebook in hand.
     "Huh?" The sergeant blinked at them, backed up a
 pace. "I--"
     "What about tenderness of the stomach, swelling of
 the head, skin eruption, or attention deficit disorder?"
    The sergeant, looking worried, put his hand to his
brow. "Now you mention it, I--"
    "Thank you!" Tycho said abruptly, switching off his
toothbrush and inserting it back into his briefcase. "All
appears normal, Doctor. He has not been contaminat--
er--affected."
    "Excellent, excellent," Quong murmured. "Now, Ser-
geant, if you could show us the crate ..."
    "Over there, sir, next to the Devastator. You can't
miss it." The sergeant stood his ground, was apparently
not going anywhere near the crater.
    "Thank you, Sergeant," said Dr. Quong, and turned
to the other mechanics. "Perhaps you gentlemen could
wait outside."
    This request was obeyed with alacrity, most of those
within the work area having already sidled over near the
door. When everyone was outside the shed, the MPs
took up a position in front of the door, a completely
unnecessary precaution.
    "See, friend Tycho?" said Quong, as they walked over
to find the robot crate. "This was easy."
    They discovered the crate leaning up against the Dev-
astator, just where Xris had described it. Tycho bent his
long, thin frame, crouched down to peer at it.
    "You are being overly pessimistic," the doctor contin-
ued. Quong remained standing, keeping an eye on the MPs.
    "Am I?" Tycho straightened. His expression was grim.
His skin had flushed to a fevered orange. "Take a look
at this and tell me if I'm being a pestilence."
    "Pessimist," Quong corrected; Tycho's translator oc-
casional lapsed into incoherence.
     The doctor walked over, bent down to study the robot
crate. He took a good, long look. Quong raised his gaze.
 "Oh, shit," he said.
 "Without a paddle," Tycho added gloomily.

CHfiPI[R

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies,
Thought would destroy their paradise.

Thomas Gray, "Ode on a Distant Prospect of
                           Eton College"

Ignorance is bliss and Xris was, for the moment, blissful.
Or rather, he had his own set of problems and was
operating under the assumption that these problems
were his most urgent problems. Which meant that he
was currently blissful, if only by contrast.
    He and Tess, Raoul and the Little One were all
crowded together in the front of the rent-a-plane, dis-
cussing Jeffrey Grant. Grant hovered near, shy, uncom-
fortable, and persistent.
    "You're saying that the Little One figured this all out
telepathically." Tess cast a scornful glance at the rain-
coated figure. "And that's how he knows that this man
knows about the robot."
    "Of course," Raoul said loftily. "How else would he
know?"
    "Oh, maybe because this man works for you. That he
showed up right on cue--"
    "For what reason?" Xris asked impatiently. "To do
what?"
    Tess lifted her hands helplessly. "I don't know! I don't
know anything anymore. 1 don't know who to believe.

All right. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that the
Little One is right. That this man does know something
about the robot. How?"
    "Maybe he's Harsch," Xris suggested. "Maybe he's
using the telepathic scrambler."
    The Little One opened his small palms, slapped him-
self on the forehead several times.
  "No. He could tell," Raoul stated flatly.
    The Little One put his head between his two hands,
heedlessly smashing the rim of the fedora, and rocked
his head back and forth, rolling his eyes.
    "He said that the entire time we were with Sakuta,
he"--Raoul gently touched his friend on the shoulder--"
felt dizzy and sick. He thought it was some sort of flu
and he said nothing about it, for fear Dr. Quong would
start poking at him again. No offense to the good doc-
tor," Raoul hastened to add. "But you must admit that
his bedside manner is somewhat abrupt--"
    "The telepathic scrambler," Xris reminded Raoul. The
iridescent-winged mind had fluttered from one flower of
conversation to another, required netting.
    "Ah, yes." Raoul had to pause to think of where he'd
been. "The Little One thought he was coming down with
the flu. He didn't, however. His health has been excel-
lent, as you know. The strange feeling passed, but it left
him rather out of sorts. In a bad mood. He kept thinking
that something was wrong and he should know what,
but he couldn't figure it out. And then, during the party,
when I mentioned to Darlene that the assassins had
scramblers, he put two and whatever that other number
is together and came up with--"
    "Assassins? Scramblers?" Tess looked from Xris to
Raoul.
    "Not important," Xris said. "Another case we were
working on. I know one thing. This isn't the same person
I met at the museum. Not by a long shot. Of course,
Harsch might be a master of disguise."
    "The Little One says that this is not Harsch," Raoul
reiterated. "The Little One is of the opinion that this
Grant person is precisely the Grant person he claims to
be. He has acquired knowledge about the robot from

years of study of ancient space flight, with particular em-
phasis on ... on ..." Raoul waved a vague hand. "Pro-
fessor Lasagna ..."
    "Lasairion, sir," Jeffrey Grant corrected. He had been
listening to the conversation with the befuddled gaze of
someone whose translator is on the fritz. He could un-
derstand a few words from time to time, but most of
the talk was meaningless. Now, however, he had heard
something he understood. He rose to his feet, literally
trembling with excitement. "Do you know about Profes-
sor Lasairion?"
    Raoul bowed from the waist. "God forbid. I am
merely the translator. And then, of course, there is his
machine."
"What machine?" Tess demanded, clearly rattled.
Raoul pointed to the copilot's chair. They all trooped
around to look. In the chair, strapped in lovingly with
extreme care, was some sort of strange-looking machine.
A small electric backlit screen tilted up from an ancient
computer keyboard--the kind with all the letters in the
most inconvenient places. A blue light flashed intermit-
tently on the side of the machine. An odd, yet not un-
pleasant humming emanated from it.
    "Please don't touch it, Captain," Grant begged, as the
entire contingent stared at it. "It's very old and
delicate."
    "Another antique," Xris said. "With a few more of
these we could hold a garage sale."
    "It is very special," Raoul said, with a knowing flutter
of his eyelids. "This machine is in communication with
the robot. According to the Grant-person, that is why it
is making that tooth-grating sound."
    Jeffrey Grant gazed at the Little One in astonishment.
"That's exactly what I was thinking! He's quite remark-
able, isn't he, sir? As for the humming sound, I know it
is a bit irritating. I'm really sorry, but there's nothing
I can do to stop it. I'm not completely certain how it
works--"
     Tess interrupted him. "This machine's in communica-
 tion with the robot .... Good God!" She bent down,

peered at it mterffiy. "Are you telling me that this ma-
chine is a ... a Collimated Command Receiver Unit?"
    "Yes, ma'am!" Jeffrey Grant clapped his pudgy hands
together. "Absolutely correct! And may I say, ma'am,
that you're the first person I've ever encountered who
has studied the work of Professor Lasairion. How did
you--"
    "I'm asking the questions," Tess snapped, and then
she didn't ask anything. She stood in silence, frowning
deeply at the humming machine.
    Xris took advantage of the lull in the conversation to
have a private talk with Raoul.
    "What's going on with this guy?" Xris asked quietly,
keeping his back to Grant. "What's the Little One pick-
ing up?"
    Raoul shook his head--carefully, so as not to muss
his hair. "You know how the Little One feels about
technology, my friend. He doesn't understand it. He
doesn't like it. He finds that it frightens him. This man's
mind is a technological jungle. The Little One says that
looking inside the Grant person is akin to looking be-
neath the hood of a hoverjeep. It is filled with objects
that make no sense to him."
 "No sign that this is all a put-on? An act?"
    The Little One, crowding beside Xris to hear, shook
his own head emphatically.
    Tess had apparently thought out what she wanted to
say. "Where are you from, Mr, Grant? How did you
come into possession of the Collimated Command Re-
ceiver Unit? When did the unit start to ... uh ... hum?
How did you know to come to Pandot to find the
robot?"
    Grant looked somewhat confused, decided to take the
questions in order. "I'm from the planet XIO, Captain.
I run a museum there--" Xris snorted.
    Grant paused, regarded him anxiously. "Did I say
something--"
    "l've had it up to here with museum curators, that's
all. Never mind. Go on."
 "I have been a collector of space memorabilia for over

fifty years, sir," Grant said with quiet pride. He seemed
to feel better, talking about himself. "Ever since I was
a child. This"--he laid a hand lovingly on the Collimated
Command Receiver Unit--"is my most valued posses-
sion, though not, I must say, my most valuable. The unit
was offered for sale over one of the computer bulletin
boards. Its owner obviously had no idea what he had. I
recognized it immediately from his description. He
wanted a lot for it, mainly because it was old, not be-
cause he knew its true worth. After a month of delicate
negotiations, during which I had to appear interested,
but not too interested, I drove down his price and finally
acquired the Collimated Command Receiver Unit. It has
resided in an honored place in my museum for the last
twenty years. Beneath it is a plaque that reads: ONLY
KNOWN RELIC OF THE LASAIRION PERIOD." He was wistful.
"I only need the robot to complete my collection. I have
a special place all ready to house it."
    "I'm sorry, Mr. Grant," Tess said, firmly but kindly
destroying all hope. "That robot is government
property."
    "Yes, I know," he said softly. "But I would take good
care ..." His voice trailed off.
    Xris took a twist out of the gold case, studied it long-
ingly, glanced out the window at the MPs on guard out-
side the spaceplane. He put the cigarette back in its case,
the case in his pocket. He looked at his watch.
     "Captain Strauss," he said. "Could I have a word
 with you?"
     Tess glanced uncertainly at the machine, then at
 Grant. Keeping them both in sight, she walked over to
 where Xris was standing. "What is it?"
     "I know that this is all very fascinating from a scien-
 tific point of view, but we're running out of time," Xris
 said in a low voice. "I arranged to meet Sakuta at Hell's
 Outpost tomorrow. How long will it take you to debrief
 the robot?"
     "You mean download the information? Several hours,
 maybe all day," Tess said. "I'm going to have to experi-
 ment; finding the correct interface could prove difficult.

And now there's this unit. This makes everything a lot
more complicated."
      "Yeah. Just answer me one question: Do I or do I
not take the robot to Sakuta?"  "Harsch."
    "Whoever!" Xris was losing patience. "Look, you've
got the robot. Let's take it and the unit back to the
command cruiser and let the admiral deal with it."
    "What about Grant?" Tess asked. "He may be as in-
nocent and naive as he looks, but he may also be one
hell of a good actor. Suppose he is an agent for Harsch?
He comes to get the 'bot, discovers that we already have
it. So he plays stupid."
    "And brings along an antique machine as a prop?
Well, I suppose anything's possible." Xris was edgy. He
wanted to get this job over with, fast. He didn't like the
idea of Darlene out there somewhere on her own.
"Look, you can shoot him, for all I care--"
  "I can't do that!" Tess was shocked. "He's a civilian!"
    Xris grinned. "So am I. And you were ready to
shoot me."
     Tess ignored him. 'Tll go back to HQ, relay all this
to the Admiralty. You stay here with Grant." "What about the unit?"
 "The unit comes with me for safekeeping."
 "Still don't trust me, huh?"
    "Sure I do," Tess said, patting him on the shoulder.
She returned to Jeffrey Grant. "I'm afraid I'm going to
have to confiscate your Collimated Command Receiver
Unit, Mr. Grant. Don't worry. The government will com-
pensate you."
    Grant looked stricken, moved to stand protectively in
front of the unit. "But I don't want to be compensat--"
    Xris heaved a sigh, glanced again at his watch. He
should have heard from Tycho and Quong by now, won-
dered what they were doing.
    Tess attempted to soothe the distraught museum cura-
tor. "Please, Mr. Grant, I don't want any trouble. The
government has the right to confiscate any equipment
that might affect national security."
 "Don't worry, Grant. We'll give it back," Xris said.

    "Thank you, Captain Kergonan." Tess shot him a
warning glance. "But I'm perfectly capable of handling
this."
 "By this time next year," Xris muttered.
    Jeffrey Grant was looking from Xris to Tess to the
unit and back to Xris again.
    "The Navy just wants to study the unit," Xris ex-
plained. "We'll make a few vids of it. Then we'll give it
back. If that's what you want."
    "Personally," Raoul offered his opinion, "I'd take the
money. Buy a new wardrobe," he hinted.
    "I don't want the money, sir. Or a wardrobe. I want
my Collimated Command Receiver Unit." Jeffrey Grant
was firm.
  "Fine. No problem.*' Xris was eager to please.
  "Captain ..." Tess was beginning to get irritated.
  Grabbing hold of her hand, Xris gave it a squeeze.
    "This is for your king, Mr. Grant," Xris said solemnly.
"For your king and your galaxy."
  "For the king," Grant murmured.
    Xris could have sworn he saw the man's hand start to
lift in a salute. "Very well, sir." Jeffrey Grant altered
his move, put his hand lovingly on top of his humming
Collimated Command Receiver Unit. "You can take it,
ma'am. But I insist on coming with it."
    "We'll see," said Tess, in a tone which meant Not on
your life. "I'11 have to clear that with the Admiralty."
    Grant slowly nodded. His eyes blinked rapidly. "The
unit has a traveling case. I'll get it." He went to the
back of the plane, began to rummage around loudly in
a storage bin.
     Tess sidled over near Xris. "You know he'll never see
 that machine again."
 "I know that. You know that. He doesn't," Xris said.
 Tess sighed. "Sometimes I really hate this job."
 Grant returned with the case. Fussily, refusing all of-
 fers of assistance, he packed the unit securely inside the
 case, closed it.
     Xris stepped politely around Grant, bent down, lifted
 the case. It wasn't particularly heavy, though somewhat
 awkward. He handed it to Tess.

 "Good-bye, Mr. Grant," she said. "Thank you."
 Carrying the case, she left the spaceplane. Xris
 watched her walk across the tarmac. Grant was watch-
 ing, too, his face and hands pressed up against the
 steelglass, his expression that of a parent who's lost a
 custody battle.
  "She'll take good care of it," Xris said. "I promise
you."
"I wish I coutd see it. The robot, I mean," Grant
said softly.
    "So do I. Before they blow it up," Raoul added
offhandedly.
    "What?" Jeffrey Grant turned. He had gone a sort of
sickly wax color. "What did you say, sir? Blow it up!"
    "Yes, we have a bomb. It's in Jamil's briefcase. We're
going to plant it in the robot and detonate it."
    Grant's mouth opened and shut several times before
he could make anything coherent come out. "Why ...
why ... why would they do such a terrible thing?"
    Xris was grim. This was just all he needed. "Raoul,
you and the Little One go see if you can find out what's
keeping Quong."
    Raoul cast a horrified glance out the window onto the
baking tarmac. He looked back at Xris, reproachful.
"You know how bad the sun is for my complexion. Do
you want to see me covered with freckles?"
    At the moment, Xris would have liked to have seen
Raoul covered with blood-sucking leeches. Grant was
breathing funny, quivering all over, and making odd
gasping sounds.
    "I'll risk it," Xris snarled. "Go. Go on. Both of you.
Beat it."
    Hurt, Raoul rose majestically to his feet and swept
out of the spaceplane, the Little One trudging behind.
Outside, Raoul put his hand over his forehead in a vain
attempt to shield himself from the ravages of UV rays.
Taking the Little One by the hand, he ran as fast as the
Little One's short legs would carry him, heading for the
nearest shade.
    Xris assisted the stricken Grant to a chair. "I'11 get
you some water. Are you on any type of medication?"

    "No, no, sir. I'm fine." Grant was bewildered. He
clutched at Xris. "Why are you going to blow it up?"
    "We're not. Raoul misunderstood. We'll keep the
robot safe. I promise you." Xris was making a lot of
promises. Maybe someday he could actually keep one.
"Just relax, Mr. Grant. Don't worry. Perhaps if you told
me a little more about this professor--"
    Xris's built-in commlink, located in his left ear,
buzzed--a bad sign. It meant that one of the team had
something to communicate which was strictly private.
    "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Grant? I ... uh ... gotta
go ..." He motioned in the direction of the head.
    Grant nodded vaguely back and whispered, "Blow it
up!..."
 Xris left the bridge.
    The head in these rent-a-spaceplanes was small for a
normal-sized person. Xris, with his large shoulders and
broad chest, was a tight fit. He had to work to shut the
door, and then was forced to straddle the toilet. One
elbow was in the sink.
"Xris here. What is it?" he said, keeping his voice low.
"Quong here. Bad news, boss. The robot's gone."
"Gone?" Xris lxotested. "What do you mean, gone?
Someone stole it? That's impossible! The case itself
weighed in at about a metric ton, not to mention the
robot! It'd take a crane to lift it--"
    "Hold on, boss," Quong cut in. "The case is still here.
From a preliminary investigation, I'd say the 'bot freed
itself. The case has been popped open, from the inside."
    "I'll be damned .... "Xris was awed, stunned, amazed,
and in a hell of a lot of trouble. "Find it!" he ordered,
squeezing the words out of his constricting chest. "Don't
say a word to anyone, just find it!"
    "Sure, boss." Quong was confident. "What does it
look like? There's a lot of robots working around here."
     "Not like this one. Picture a metal jellyfish with sad
eyes. Once you've got it, sit tight and get back in touch."
  "Yes, boss. Quong out."
    Xris took a twist, chomped down on it savagely,
chewed it, and swore, briefly and bitterly. He indulged
in one of his favorite pastimes--beating himself up. He

should have anticipated this. He should have taken pre-
cautions. He should have this. He should have that.
    But the damn 'bot had seemed so meek and
compliant ....
 "Fuck it!" Xris said loudly.
    He slammed open the door to the head, walked to the
bridge and right on past. "Please stay here, Mr. Grant,"
Xris said. "I've got to leave for a few minutes. I'll send
someone for you shortly."
    On his way out of the spaceplane, Xris picked up the
two MPs.
 "Come with me," he ordered.
 "Yes, Captain." The MPs obeyed with alacrity.
 Xris was, after all, still in uniform.

CHnPTER

Opportunity makes a thief.

Francis Bacon, "A Letter of Advice
                      to the Earl of Essex"

Jeffrey Grant, left alone in his rent-a-plane, was barely
cognizant of the captain's departure. The shock had
left Grant dazed.
 Blow up the robot!
    Why? It wasn't harming anyone. Didn't they realize
how ... how wonderful this was? To be able to touch,
to speak, to listen to an entity that had been touched,
spoken to, and listened to by Lasairion--the great La-
sairion--himself!
 And then came a cheering thought.
    "Perhaps," Jeffrey Grant said to the console, "if they
don't want the robot, they would give it to me."
    The female captain had said the robot was govern-
ment property. But surely, if he talked to the right per-
son... perhaps his planet's representative in Parliament.
Or the prime minister. Or--Grant seemed dimly to have
heard of an important talk show host ... Jeffrey Grant
couldn't say. He had never been much involved or even
interested in politics. His union had told him how and
where and when and for whom to vote and he had gone
and voted that way for as long as he had been eligible
to do so. The universe had seemed to run along very
satisfactorily in this manner. If only he could remember
a name ....

     Grant closed his eyes and tried to think back. He re-
 called a billboard for a political candidate. Grant could
 see the face; he could, after a short struggle, remember
 the woman's name. But had she won? Had that even
 been the current election, or was he thinking of a bill-
 board from ten years ago? He had no idea and eventu-
 ally he gave up worrying about it. He formed a vague
 plan of writing a letter to the king. Perhaps His Majesty
 could persuade them not to blow up the robot, but to
 let Grant have custody of it.
     "I suppose they're worried about maintenance costs,"
 Grant said to himself. "The upkeep might be a bit ex-
 pensive, but I'd handle all that myself. I wouldn't ask
 the government for a single credit."
     With that thought, Jeffrey drifted into a happy
 daydream.
     "I would put it ... where? Over by the bookcase. Yes,
 that's the place. It has the best light. I'll move the display
 case that's there now into the back of the room. The
 robot will be the first thing people see when they walk
 into the door. And they'll be amazed. They'll be over-
 whelmed. I I1 be the only museum to own one. Scholars
 will travel from all over the galaxy to study it. They'll
 ask questions."
    Jeffrey Grant's blissful contemplation of the future
was suddenly interrupted. He was seated in the pilot's
chair, looking out the viewscreen. He leaned forward,
stared. openmouthed.
    They were hauling a Claymore bomber onto the
tarmac.
    One of Jeffrey Grant's favorite space simulator games
was Wing Commander MCIII, in which he flew a Clay-
more bomber on various glorious missions to keep the
galaxy safe for commercial traffic. Grant had played this
game a few hundred times and had won every time ex-
cept the first, which he counted as just learning. And
here was the Claymore--a real Claymore--not fifty me-
ters away.
    A hauler dragged the Claymore to a cleared area on
the tarmac. Once in place, the crew detached the hauler
and drove it off.

    "I'm certain they won't mind if I just take a closer
look," Grant said to himself.
    He walked to the hatch of the rent-a-plane, opened
it, and climbed down the ladder onto the hot tarmac.
He looked about for the MPs, planning to shyly ask for
permission to walk over and inspect the Claymore. He
couldn't find the MPs.
    Grant searched vaguely around, even glanced under
the rent-a-plane's belly. No, the MPs were gone.
    They must have left with Captain Kergonan, Grant
reasoned.
    He was a little uncertain about leaving his plane. If
he had been the cause of an interplanetary incident, he
certainly didn't want to escalate it. He wished the MPs
were still here. They would have been able to advise
him. He looked across the tarmac to a large building, the
control tower. He glanced back toward the Claymore.
    Grant could either walk over to the control tower--a
long walk in the hot sun--and ask permission to go look
at their Claymore or he could walk over to the Clay-
more. He didn't intend to stay long. He just wanted to
see it close up.
    "What harm can there be?" Grant asked himself. 'Tll
take a quick peep. That's all."
  He started off across the tarmac.
  Something wasn't quite right.
    Grant halted, pondered, then knew what he should be
doing. Returning to his own plane, he picked up his hel-
met. As the pilots did in his simulator game, he tucked
the helmet under his arm and, attired in his union flight
suit, he ran across the tarmac toward the Claymore.
     He wasn't running to evade pursuit. In his mind,
 Grant could hear the sireils blowing, the order shouted,
 "Man your planes!" He was one of an elite group of
 brave men and women ready to risk their lives for what-
 ever cause was on today's plate. His white silk scarf
 trailed behind him as he ran. He reached the bomber.
 His crew chief was there, waiting for him.  "Minx noggle," said the crew chief.
  Grant blinked away the daydream. He stood beneath

 the belly of the Claymore, sweating in his hot flight suit,
 breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath.
  Confronting Jeffrey Grant was a robot.
     It took Grant only a few seconds to realize that this
 was the robot.
     He had, of course, seen old vids. One in particular
 came to mind. Professor Lasairion in his laboratory, ex-
 hibiting one of the Lane-laying robots. This robot would,
 the professor said, "take humankind into the stars,
 where, I trust, humans will have learned from their past
 mistakes and will use this opportunity to carry civiliza-
 tion forward into the twenty-second century."
     This robot was the robot of the vid--dangling reticu-
 lated arms, saucer-shaped head, humanlike eyes. Those
 eyes were regarding Grant with interest. A green light
 began to flash on the robot's head. The pupils of the
 eyes widened.
    Grant felt funny, as if the robot were able to see in-
side him.
"Reep glut?" The robot had a questioning tone.
Grant glanced about nervously. He expected Captain
Strauss or Captain Kergonan or perhaps the short spy
in the hat to appear and take the robot away.  No one was in sight.
    Grant waited a few more moments, standing on the
broiling hot tarmac in the shadow of the enormous Clay-
more, watching and listening.
  Nothing.                      ú
    And then Grant knew what had happened. The robot
had escaped.
    "Run away!" said something inside Jeffrey Grant,
something strange and foreign and alien. "Take the
robot and run away! Save it from being blown up! Now!
Quick! Before they come back!"
    Grant trembled. He knew that voice. He'd heard it
before, on occasion. It was always trying to get him to
do wild and daring things. "Tell Ms Kline next door that
you've always loved her! .... Tell the boss it was your
idea! ....Tell the guys you'd like to join them for a
drink!"

    No, I can't .... I couldn't possibly .... Leave me alone.
I'm fine the way I am.
    Grant had always before been able to tune out that
rabble-rousing voice. He could shut it off, as he occa-
sionally shut off the sound on one of his rid games. He
hadn't heard the voice much in his later years (it had
bothered him excessively when he was young), and he
was rather hoping it had retired. He was considerably
disturbed to hear it, irritating and insistent as ever
before.
  "Save the robot! If you don't, they'll kill it!"
    "This is outrageous, sir!" Grant returned, flustered.
"You're insane! You are seriously contemplating steal-
ing government property and making off with it! This is
a capital crime, sir. All offense against the Crown. They
might consider it kidnapping. They might consider it
treason!"
    "It's murder, Jeffrey Grants" said the inner voice.
"They're going to kill it."
    Grantrs imagination was, from long practice, ex-
tremely vivid. He saw the robot sitting in some disinte-
grator chamber, saw the female captain sealing up the
door and walking away. He saw and heard the cyborg
give the order to detonate. He saw, he heard, he felt the
robot explode, arms torn asunder, fluid spattering
against the walls, eyes popping out ....
    "I'll do'it, sir!" said Jeffrey Grant firmly, and he aston-
ished the inner voice so much that it shut up.
    "Mrft," said the robot. The green light had ceased to
flash. The pupils returned to normal size. The robot
turned away, began to drift off toward the front of the
Claymore.
     Grant followed it, wondering how he was going to get
 hold of it, haul it back to his rent-a-plane. He glanced
 around the airfield, fearful that someone would see
 them.
  No one did. No one was around.
     Grant trailed after the robot, who was now examining
 the Claymore, the green light on its head flashing again.
     "Of course!" Grant said, watching the robot with in-
 terest. "It's scanning the plane. Just as it must have

 scanned me. I wonder," he wondered wistfully, "what it
 thought of me."
     Not much, apparently. The robot didn't give him a
 second look. Grant followed it, cobbling his plan
 together.
     Once he had smuggled the 'bot onto his spaceplane,
 he would have to hide it somewhere.
The bathroom. It would fit nicely into the shower stall.
"Then I'll take off," Grant said. "I'll have to request
clearance, of course. This might prove to be a problem.
But I've given them the unit, after all. They don't seem
to be interested in me now. Perhaps they'll be glad to
get rid of me."
    He felt a pang of regret, leaving the unit behind. But
it was either that or lose the robot, and the robot was
far more important. Besides, Captain Kergonan had
promised to return the machine once they were finished
with it.
    "I'll simply explain to the people in air traffic control
that I have to get back home. To ... to ..."
    What were people always going home to do? Feed the
cat. See the wife and kids. Water the plants. Any or all
of the above.
  Grant was certain the Army would let him go.
  Fairly certain. Almost certain.
  "I won't worry about that now," Grant said to himself.
    The important thing was to smuggle the robot aboard
his spaceplane.
"Excuse me," Grant said shyly, speaking to the robot.
It had reached the open bomb bay. The robot's eyes
focused on the hatch. It paid no attention to Jeffrey
Grant. He recalled the old vid of Professor Lasairion.
That vid had been subtitled.
    The robot didn't understand Standard Military! But it
could learn. He recalled this fact from his studies. Lasair-
ion had believed in life on other planets. He hoped that
his galaxy-traveling 'hots would encounter other life-
forms and that, when they did, they would communicate
with them. The professor had therefore given the 'bots
the ability to record the spoken language of other be-
ings, with the instruction that they bring the recordings

back for study. The robot was also, by means of auto-
event comparison and frequency-of-sound analysis, sup-
posed to have the ability to "learn" languages. Grant needed the robot's attention.
"Lasairion," Jeffrey Grant said shyly, experimentally.
At the sound of his voice, a blue light began to flash
on the top of the robot's head. It pulsed four times, to
the syllables of the professor's name.
    The robot turned. The sad eyes were suddenly bright.
It reached out one of its arms. Metal fingers took hold
of Jeffrey Grant's sleeve, gave it a gentle tug, then let
loose.
  "You," it said.
    "Me?" Grant was momentarily confused, then real-
ized what was being asked. "No, I'm not Professor
Lasairion."
    But, of course, the robot must know this. It had
scanned him and evinced no sign of interest in him until
he spoke the professor's name.
    Obviously, the 'bot was trained to search for alien life-
forms. Grant was nothing new. He was merely human.
But now that he'd mentioned the professor, the robot
was interested in him.
    "Watch it," said the robot. "Next you'll be giving it
a name."
     The robot was speaking Standard Military as well as
 anyone in the military. As well as Captain Kergonan. In
 fact, the robot sounded a great deal like Captain Kergo-
 nan. Of course! Grant realized, excited. That was be-
 cause the robot must have been speaking to Captain
 Kergonan. The 'bot had recorded the captain's voice and
 was using its programming to try to make sense of the
 words. Either that or it was selecting phrases at random.
 Grant didn't think that likely.
 "Name," he repeated, then added, "Jeffrey Grant."
 The blue light pulsed and Grant realized that the
 robot must be recording him. Grant was pleased, flat-
 tered ... touched.
     The robot's sad, humanlike eyes gazed at Grant stead-
 ily. The 'bot appeared to be considering. "You and l--
 we're just going to take a little walk."

     "Yes," said Grant eagerly. He half turned, pointed to
 his spaceplane. "Over there." He took a few steps in
 that direction, hoped the robot would follow.
     Such a method was, he believed, supposed to work
 with dogs.
  "Halt) Stop)" the robot commanded.
     Grant stopped, turned around, pleaded, "Please, you
 must come with me. Now) Quickly! Before someone
 finds you!"
     The robot lifted one of the metal arms, pointed
 toward the hatch of the Claymore. "You go inside."
    Good grief! The robot was going to save itself! It was
going to hide in the Claymore. And it wanted him to
come along.
    Why? Grant stared at the robot. The robot stared
back. Grant saw his reflection in the metal saucer
head ....
  "Of course! I'm wearing a flight suit!"
    He almost shouted, he was so enthused. Communicat-
ing with the robot was exhilarating, fun! It was like try-
ing to solve a crossword puzzle.
    "And I'm carrying a helmet. Which means that the
robot has mistaken me for the pilot. The robot doesn't
want to hide in the Claymore. It wants me to fly the
Claymore! The robot is trying to save itself!"
  "Do it)" said that troublemaking voice inside him.
    "I couldn't," Grant whispered, suddenly appalled at
his temerity. "Could I?"
    "Don't be frightened," counseled the robot in Captain
Kergonan's voice.
    Grant had the feeling there were three people lined
up against him, urging him on: the robot, Captain Kergo-
nan, and the inner self.
    "No, no, I won't be frightened," Grant promised. He
looked up at the hatch, looked at the bomber, which was
really much larger than it had looked in virtual reality.
 After all, he'd flown a Claymore a thousand times.
 And they were going to blow up the robot.
    The robot floated effortlessly into the bomb bay and
then turned to examine the hatch. Grant had to climb
the ladder to the hatch quickly in order to keep up.

    The robot used one of its attachments on its tool arm
to force open the hatch.
    Grant dropped down inside the bomber, looked
around. He was terrified, excited, and exalted all at the
same time. It was different from the flight simulator.
These controls were real, not portrayed on a screen. It
was ... well ... grayer than he'd pictured. Dirtier. Not
that the inside of the bomber was dirty; it was kept in
good condition. But the real thing was different from
the simulation. It wasn't pristine, wasn't perfect. One of
the steelglass faces on a dial had a crack in it. He
touched the instruments, felt hard edges, smooth sur-
faces beneath his fingers. The metal was hot, from the
sun shining in through the viewscreen. The interior
smelled of metal and of stale sweat and musty webbing,
warm plastic and a brown, shriveled apple core that
someone had tossed toward the trash compactor and
missed.
    Grant sat down in the pilot's seat, studied the controls,
and panicked.
    The controls were not the same. They were similar,
but not the same. Of course, for security reasons, the
makers of the game wouldn't be allowed to replicate
exactly the insides of a Claymore. He recognized a few:
atmospheric pressure, airspeed, space speed, vector con-
troller. But what were those blue baubles that sat in
some sort of liquid with silver reflectors, or the myriad
of computer consoles with keys hanging just above their
banks of switches?
    This was a mistake. A very bad mistake. Grant had
always known he would get into trouble listening to that
inner voice.
    He had to leave, before someone caught him! He tried
to stand up, but his legs wouldn't support his sagging
body.
  The robot shut the hatch, sealed it.
    Grant gasped and gulped, then stared, baffled, at the
myriad controls.
  "I'm sorry ..." he began faintly.
    The robot tapped him on the shoulder. Its arm
pointed to a berth at the back of the crew's living quar-

ters. Claymores were equipped to make the Jump to
hyperspace, which meant that they could take journeys
which might last days or weeks.
  "Don't be frightened," the robot said again.
    Grant pushed himself up from the pilot's chair, tot-
tered on unsteady feet. Hesitantly, he moved away.
    The robot floated over to the bornher's controls, stud-
ied them--green light flashing. It reached out one of its
arms, plugged the attachment on the end of the arm
directly into the console.
    Minutes ticked by. Grant, sweating, stared out the
viewscreen, waited--hoped--someone would come.
    The robot spoke again. "I understand, computer. We
can communicate. Command Sequence Request, stand
by to receive."
    The computer responded. "Protocol low, require au-
thorization and voice print."
    "Voice print negative," returned the robot. "Protocol
low for security. Analyze feature packet sending . . .
now."
  "Unknown packet type."
  "Your request was garbled, please resend."
    "I didn't send anything," said the computer. "I re-
quest that you send authorization."
    "You are responding to my request for authorization,"
the robot returned. "Last command was garbled. Please
resend your authorization and command structure
information."
 "Sending," said the computer. "Please stand by."
     "The robot doesn't need me," Jeffrey Grant realized
out loud. "Then why am I here? And where is it going?"
 The robot shifted around, looked back at him.
    "I've got a job to do," it said in Captain Kergonan's
voice.
    Jeffrey Grant blinked. "Oh, my," he said softly.
"Oh, dear."
    He laid down on the berth. He was dizzy, having dif-
ficulty breathing.
 "Oh, my goodness," he said again.
 "Sleep tight," said the robot.

CHfiPTER

The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of
all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this
is true.

James Branch Cabell, The Silver Stallion

Acorporal drove Harry Luck and Jamil over to the air-
field. Jamil, sleepy, grumpy, and irritated, threw him-
self in the back, crossed his arms over his chest, and
glowered at the back of Harry's head.
    Harry, seated in front, chatted with the driver, who
happened to be a redhead. Harry had a weakness for
redheads.
    "You ever flown in a Claymore bomber, Corporal?
What did you say your first name was? Janet? Is it all
right if I call you Janet? Oh, officers aren't supposed to,
huh? Fraternization. Whatever that means. Who made
up these dumb rules anyhow? I-- Yeah?" Harry turned
around in response to Jamil kicking the back of the seat.
"You want something?"
  "Do you want something, sir?" Jamil growled.
  "No, I'm fine, thanks. It's just--"
    "I suggest, Captain Luck," Jamil said in loud and fro-
zen tones, "that you keep quiet and permit the corporal
to do her job."
    "Yes, sir." Harry appeared properly chastened, but
when he turned around, he winked at the corporal, who
was having difficulty controlling her smile.

     Janfil shut his eyes, sat back in his seat, and decided
 the hell with it.
    The next thing he knew, Harry was shaking his
shoulder.
    "Jeez! I thought you'd never wake up! You feeling
any better?" Harry asked.
    "No, I don't." Jamil growled. "I feel groggy and thick-
headed. We'll make a perfect team."
    "We always do," Harry replied, flattered. "That han-
gar's where they towed the Claymore."
    "You better fill me in on your story," Jamil said be-
neath his breath as they walked that direction.
    Harry nodded. "I flew into Pandoran airspace. I'd
spotted that mother of a command cruiser on my way
in, so I sort of implied that I belonged to them. Said I
was on a routine scouting mission and that I'd developed
problems with the stabilizer. Now, if you got stabilizer
problems, they don't particularly want you attempting to
make a landing on a ship in space. Oh, sure, they can
tractor you in, but what happens when you reach the
docking bay?"
"I give up," Jamil said grimly. "What does happen?"
"Mostly they wash what's left of you out with a hose,"
Harry said, grinning. "It can be done, but it's a real
tricky maneuver and gives everyone a lot of tense mo-
ments. No one likes it, and they'd much rather you make
a land-based landing if possible. You got long runways,
lots of space to wobble around, and if you veer off you'll
end up in a cornfield, not the Lord Admiral's dining
room."
    "I understand. So you informed Pandoran air control
that you had stabilizer problems."
    "Yeah. They turned me over to the base airfield, who
checked me out, but only sort of. After all, that mother-
cruiser is floating around up there and everyone knows
it."
    "What do you mean, they 'sort of' checked you out?
Either they did or they didn't."
    The two were drawing near to the hangar. Ground
crewmen were eyeing them curiously.
 Jamil halted.

    Harry pretended to point out the interesting features
of a Stiletto fighter to the Army colonel.
    "They said they were going to check with the cruiser,
to verify that I was one of hers. I gotta admit that gave
me a few tense moments," Harry commented, squinting
into the Pandoran sun, shading his face with his hand.
"But I guess they must've received verification, 'cause
they came back and said I was cleared to land."
  "What name did you give?" Jamil asked.
    "Harry Luck," said Harry. "Why? What name was I
supposed to give?"
    "You ninny!" Jamil snorted. "The Lord Admiral was
the one who gave you clearance to land. Dixter recog-
nized your name, of course. Otherwise you'd have been
given clearance to land on the nearest prison planet."
    "Oh, well." Harry shrugged, not much concerned. "As
long as it worked. Anyway, the landing looked real
good. I was all over the sky. And I bet I bounced sixty
meters back into the air when I hit the ground. That's
how I got the cut on my head. I don't suppose many
pilots could have brought that plane in--damaged like
that," he added with simple pride.
    "You mean," Jamil said slowly, his brain sleep-
befuddled, "that you actually sabotaged the stabilizer be-
fore you came in for a landing?"
    "Well, sure!" Harry returned. "I'm not that big a
dunce. Of course, I knew that they'd be looking for a
busted stabilizer and that they better find it ....Oh." He
paused, his face crinkled.
    "Yes," said Jamil. "Why didn't you fake the landing,
then damage the stabilizer? You could have been pre-
tending to try to fix it."
      "Yeah," Harry said thoughtfully. "I see your point. It
would have been a whole lot safer, huh?"  "A whole lot," Jamil concurred.
  "I'11 remember that." Harry nodded to himself.
     "How did you manage to walk away from the airfield?
 I presume they told you to stay here."
     "Oh, yeah. They did." Harry grinned. "But I said 1
 had to pee and the head of the ground crew said he bet
 I did, after a landing like that. So I took off for the

john, walked in the front, out the back, and just kept
on going."
    Jamil rubbed his neck. The Pandoran sun was baking
the tarmac, and him right along with it. He would have
given half of his not inconsiderable wealth (he'd been
making sound investments--with Tycho's help) for a
cool shower.
    He reflected, as he stood there, sweaty and bone-tired
and miserable, on the fact that he and Xris had spent
long hours devising an intricate, complex, involved plan
for sneaking onto the base.
    When all they would've had to do was say they had
to go pee.
    He knew it was more complicated than that, but his
weary brain couldn't handle the detailsJ He was far more
content to be bitter over the injustice of it all.
"Where the hell's your damn plane?" he grumbled.
"In here. At least, that's where they towed it." Harry
led the way to the hangar, where he and Jamil were met
by the crew chief.
    "Hey, Captain. That was one long trip to the can."
The crew chief winked.
  "I had a lot on my mind," Harry replied.
    The crew chief raised his eyebrows, seemed about to
laugh, caught sight of Jamil's thunderous expression, and
played it straight.
 "Yes, sir. Is there anything wrong, sir?"
    "No," said Harry breezily, glancing around the empty
hangar. "I was just looking for my Claymore. Is she
fixed'?"
    "Why, yes, sir. You must have walked right past it. We
had it fixed not long after you left. A busted stabilizer
controller. And you must've sucked a bird into your
number two engine on the way down. We hauled tile
Claymore out to the tarmac." "Which one?"
    "We only have one tarmac, sir." The crew chief
walked to the hangar entrance. "It's right over . . .
mmmmm. Now, that's odd."
 "What's odd, Chief?" Jamil demanded.
 The crew chief was gazing at the tarmac in puzzle-

ment. "The Claymore, Colonel. It should be right over
there. Hell, it was right over there. Not an hour ago!"
    Harry squinted, took a good look, shook his head.
"It's not there now."
 Jamil felt the beginnings of a splitting headache.
    "I was gone for a little while," the crew chief said.
"Turning in my daily report. Just a minute. I'll ask the
guys." He disappeared back into the hangar. They heard
his voice. "Hey, any of you fellows see what they did
with that Claymore?"
 "It took off," was the answer.
 "What'd he say?" Harry asked.
 "He said it took off," Jamil repeated.
 "But I'm the pilot." Harry was baffled.
 "Apparently not anymore," Jamil replied.
    "Son of a bitch." Harry swore. "Some bastard stole
my plane!" He thought a moment, then said, "Xris isn't
going to be happy about this, is he?"
    "Oh, sure," Jamil snapped. "Xris is going to hop
around singing and dancing when he hears this one!
There'll be an investigation. Which is just all we need.
Not to mention the fact that it cost us a year's profits to
find and refit that Claymore and ... Oh, skip it!" He
massaged his pounding temples.
    "Yeah. You're right," Harry considered the implica-
tions, then, face flushed, he tromped into the hangar to
angrily confront the flustered crew chief. "What the hell
did you guys do with my plane?"
    Jamil should have gone with him, but he didn't. He
stood in the hot sun, his head pounding, staring at the
empty place on the shimmering tarmac.
    And he wondered just exactly when the command
cruiser was going to fall out of the skies and smash down
on top of them. Everything else had gone wrong. There
was nothing left except that.
    Which only went to prove that, by nature, Jamil was
an optimist.

CHAPTER

This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd
numbers.

William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of
                        Windsor, Act 5

Xris found a hoverjeep parked on the tarmac near the
air traffic control building. He was in the act of climb-
ing into it; the MPs were scrambling in behind, when
they were accosted by Tess. She cast an amazed look at
the MPs, then confronted Xris.
    "Excuse me, Captain Kergonan," she said mildly.
Lowering her voice, she added in a furious undertone,
"But just where the hell do you think you're going?
Where's Grant? You're supposed to be watching him!"
"Grant's not important. I had word that the to--"
    "Just a minute," Tess interrupted him. Turning to the
MPs, she said, "Thank you, gentlemen, but we can han-
dle this. Return to your post."
    The MPs saluted, departed, walked across the tarmac
to stand guard at the rent-a-plane.
    "You know that no one is supposed to know about
the robot," Tess said angrily.
    "Yeah, well, I think the whole damn base is about to
find out about the robot, Captain Strauss," Xris re-
turned, settling down into the driver's seat. He switched
on the ignition. "The robot's missing. It popped out of
its case and escaped. My guess is that it's wandering
around the base somewhere."

 She stared at him, stunned.
    "You want to get in?" Xris shouted over the roar of
the engine.
    Wordlessly, Tess circled around the jeep, climbed in
next to Xris. The air jets lifted the jeep off the ground.
    The comm tickled the inside of his ear. Xris answered,
yelling, "Ouong? You find it?"
    "Huh? Found what? This ain't the Doc, Xris. It's
me. Harry."
 "Look, Harry, whatever it is, it can wait. I--"
    "No, it can't! Some bastard stole my bomber, Xris.
Our bomber. The Claymore." Harry was plaintive.
"Someone flew off with it and it wasn't me."
    Xris knew. He knew exactly what had happened. He
didn't know how or why he knew. It was one of those
flashes of intuition that come sometimes, striking sud-
denly and unexpectedly like lightning from a cloudless
sky. He felt the bolt sizzling behind his eyeballs.
  "Did you talk to the air traffic control?"
  "Yes."
    "What did they say? Who was pilot?" Xris waited
tensely.
  "Pilot? What's going on?" Tess shook him by the arm.
    He waved his hand to quiet her. "What did you say,
Harry? I didn't hear."
    "The computer on board the Claymore performed the
takeoff. And that's really weird, Xris, because I had shut
the computer down during that phony landing. Control
refused to give it permission, but the spaceplane flew off
anyway. They sent a couple of fighters up to try to force
it back down, but whoever is flying that plane has balls."
     After meeting Grant, Xris would have voted, odds on,
 against it. Apparently he'd misjudged the little gray man.
     Harry continued, "The computer didn't pay any atten-
 tion. The Claymore just kept going."
  "Did they shoot the plane down?"
     "Shoot what plane down?" Tess demanded,
 exasperated.
     "No," Harry answered. "The King James gave orders
 not to shoot. The fighters fired one of those tracking
 missiles into it and let it go. And you want to know

another weird thing? They scanned the bomber and
found a life-form aboard. But they couldn't establish
contact with whoever it was."
    "Shit," Xris said with feeling, and he struck the two
sides of the jeep's steering mechanism. The entire left
side crumpled beneath the blow of his cybernetic hand.
His right hand hurt like hell.  "What do we do, boss?"
  "Hold on a minute. I've got to think."
    "You have three seconds to tell me what's going on,"
Tess said grimly, "or I will shoot you."
    Xris stared out over the tarmac. Harry and Jamil,
standing near the hangar, were two small figures dis-
torted by the heat waves roiling up from the red surface.
He should have known. But Grant seemed so meek
and compliant ....
    "Jeffrey Grant found the robot," Xris told Tess. "He
took it on board our Claymore bomber and flew off
with it."
 Tess regarded him warily. "You're joking."
 Xris shook his head.
     "This is some sort of ploy to make me give him back
his machine, isn't it?" Tess said hopefully. Xris continued to shake his head.
    "All right. Let's suppose for a minute that this is on
the level." Tess was trying very hard to remain calm.
"Why would the man do such a crazy thing? Does he
plan to take the robot to Harsch?"
 "No," said Xris. "He plans to save its life."
    "Save it-- Someone told him about the bomb. Great!"
Tess said bitterly. "That's just wonderful!" Flinging open
the door, she started to jump out.
    Xris tried to stop her. "Wait till I set the hoverjeep
down! You'll break your neck."
    Tess ignored him. Leaping nimbly over the side, she
dropped to the ground, set off at a run toward the air
traffic control building.
    Xris swung the jeep around, caught up with Tess.
Driving the jeep in front of her, he slammed on the
brakes. The air jets shut down. The jeep plunked to
the grotind.

    "Remember me?" he shouted. "I'm the guy who's
supposed to deliver this robot to Harsch!"
    Tess was breathing fast, her face flushed. "Tell me--
did that pilot of yours really fake a crash-landing in a
Claymore?" "Yes."
 "Is he that smart? Or that stupid?"
    "You don't want to know the answer. Either way, he's
the best damn pilot in the galaxy."
    She considered, then nodded her head. "Fine. Meet
me at the hangar. Be ready to fly."
    She turned, started off. Xris jumped out of the jeep,
followed. '
    "Wait just a goddamned minute, Captain! I'm not in
this man's Army. I admit I screwed up taking this job.
Boy!" Xris shook his head "Did I screw upl And I'm
willing to take the robot to Harsch--"
 "You're willing to get paid!" she cut in.
    "Damn right. I've earned it. But this is more than I
bargained--"
    "Darlene," Tess said loudly, clearly. She frowned,
concentrating. "Your Adonian friend mentioned the
name Darlene. Could that be Darlene Mohini? Major
Mohini? There are a lot of people who'd like to know
where she is."
 Xris glared at her.
    "Let go of my arm, Captain"--Tess lifted her chin--
"and carry out your orders."
     "Yes, ma'am," Xris said coldly. Straightening, with a
snap, he saluted. "Go to hell, ma'am." Turning on his heel, he left her.
    Muttering imprecations on everything from women to
robots to Naval Intelligence and meek, mild nmseum
curators, Xris climbed back into the hoverjeep, slammed
it into gear, and roared off toward the hangar.
    On arrival, he found Harry standing in the spot where
his Claymore had been parked, staring wistfully at a
grease spot. "I can't believe it's gone," he said, as Xris
walked up.
 "Believe it," Xris snapped. "Where's Jamil?"
 Harry waved in the general direction of the hangar.

"Asleep." He shook his head admiringly. "That man can
sleep anywhere. I never saw nothing like it."
    Xris walked over to the hangar. Jamil sat in a folding
chair, his arms and head draped over an oil drum. His
eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. Xris
started to touch him, to wake him.
    He changed his mind. Let him sleep. Odds were, he
was going to need it. Xris twitched his jaw in a certain
way. The comm channel in his subcutaneous transmitter
came on.
  "Doc, Tycho, you both hear me?"
    "Yes, Xris. No sign of the 'bot. One guy thinks he
saw it, but he isn't sure if it was the 'bot he saw or if
he was experiencing flashbacks from a bad acid trip--"
      "Skip it. New developments. Report back to the air-
field. ASAP. Xris out."
 He next tried Raoul.
 "Raoul, this is Xris. Over."
    No response, although he did hear a startled
"Mmmm?"
  "Raoul, this is Xris. Over."
  "Xris?" Raoul was tentative.
  "Raoul, this is Xris. Over."
     "It sounds like Xris," he heard Raoul say, probably
to the Little one. "It is Xris!"
    "Where are you?" Raoul's voice had a hysterical
edge. "I can hear you, but I can't see you!"
    "I'm on the corem, Raoul," Xris said patiently. "The
comm. You remember. Left ear. Put your hand up,
touch the skin. You'll feel a bump."
    "Ah!" Raoul sighed deeply. "1 thought you were a
disembodied spirit. Or perhaps one of those other voices
I sometimes hear .... " "Where--"
    "Isn't that redundant? Disembodied spirit? Aren't all
spirits disembod--"
    "Never mind!" Xris seemed to always get sucked into
these weird conversations. "Where are you?"
 He could practically hear Raoul's head swiveling.
 "We are in an establishment which maintains that it

serves food. Personally, I have my doubts. The man be-
hind the counter asked me what I wanted. I said some-
thing light--crackers and pfit6 lois gras, with a glass of
white wine, dry, chilled to the correct temperature. 1
did not specify the vineyard, because I could tell it was
hopeless. The man was extremely rude anyway. He
said--"
    "Report to the hangar!" Xris was finally able to get a
word in. "We're leaving."
    "Not a moment too soon." Raoul was emphatic. He
was silent a moment, then asked, "Where, exactly, will
we find the hangar?'"
 "Ask someone. Xris out."
    He slumped down in a chair in the empty hangar, felt
the sweat pool in a damp patch on the back of his uni-
form. He could guess what Tess had in mind--she was
going to go chase after this blasted Grant and his blasted
robot. And what about Darlene? They were due to meet
her when her ship docked on Moana. He wanted some-
one there with her. He didn't like the idea of her being
alone, not now. Not since the Hung knew who she was.
The Hung may have lost her for the moment--at least
he hoped that was the case. But they'd find her again.
    Maybe he could shake loose Doc and Tycho, Raoul
and the Little One? Xris had never planned to have
every last one of them involved in this job. He'd send
the others off to guard Darlene. Yes, that was a good
plan. He'd send them off. He'd stay with Tess and
Harry, help capture Grant and the kidnapped robot.
    That settled, Xris tried to relax, but he only grew more
fidgety. When he caught himself thinking that, yes, the
term "disembodied spirit" was a redundancy, he angrily
shoved himself to his feet and stomped outside to see
what the devil was keeping everyone.

    "Please hurry, gentlemen," Tess said crisply. "The
Claymore has a head start on us. Climb on board and
take your seats. Pilot Luck, what's the matter? I assume
you can fly a PRRS?"
 "I can fly anything, ma'am," Harry said. He was being

honest, not bragging. "But ... we're going to chase the
Claymore in this?"
    "Yes, Pilot Luck," Tess's voice hardened. "What's
wrong with this spaceplane?"
    "Nothing, ma'am," Harry replied seriously. "Except
when do you want to catch the Claymore? Sometime
next year?"
    Tess's cheeks reddened. She reached for the comm in
the hoverjeep. "I'll get another pilot--"
    "Take it easy." Xris intervened. "Harry's just being
honest. And he's right. This clunker"--he made a dis-
paraging gesture--"will never catch up with a fighter-
bomber."
    Tess frowned; her eyes glinted. "I'm open to sugges-
tions. Just how did you plan to stop the Claymore and
recover the 'bot?"
"Send the command cruiser King James after it."
Tess hesitated, then said, not looking at Xris, "Some-
thing I didn't mention. We're convinced that Harsch has
high-level contacts in the Navy. A flagship command
cruiser goes tearing after one insignificant Claymore. A
strange-looking robot is captured and brought on board.
It would be the talk of the ward room for a week. If
Harsch found out, that would be the end of our opera-
tion. We might never have another chance to catch him.
No, we can't risk it."
    "But you'll risk losing the Claymore and the robot?"
Xris raised an eyebrow, or what would have been an
eyebrow if he'd had any eyebrows. "That doesn't
make sense."
    "It's not much of a risk," Tess argued. "The Claymore
is being flown by an inexperienced novice. We checked
Grant's records. He has a pilot's license, but he only
ever flew corporate shuttles. As for this 'clunker,' as you
term it, the PRRS may not look like much, but she's
faster than she looks. She has a tractor beam and, as
her name suggests, the PRRS is built specifically for this
type of operation."
    "PRRS?" Dr. Quong said. "The name doesn't suggest
anything to me, except maybe a cat with a lisp. Purrs.
Get it? Cat with a--"

    "PRRS. Pilot Recovery and Rescue Ship," Jamil in-
formed them. "If a pilot's plane is disabled or damaged
in space or if the pilot is forced to eject, the PRRS can
tractor home the crippled plane or pick up the life pod.
These spaceplanes aren't real pretty to look at, but when
you're marooned out there in the endless night with your
fuel running low and the black cold creeping into your
bones, nothing looks more beautiful than this old girl
coming to take you home."
    Harry only shook his head gloomily. He clumped up
the ramp, entered through the enormous, gaping hatch.
    The PRRS was a converted Flamberge medium
bomber. Its bomb bay and weapons mounts had been
removed to add a tractor beam and a much larger cargo
section. The gun turrets had been taken off, replaced
with grappling equipment.
    Dr. Quong and Tycho boarded, carrying with them
the equipment Tess had stowed in her jeep. This in-
cluded Jeffrey Grant's Collimated Command Receiver
Unit, which was still humming tO itself.
    Jamil lingered a moment to take a long, nostalgic look,
then he walked up the ramp. He patted the hull affec-
tionately as he entered.
    That left Xris and Tess and Raoul and the Little One.
Raoul was hovering, obviously had something urgent to
impart. He had probably lost an earring.  Xris shook his head. "Later."
    He turned to Tess. "You're chasing after the Clay-
more. Do you mind telling us what we're doing here?"
    "Just what you're being paid to do," she said coolly.
"Once we catch it, you're going to deliver the robot
to Harsch."
    "It doesn't take all of us," Xris said. "Harsch isn't
expecting an army. He'll get suspicious if seven people
descend on him. Harry can fly the plane. Once we catch
the 'bot, Jamil and I can handle the delivery. You don't
need Quong or the others. I want to send them--"
  "Xris Cyborg." Raoul plucked at his sleeve.
    "Just a minute," Xris said impatiently. He faced Tess.
"Well? How about it? You've got me. You've got Harry
and Jamil. Let me send the others on their way."

    "And I'm sure the others would go right straight
home. No little detours?" Tess smiled. "Nice try, Xris.
But no. You're all coming."
    Xris gritted his teeth to keep back the words that
would have made her furious, accomplished nothing.
With any luck, this job would go fast. They'd finish it
on schedule, meet Darlene as planned.
  Luck. They'd had none so far. They were due.
  "Yes. what is it?" He turned to Raoul.
    "You said something about the Grant person flying
the bomber."
  Xris nodded.
    Raoul was grave. "He is not the one flying. He is not,
per se, the pilot."
  "Then who the hell is?"
  "The robot."
    Tess had started to walk up the ramp. }tearing this,
she paused, half turned. "What did he say?"
    "Jeffrey Grant did not run off with the robot," Raoul
repeated his information. "The robot ran off with Jeffrey
Grant. The robot is piloting the bomber."
    "How does he know that?" Tess had gone extremely
pale. "I don't believe it."
    Xris motioned. "The Little One. That's my guess. He
must have read Grant's thoughts before the plane got
off the ground."
    Raoul confirmed this. "The Grant person is a very
easy subject. His thoughts are simple, colorful, close to
the surface, and tinged with whimsy."
    "Oh, God!" Tess gasped. "If he's right ... Oh. dear
God! Hurry!" She beat on the railing with her hands.
"Hurry! Get on board! There's not a moment to lose!
We have to stop the robot!"
    The PRRS gave a shudder. Whatever else Tess said
was lost in the whine of the turbines cranking up. Xris
dashed inside as the hatch slammed shut. The whine
reached a painful level, changed to a thunderous roar.
The ex-bomber's dual engines began sucking in ionized
air faster than the speed of sound, dumped it out just
as quickly. Harry released the magnetic brakes and the
bomber bucked and bounced down the tarmac.

    "Stop the robot?" Xris yelled over the din. He
dropped himself into his seat, strapped himself in. "Stop
it from what?"
 "From doing its job!" Tess shouted back.

EHHPI[H
       2q

Marriage and hanging go by destiny; matches are
made in heaven.

Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy

The interior of the PRRS was cramped and crowded,
being essentially a spacegoing ambulance. Living
space was divided into three major areas: the bridge,
crew quarters, and two treatment rooms. The plane's
most prominent features were a docking and recovery
bay, designed to accommodate life pods and the tractor
beam, extremely powerful for a spaceplane of this size.
    "The tractor beam could take a small-sized fighter in
tow," Harry advised them. "If it had to. But that's not
what it's designed to do. If a plane is disabled, for what-
ever reason, it's generally drifting helpless in space. Crip-
pled planes can perform some pretty wild gyrations,
making it dangerous for other planes or ships to venture
near. The tractor beam locks on to the crippled plane,
clamps it down, and holds it in place until the medics
can go aboard to check on the condition of the pilot."
    Several enormous, pressurized spacesuits, standing in
a corner of the docking bay, their inflated arms out-
stretched, their hehnets balanced on their shoulders. sug-
gested one way the medics could board a disabled
spaceplane. The arms swayed and bounced with the
movement of the PRRS, the helmets nodded. The sight
was unnerving. Xris, investigating the ship's interior,
caught sight of these apparitions out of the corner of his

eye, thought at first someone else was with him in the
docking bay.
    Dr. Quong was impressed with the equipment in the
treatment facilities. Raoul, investigating the medicine
cabinet, was obviously impressed as well. He disap-
peared for about half an hour, returned smiling, dreamy-
eyed, and hungry. Jamil appropriated one of the beds,
stretched out, and was immediately asleep. Xris sent
Tycho forward to act as copilot.
    Tycho protested. Harry was in a bad mood. Disconso-
late over the loss of the Claymore, frustrated over the
real or imagined inadequacies of the PRRS, he whined
and complained, ranted and swore and generally made
life hell for anyone in his immediate vicinity.
    "Turn off your translator," Xris advised, when he sent
Tycho into the lion's den.
    The advice obviously worked, for the next time Xris
went onto the bridge, he found Harry bitching and
moaning and Tycho concentrating on his instrument
readings, obviously not understanding a single growl or
mutter.
    "How's it going7" Xris asked. "You got a fix on
that Claymore?"
    "It's going okay, I guess," Harry said. "Yeah, I got a
fix on the Claymore. The Navy sent in the latest coordi-
nates. They're keeping an eye on it, but they got orders
to back off when we get there."  "What's it doing?"
    "Damned if I know. The Claymore's just ambling
along, taking its own sweet time. Not a care in the gal-
axy. It's like it's sightseeing. Cruising, surveying the terri-
tory. At this rate we're due to catch up with it in the
next two hours."
    "You know, Harry, you might be right," Xris said
thoughtfully.
  "Huh?" Harry looked up. "I am?"
    "What is this phenomenon?" Ouong walked onto the
bridge. "Harry is right about something?"
    "He may be. He said the Claymore acted like it was
surveying the territory. According to the Little One, the

 robot is actually in control of the Claymore. Is that possi-
 ble? Could an antique robot fly a modern spaceplace?"
     "Certainly," Dr. Quong said promptly. "The robot
 doesn't have to know anything about the Claymore. All
 it has to know is how to communicate with the onboard
 computer. They talk to each other using machine lan-
 guage, which essentially has not changed since the dawn
 of object-oriented machine language."
    "Okay. Tess thinks the robot may be on its way to
continue its work--laying Lanes. After all, the robot has
no concept of the passing of time. It doesn't know it was
sidelined for a good two thousand years."
     "And the Collimated Command Receiver Unit be-
 longing to this Mr. Grant has reinforced this idea."
    "Did you get a chance to study that thing, Doc, when
you brought it on board? ls it really talking to the 'bot?
And if so, what're they saying to each other?"
    "Yes, I examined the unit. I understand howit works,
but not--I am afraid--why. In other words, I do not
precisely understand what it was designed to do. And
therefore I have no way of knowing what they are saying
to each other."
    "Do you agree with Captain Strauss? Is it likely that
the robot is simply carrying on with its assignment? Get-
ting ready to lay more Lanes?"
    "Conceivably," Quong said, sounding dubious. "But I
doubt it. I hate to break this to the Admiralty, but I
don't believe that this robot will provide them the an-
swers for which they are searching. Yes, it is a Lane-
laying robot, but, as i told you before, these robots were
in constant communication with Professor Lasairion. He
undoubtedly fitted them with a fail-safe device. They
would have had to receive a confirmation signal before
laying a Lane."
    "Wait a minute." Xris raised his hand. "What's this
'undoubtedly' business? Back on base you told me that
the professor had fitted the robots with such a device.
Did he or didn't he?"
    "I looked it 'all up for my report. According to the
Encyclopedia Galactica ..." Harry began.

    Xris and Quong both glared at him. Hurt, Harry fell
silent.
     Quong answered. "Research exists which indicates
that the professor did indeed install such a device."
  Harry was shaking his head.
    "Suppose the unit is sending out that very signal,"
Xris suggested. "The one telling the 'bot to go ahead."
    Quong was decisive. "The professor himself was the
only one who could have done so. The signals were un-
doubtedly coded. He was the one--the only one--who
had the code. The robot might try to lay the Lane, but
if it did not receive the correct confirmation signal, it
would not go ahead."
    "Sure it would, Doc!" Harry protested. "The profes-
sor stored all his knowledge in the robots and sent them
off. That's according to the Encyclopedia Galactica. You
can look it up."
    "I realize that this is the popular theory," Quong said.
"I happen to believe it is in error and I am not the only
one. There have been a great many papers written on
the subject--"
 "Like mine," Harry interjected, with pride.
 "Precisely," Quong said dryly.
    "Then if we shut down the Collimated Command Re-
ceiver Unit, maybe we stop the robot dead in its tracks,"
Xris suggested.
    "Perhaps," Quong said, "perhaps not. Perhaps shut-
ting the unit down might make matters worse."
    "How could they possibly get worse?" Xris de-
manded, exasperated.
  "They could." Quong was ominous. "Believe me."
  "Tell me."
    The doctor shook his head. "No, 1 do not have
enough data."
    "Then at least you can tell me what you think it's
doing out there. Is it sightseeing? And why steal the
Claymore? And Jeffrey Grant? And why is Captain
Strauss lying to us? Tell us how dangerous this robot
would be if it falls into Corasian hands."
  Dr. Quong started to reply, checked himself. He

 pursed his lips, shook his head. "No. I do not have
 enough data."
     "C'mon, Doc," Xris ordered. "Cut the 'enough data'
 crap. At least tell me what you're guessing."
     "Crap!" Quong repeated, incensed. "It is not crap! I
 do not have enough data to make an informed determi-
 nation of the robot's activities and I will not guess. When
 I acquire more information," he added, bowing stiffly,
 "I will let you know."
  Clearly angry, he left the bridge.
    "He said the encyclopedia was wrong." Harry was
shocked. "The encyclopedia's never wrong. You want
me to look it up for you, Xris? I'm pretty sure the ency-
clopedia's on file in the research section of the ship's
computer."
    "No, I don't want you to look it up!" Xris snarled.
"Just catch the damn Claymore, will you?"
    He turned to leave the bridge, swore savagely when
he clipped his elbow--his good elbow--against the bulk-
head. Banging the blast door shut, he stomped off, rub-
bing his elbow and muttering to himself.
    "Geez, everyone sure is in a bad mood," Harry
commented.
    Tycho, not understanding a single word, nodded and
smiled and agreed.
    Xris headed for the galley. He had two things to do,
one of which was to try to contact Darlene on board the
cruise liner, find out if she was all right. First, however,
he needed to talk to Raoul. And the Little One.
    Walking past the crew quarters, Xris glanced in. Tess
was seated in a chair, her gaze fixed on the unit, which
was blinking its blue light and humming in its monotone
voice. She had taken off her shoes, sat with her legs
outstretched, her head resting on her hand, her arm
leaning on the arm of the chair. Her expression was un-
readable. She looked tired, but then they were all tired.
She also looked thoughtful, abstracted, worried.
    She's got good reason to be worried, Xris thought.
The Lord Admiral would not smile favorably on a cap-
tain who had not only lost a prize robot, but had let it
hijack a plane, kidnap a civilian, and go wandering about

the universe, perhaps getting ready to carry on with an
assignment it had been given two thousand years
previous.
    Dixter might be holding a court-martial on board the
King James, after all. A real one.
    Xris shook his head, continued on his way without
speaking to Tess. He felt sorry for her, but not as sorry
as he might have felt, given the circumstances. If what
Dr. Quong theorized was true--and Xris had been with
the Doc long enough to trust his opinion--then Tess had
lied to them. The robot was not A Danger to All Hu-
manity. It was more like a juvenile delinquent, taking
Dad's vehic out for a joyride. So what was Tess up to?
Xris needed to find out.
    Raoul and the Little One were in the galley. Raoul
had ten slices of bread laid out on the counter, was
adoming each slice with a vivid yellow substance that
Xris recognized (every space traveler recognized) as the
durable and nutritious, if not particularly tasty, delicacy
known to its detractors as plasticheese.
    Raoul was making sandwiches--nibbling as he con-
cocted them. The Little One, standing on a chair at his
friend's side, assisted by closing up the portions of bread
as Raoul completed placing the slices.
    Xris grimaced. "Is that all there is to eat aboard this
thing?"
    Raoul nodded gravely. "Apparently no one thought
to advise the cook that we were taking off. I discovered
several bags filled with a supposedly edible commodity
made of wheat paste laced with artificial meat flavoring.
It goes by the name of W-ham. If you would like, I
could add a slice of W-ham to your sandwich. However,
if such is your inclination, I feet it only fair to advise
you that I have poisons which act much faster and prob-
ably taste better."
    "Give it to Harry. Tell him you found the recipe in
the encyclopedia. Now"--Xris leaned against the
counter--"if you and the Little One could halt your culi-
nary endeavors for a moment, I need to talk to you."
    The two exchanged glances. Raoul laid the alleged
cheese on the counter, turned, regarded Xris with a

 hazy, dreamy-eyed attention that did not bode well for
 the lucidity of the conversation. The Little One rotated
 slowly and carefully upon his chair, his feet shuffling
 beneath the raincoat, his hand on Raoul's shoulder for
 balance. The eyes beneath the fedora were hooded,
 shadowed.
Xris hit the controls. The door slid shut. He locked it.
"This is the first time we've had a chance to talk pri-
vately. I want you to tell me about Tess. Captain Strauss.
What's she thinking? What's going on inside her?"
    Another exchange of glances. The Little One put his
hands over his mouth. His small shoulders heaved with
what for him were apparently giggles. Raoul smiled a
knowing smiled.
"She is very much attracted to you, my friend."
Taking out a twist, Xris thrust it into his mouth.
"Yeah, I know. Poor kid. She never had a chance. Let's
move past that. What's her angle? I know she's lying
about the robot and maybe a few other things."
    Raoul was apparently in deep concentration. He actu-
ally permitted his smooth brow to furrow slightly--
something he never would have done under any less seri-
ous circumstances. The plucked eyebrows drew closer
together. He stared fixedly at a point somewhere around
Xris's uniform breast pocket and observed, "You have
not had sex in a long time, my friend."
    Xris attempted to be patient. "Outside of the fact that
this is none of your goddamed business--"
    "Lack of sex over a prolonged period of time is not
healthy," Raoul continued, grave and solemn as a biol-
ogy professor. "I believe I heard that you can go blind.
It also makes you irritable."
    Xris chomped down hard on the twist, reminded him-
self that Raoul was a valued member of the team and
that it would be counterproductive to wring his neck.
"Tess is lying," he said, clearly and deliberately. "Either
that or she's not telling us all the truth. Why? And what
is she holding back?"
    "We have witnessed your deprivation with a keen
amount of sympathy," Raoul carried on. "What you can
possibly see in a woman who wouldn't recognize the

need of a lipstick tube from a guided missile is beyond
me. Still, she is genuinely fond of you, Xris Cyborg
and"--Raoul and the Little One exchanged sly
glances--"we know that you are fond of her. There
should be no barrier to your happiness. Go forth, my
children," Raoul said solemnly, with a graceful gesture,
"and procreate."
    Xris went forth, but not to procreate. Thoughts of pul-
verizing Raoul and stuffing him into a bag with the
W-ham were far too tempting. Xris headed for the comm
room on his next mission: to establish contact with Dar-
lene, assure himself that she was safe and likely to con-
tinue that way.
    Yet deep down, down somewhere around Xris's gut,
in parts of him that were still human, was a warm glow
of pleasure. It was nice to be wanted. Granted the
woman who wanted him was lying to him, had been
prepared to shoot him, and was quite possibly leading
him into a very ugly situation.
  But, hell, no one's perfect.

    In the galley, Raoul put the finishing touches on the
sandwiches, all the while holding a seemingly one-sided
conversation with his mute friend.
    "Should we tell Xris Cyborg the truth, do you think?
It seems to me"--Raoul tilted his head to one side, to
view the sandwiches from a different angle--"that this
could be rather important."
    The Little One agreed that this might be so, then pre-
sented his argument.
  Raoul had a clear vision of a flower, wilting.
    "True. It would take the bloom off their budding rela-
tionship. You are right. In point of fact, such a thing
could blight the rose of love forever."
    The Little One snorted, wiggled his small fingers in
the air.
    Raoul sighed deeply, relieved. "Right again, my
friend. As long as we know the truth, we can be pre-
pared to do whatever must be done. And perhaps she
will tell him herself. I have always heard that good rela-
tionships are founded on honesty. I, personally, have

other criteria. but most people lack my imagination. So
we will hope, for the sake of this relationship, that she
tells him the truth. As for the rest, what we do, we do
for Xris Cyborg's own good. Someday he will thank us.
It would be terrible if he went blind."
    The Little One gave an emphatic nod, such that his
hat almost fell off into the sandwiches.

CHnPIER
       30

For solitude sometimes is best society.
And short retirement urges sweet return.

John Milton, Paradise Lost

Darlene was lonely. The feeling startled her, for she
was used to being alone.
She'd always been considered odd, even as a child,
when she had startled her teachers by being able to pro-
vide the correct answer to any math problem almost the
second she saw it. What made this more unique was that
she was a very mediocre math student. She was rarely
able to show her work or explain how she arrived at the
correct answer.
    Tests indicated that she was a genius, possessed ex-
traordinary capabilities in linear thinking. The teachers,
never quite trusting her after that, let her alone.
    She made few friends in school. Dalin Rowan never
went out for sports or enjoyed hanging out with the
guys. Darlene Rowan was still asleep inside Dalin's psy-
che. It wasn't until Rowan went to work for FlSA and
met her partners, Xris and Mashahiro Ito, that she found
two people who were not intimidated by her. Two peo-
ple who admired and respected and, better still, just
plain liked her.
    And then Ito had die& horribly, in a Hung trap. Xris
had been supposed to die, but he survived--more ma-
chine than man. A part of Darlene died in that explo-
sion~ too, though she hadn't been anywhere near it at

the time. She spent the next year of her life working
under cover, working to destroy the Hung, who had de-
stroyed her life. She was successful. Most of the top peo-
ple in the Hung were now busting rocks in penal
colonies.
    But the Hung's reach is long and their memories
longer. They are not the type to forgive and forget.
Agent Dalin Rowan was a marked man. When his job
was finished, he disappeared.
    Darlene Mohini was born. Shortly after her birth, she
joined the Navy.
    A few hints dropped into the computer along the way
prompted the top brass to post her to a secret Naval
base located in the absolute center of nowhere. Here
she was safe--at least for a little while. Here she could
perform good work, be of benefit to someone. Here she
could be eccentric and no one would mind.
    It was considered part of her odd nature that she liked
to work at all hours of the day and night, never kept to
any sort of routine schedule, frequently requested a
change of location for her office and her living quarters,
rarely left the base, rarely requested leave.
    She never went to visit anyone on base, never invited
people to visit her, could be found working in her office
over major holidays. She ate alone and at varied hours.
She jogged alone. Eccentric, people said. She's a genius,
people said. What can you expect?
    They never knew she was hiding. They never knew
that she took these precautions because she feared for
her life.
 And then Xris found her anyway.
She was lucky it had been Xris and not the Hung.
During that time, she had become accustomed to a
solitary life. She told herself she actually enjoyed it and
had gone out of her way to avoid the vid parties and
volleyball games and other social contact. Darlene had
made of RFComSec a womb--warm and snuggly and
soothingly dark. She was fed, pampered, housed, and
clothed in her embryonic sac.
    The birth process had been violent; she hadn't wanted
to leave. But her first gulp of fresh air had brought back

to her everything she was missing. Having come to kill
her, Xris had ended up giving her back her life.
    And now, on this so-called pleasure cruise, Darlene
was once again isolated, alone. She didn't know any of
the two thousand people on board and none of them
knew her.
 At least she hoped none of them knew her.
    The passengers were intent on having fun, enjoying
the major pastimes aboard an Adonian cruise vessel.
these being sex and food. Several Adonians--men and
women--had indicated that they found Darlene not
quite repulsive (which was high praise from the beauty-
addicted Adonians), and that they found her company
not quite boring.
    Then a handsome Adonian gentleman smiled and
handed Darlene a glass of champagne. She was immedi-
ately back at Raoul's party, seeing again the smiling,
handsome face of the Hung assassin.
    And though Darlene told herself repeatedly that she
had thrown off her pursuers, that the Hung must think
her dead and that she was safe, she pleaded space sick-
ness and took her meals in her stateroom.
    Darlene thought a lot about Xris and Jamil, wondered
how their job was going. They must be finished with it
by now, she reasoned. She would have liked to have
seen that antique robot.
    Surely l've thrown off the Hung. Surely I can go back.
When we stop at the next port, I'11--
A mellow tone sounded. A call coming through.
Darlene had been lying on her bed, trying to read an
improving book and not making much headway. At the
sound--which she admitted to herself she'd been waiting
to hear ever since she came on board--she jumped up,
ran for the vidphone so fast, she knocked over a chair.
She punched the answer button, crouched down so that
she could see and be seen on the screen.
  "Hello?" she said eagerly. "Hello? Xris?"
    Righting the chair, she sat in it, waited to see Xris's
face, waited to hear his tobacco-shredded voice.
    He came on screen, wearing an Army uniform and
hat. Xris detested hats.

  "Xris. how nice--" she began.
    "Darlene?" Xris smiled at her, casually straightened
his shirt collar, tugged at the captain's bars. "That you,
sweetie?"
    "Yes, it's me, dear. How is everything at home? Noth-
ing's wrong, is it? How are all the kids? Are they okay?"
    "Sure, sweetheart. The kids are fine. They send their
love. You having a good time?"
    "The best," Darlene said dryly. "But I really miss you
and the kids, honey."
    "Yeah, me, too." Xris was grim. "You're not having
any trouble with that one fellow who was trying to hit
on you, are you?"
    "No. I think he got the message. I hope so, at least.
Say, dear, are you and the kids still planning on meeting
me when the ship docks at Moana?"
    "That's why I'm calling." Xris made a face. "My leave
was canceled. We'll make it, but we may be late. I've
got a new assignment and my new commanding officer's
a royal pain. Very demanding. But, with any luck, we
should be on Moana a day or two after you arrive. We're
operating in the same sector of space. That's the one
good thing about this assignment. Check into a good
hotel and wait for us."
    "I will. Is ..." she hesitated, "is there anything I
can do?"
 "Take care of yourself," he said with a smile.
    "You, too," she said. "My love to the kids. I'll see
you all in a couple of days. Oh, you won't be able to
reach me after midnight, SMT. We'll be making the
Jump then. We'll be out of communication range for
forty-eight hours."
    "Fine." Xris nodded. "Have a good trip, sweetheart.
By the way, I ran into one of your old college profs.
Lasairion. Professor Colin Lasairion. You remember
him? He said to tell you hello. He wants you to look
him up sometime."
    "Sure! Yes, I remember him," said Darlene, not hav-
ing a clue. "Say hi back for me."
 "Will do. Love you." Xris grinned, winked.

    "I love you, too," Darlene said. "Kiss Jamie and Little
Harry for me."
 Xris rolled his eyes, made a face.
 His image faded.
    Darlene sat staring at the empty screen. Something
had gone wrong. She wondered what and how badly.
Xris didn't seem all that stressed and he'd been free to
contact her, so he wasn't in dire straits. And he might
have kept the disguise more for her safety than his own.
Still, she couldn't help wondering. And worrying.
 Professor Colin Lasairion.
    Darlene left the vidphone, went to her computer. She
knew the name, someone from history. She tapped into
the shipboard computer, searched through the ship's ar-
chives, which included an Encyclopedia Galactica.
    "Oh, that Lasairion. Damn, I really would have liked
to have seen that robot. But why would Xris tell me to
look all this up?"
    She didn't know, but at least now she had something
to do.

CHflPIER
       31

 The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at
 best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where
 the one ends, and where the other begins?

        Edgar Allan Poe, "The Premature Burial"

Jeffrey Grant sat disconsolately on the bunk and
watched the robot pilot the spaceplane. The robot was
doing a very good job. Rather, the Claymore's computer
was doing a very good job, but it was the robot that was
in command. The two rarely spoke to each other, audi-
bly. One of the robot's reticulated arms remained
plugged into the instrument panel on the console. Grant
assumed that they were communicating machine to
machine.
    At length, finding the bunk uncomfortable and feeling
sort of silly and undignified, rather like a child that has
been sent to bed while the grown-ups party, Grant ven-
tured forth onto the bridge.
    The robot hovered over the control panel. Grant con-
sidered seating himself in the pilot's chair, but feared
this might irritate the robot. He sank down meekly into
the copilot's chair.
    The robot's sad eyes shifted to him. "Talk to me,"
said the robot, and this time it was not using Captain
Kergonan's voice.
    The voice was human, had been prerecorded, and,
from the distinct and separate and uninflected intona-
tion, Grant guessed that the robot had recorded various

vowel and consonant sounds and was stringing them
together.
    It occurred to Jeffrey Grant, and the knowledge gave
him a little thrill, that the voice might well be that of
the late Professor Lasairion, dead these past two thou-
sand years.
 "What would you like me to say'?" Grant asked.
    He studied the instrument panel. The comm unit was
located in the same place as it was on his simulator
game. His game often required him to communicate with
Command Central. Grant thought he might kuow how
to use the comm. But he wasn't certain if the robot
would let him.
    "Your words," said the robot. "I must know your
words. It is my job."
    "Ah!" Grant was enlightened. "Is that why you
brought me along? You want to study my language?"
    He felt considerably deflated. He'd been going to res-
cue the robot, to save it from death, to escape with it
into the stars. Instead, it had flown off with him, wanted
to use him as a sort of linguistic guinea pig.
    Grant talked to the robot. He didn't know what else
to do and he hoped, rather bleakly, that by talking he
might be able to find out what the robot was intending.
It had some purpose. It had to have a purpose. Unlike
humans, robots did not act aimlessly.
    Grant told the robot about his childhood, which, being
relatively happy, had been singularly uninteresting. His
teenage years had been unremarkable and those were
dispatched in a few sentences. He expanded more on his
job, which he had enjoyed, but he talked most about his
beloved museum.
    The robot was an attentive listener. It never inter-
rupted. The blue light atop its head pulsed and flashed
with every word. It evinced little or no interest in what
he was saying, until he came to the museum. Then it
seemed to Grant that the blue light was a little brighter,
that it pulsed a little faster. And once the robot actually
repeated a word--an ancient word, referring to some
piece of equipment--and it had a very natural sound to

 it. As if Professor Lasairion had spoken it whole and
 intact, not just a compilation of meaningless syllables.
     As they talked, the Claymore cruised slowly through
 space. And then Navy fighters dove into view.
     "Unknown Claymore, this is Navy Dirk Two One.
 Shut down your engines and prepare to be towed."
     Grant heard the pilot's voice clearly. The robot appar-
 ently heard it, too, for the blue light flashed in time to
 the orders. But the robot ignored it.
  "Continue talking," it said to Grant.
     "Shouldn't we obey them?" asked Jeffrey Grant. "Or
 at least acknowledge their instructions? After all," he
 added with a sudden qualm, "they might shoot."
     "They will not shoot us down," said the robot. "The
 professor has told us this. The enemy will try to capture
 us whole and intact in order to use us."
    Grant didn't know what to do. He knew he should
attempt to talk the robot into surrendering, but if he did
that, the Navy was going to destroy the robot. Still, if
he didn't, the Navy was likely to destroy the robot any-
way and end up destroying Jeffrey Grant in the process.
    "Unknown Claymore, if you don't shut down your
engines, we will be forced to open fire. Stand by for
towing."
    "Do you understand what they're saying?" Grant
asked, a tremor in his voice. He had never played poker,
nor ever even heard of the game. He didn't know a bluff
when he heard one. "They're going to shoot us!"
    "Very possibly," said the robot with the professor's
calm voice. "That is not my concern. I am ordered to
do my job."
    Grant could see the fighters maneuvering into posi-
tion. Very much like his simulator. In the game, when
the enemy shot you down, there was a bright flash on
the screen and the enemy voice either saluted you as a
worthy opponent (if you had fought well and honorably)
or sneered at you as you went down in flames (if you'd
fought dirty). Grant wondered what they did if you
didn't fight at all. He supposed nothing. They sounded
very businesslike.

    "Couldn't you just talk to them?" he pleaded. "Ex-
plain the situation."
    "I am not allowed to talk to them," said the robot. "I
am waiting for the professor to respond. When I receive
the professor's response, I will continue with my job."
    Grant didn't know how to handle this. He supposed
he should tell the robot that the professor was dead, but
he feared the news might cause alarm or distress and
then he had no idea what the robot would do. The 'bot
seenled genuinely attached to the professor. Grant de-
cided he would break the news gently, gradually.
    "Um, suppose that the professor doesn't respond.
Suppose that something happened to the professor. So
that he ... er ... couldn't respond." Grant was floun-
dering. It was not easy, talking to those sad, intelligent
eyes.
    "Nothing has happened to the professor," stated the
robot.
    Grant was taken aback. The robot was so extremely
certain. "How can you be sure?"
  "Because I received a signal from him."
    Grant thought guiltily of his Collimated Command
Receiver Unit. "How ... how did that signal work ...
exactly?"
    "Whenever one of us has been shut down for a length
of time, we are programmed, on awakening, to send a
signal to the professor, letting him know that we are
back on line. He then sends a corresponding signal to
us. If we do not receive that signal, we are to shut our-
selves down again and take no further action. I received
the signal. Therefore the professor is still functional."
     You received that signal because I thought the Colli-
 mated Command Receiver Unit made a nice table lamp!
 Jeffrey Grant groaned and stared bleakly out the vid-
 screen at the menacing fighters.
     This is all my fault! I am the one responsible. If the
 robot and I get shot down, it will be my fault.
     He gazed at the commlink controls. They were very
 complex, far more complex than those on his rent-a-
 plane.

     "Would you mind if I talked to the fighters?" Grant
 asked meekly.
     "As long as your actions do not hinder my actions, I
 have no authority to stop you."
    Grant reached for the comm. He had no idea how to
tune to the correct frequency, but if the Dirks could talk
to them, he reasoned that he could talk to the Dirks.
He hit the TRANSMISSION--HANDS FREE button, He spoke
very rapidly.
    "This is the unknown Claymore bomber do you read
me over."
    And, while he listened for a reply, a thought occurred
to him. "What are you waiting for now?" he asked the
robot. "Another sort of signal from the professor?"
    "Yes. I am programmed to warp space, to lay space
Lanes. According to my records, ! have laid twenty-five
Lanes in this sector. I performed this function prior to
the plane crashing. I have transmitted the information
on the Lanes to the professor. I am now awaiting his
approval."
    Grant considered this. He and the robot were cruising
slowly through space, awaiting approbation from a man
who had been dead two thousand years. They weren't going to get it.
     "What will you do," Grant asked hopefully, "if you
don't hear from the professor?" The robot told him.
    Jeffrey Grant's hope drained. He listened in horror.
His hand on the controls of the coremlink went limp.
The pilot of the lead fighter was responding, but Grant
did not reply.
 It would be bettel' if they did shoot them down.

CHRPTER

For the sins of your fathers you, though guiltless,
must suffer.

Horace, Odes, III, 6:'1

The chase after the robot was very strange.
The Claymore bomber meandered sluggishly
through space. The PRRS lumbered along behind it.
They knew they were nearing the Claymore when Harry
reported sighting the two fighters that had fired the
tracking missile, were now keeping an eye on the er-
rant bomber.
The fighter pilots reported in. Tess took the call.
The pilots had not been able to establish contact with
the bomber, although they thought someone on board
was trying to do so, but was having difficulty using the
equipment.
    When the pilot of the lead fighter replied, either the
robot was cutting him off or something had happened
to the person making the attempt to contact them, be-
cause the pilot hadn't received a response.
    "Most likely he's frightened. I'll try talking to him,"
Tess said. "You guys back off." She added, in an under-
tone, to Harry, "Get ready to lock onto the Claymore
with the tractor beam."
    Harry nodded. The fighter planes fell back, almost out
of sight, but within call if they were needed. The PRRS
slid forward, into range. Xris was on the bridge, right
behind the copiloCs chair, where Tess sat. Dr. Quong

was standing by in the infirmary, in case Grant was in-
jured. Jamil and Tycho were manning the controls of the
docking bay, ready to bring the Claymore alongside.
Raoul and the Little One were also on the bridge; Xris
suggested that perhaps the Little One could make some
 sort of telepathic connection with Grant.  Raoul was not confident.
    "I do not believe they formed a close enough bond
prior to the Grant-person's departure."
    "Mr. Grant, this is Captain Strauss." Tess's voice was
calm, soothing. "DO you read me, over?"
    No response. Tess glanced at Harry. "Do you think
he can hear me? Or could the robot be cutting us off?"
    Harry considered. "My guess--he can hear you. And
he could respond, if he wanted to. The comm isn't tied
directly into the ship's computer. The 'bot would have
to shut it down independently. Grant sent out a message
once and the 'bot didn't try to stop him. He knows how
to operate the equipment. He's clammed up for some
reason."
    "Either that or the 'bot clonked him over the head,"
Xris said grimly.
    Harry's eyes opened wide. "The robot would never
do such a thing, Xris. Not one of the professor's robots!
They held life sacred."
    "Yeah, but this one's got a screw loose. How long
until we're in range?"
    "About fifteen minutes. Sooner, if you can convince
Grant to shut down the engines. It'd be safer, too. Oth-
erwise it's gonna be one hell of a jolt for them when we
lock on."
    Tess tried again. "We know that what happened
wasn't your fault, Mr. Grant. We know it was the robot
who stole the Claymore. You're not in any trouble. We
understand that you're not in control of the spaceplane,
but if you could manage to shut down the engines--"
    "Tell him to give the robot something to do to keep
it busy," Xris suggested.
    Tess nodded. "That's a good idea. Mr. Grant. Tell the
robot to ... uh ... run a detailed analysis on all of the
Lanes in this sector. While it's busy doing this, Mr.

Grant, Pilot Luck will instruct you in the correct proce-
dure for shutting down the engines."
    "No," came the unexpected response, "no, I can't do
that." Grant's voice quavered. "I think it would be bet-
ter if you just went ahead and ... and shot us." "Mr. Grant--" Tess began.
    "I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused," Grant went
on, his voice growing firmer. "The keys to the museum
are in the mailbox. I've left my collection to the Aero-
nautics Institute on XIO--"
    "Mr. Grant!" Tess was finally able to cut in. "We
don't want to shoot you. We have no reason to shoot
you. Look, I understand that you may not want to risk
interfering with the robot--"
      "It's not that. It's what the robot plans to do. It's
going to-- Oh, dear! You better hur--"  His voice was cut off.
    The Claymore made what appeared to be a convulsive
leap and then it vanished.
    "Damn," said Harry, impressed. "I didn't see that
coming! They made the Jump to hyperspace," he added,
for the edification of those on the bridge.
 "No kidding," Xris snapped. "Can we catch them?"
 "Yes," Tess said. Back on the comm, she hailed the
 fighters. "Did the tick tracking device pick up on their
 coordinates?"
     Xris was familiar--all too familiar--with how the- tick
 devices worked. He'd had an unfortunate experience
 with one not long ago, in fact. Just before a plane en-
 tered one of the space Lanes, the tick would transmit
 the coordinates of the Lane. The pursuer would know
 exactly where and when the Claymore would emerge
 from hyperspace.
     "Yes, we have them, Captain," reported the fighter
 pilot. "Feeding them to you now."
     "Can we catch it on the other sideT' Tess asked
 anxiously.
     "No problem." Harry was confident. "We wait until
 the instruments indicate that it's safe for us to make the
 Jump and then we Jump. We use the same Lane, come
 out the other end, not far behind them."

     Harry stared at the nay computer. "All right, they're
 in the Lane. This is a real short lane. They're in there,
 all right. They're ... out. They're out of the Lane.
     "Okay, the coordinates of the Lane have been fed to
 the nav, and we're preparing to make the Jump." He
 was on the comm. "Strap yourselves in! I repeat, strap
 ... Oh, shit!"
  The words echoed through the spaceplane.
    "What do you mean, 'Oh, shit'?" Xris demanded.
"Look. This is no time to be reading the goddam instruc-
tion manual."
    Harry was flipping hurriedly through the nay com-
puter manual. "I know. But this damn nay computer
doesn't show that Lane anymore. The computer's on the
fritz. Must be. I gotta recalibrate the whole damn thing."
    Tess was fuming. "God! I knew I should have brought
my own pilot. This--"
Xris was on the comm. "Doc, get up here, right now!"
Harry was reading aloud from the "If This Goes
Wrong" chapter of the manual. Quong entered the flight
deck, followed by Jamil.
    "What's going on?" Jamil demanded. "Where's the
plane we're supposed to catch? We lost it on our
instruments."
    Raoul and the Little One flattened themselves against
a bulkhead to make room.
    "The plane made the Jump," Xris informed them.
"We were going to follow it, but the blasted computer's
gone haywire. Doc, help Harry fix the nay computer."
    Tycho entered the flight deck. He had to nearly fold
in half to squeeze in. The deck was designed for three,
and now seven were jammed into it.
    "Son of a bitch," said Harry softly, slowly. "There's
nothing wrong with the computer, Xris."
"Come off it, Harry. There must be. Doc, take over."
"Harry is right, my friend," Quong announced. "The
nay computer is functioning perfectly. It is the Lane that
is gone."
    Tess paled. "What do you mean . . . the Lane is
gone?"
 "It's just gone!" Harry was starting to sweat. "I swear

to God, Xris. It was there and now it's ... it's gone! I've
never seen anything like this before," he added, his gaze
searching space, as if he could find the missing Lane.
'Tve never heard of such a thing happening before! It
ain't natural!"
    "The Lanes aren't natural, you idiot," Xris returned.
"The robot laid them and-- By god!"
    He and Tess and Dr. Quong reached the same conclu-
sion at the same time. They stared at each other,
appalled.
  "Is that possible?" Tess asked, awed.
    "The robot giveth and the robot taketh away," Dr.
Quong murmured. "Yes. that is eminently possible. In
fact. I would say that is what has occurred. I suspected
something like this might happen, but I didn't have
enough data."
    "That's why Grant told us to shoot the plane down,"
Xris said. "He knew. The robot told him. He realized
the danger."
    "Knew what?" Harry asked. "What are you three
talking about? You're always doing this to me--"
    "The robot isn't laying Lanes," said Xris. "It's taking
them out."
     Harry blinked, dazed. "The robot's taking Lanes out.
 Do you know what that means? If there was a ship or
 a plane in one of those Lanes ..."
  "R-r-r-rip," said Raoul, with a roll of the tongue.

IHRPT[R
       33

"Excellent!" cried.
"Elementary," said he.

     Sir Alfred Corian Doyle,
The Hound of the Baskervilles

Darlene Mohini sat in front of her computer, which
was on the desk in her small stateroom, staring out
the window directly opposite. She was staring at nothing,
really. The black void, with its pinprick stars, held no
interest for her and thus she used it as an artist uses a
canvas, painting her own thoughts, her own musings
onto what was an essentially blank and uninteresting sur-
face. Having lived in that black void for many years, she
had long ago outgrown the wonder and awe felt by the
first-timer space traveler.
    Actually, if Darlene had been paying particularly close
attention to one tiny spot in the dark and star-pocked
vista in front of her, she would have seen several of
those bright lights moving, for this sector of space was
well-traveled. It was a major trade route, and it was also
popular with the luxury cruise ships that sailed to the
resort world of Moana. a world which was ninety-percent
water, a world in which cities floated both on top of and
beneath the surface, a world of spectacular beauty and
amazing aquatic life-forms and some of the best surfing
in the galaxy.
    Darlene didn't see ships or stars. She was thinking
about her "old college prof," Professor Lasairion.

    The information she had on the professor was sparse
and not very helpful. She knew enough to guess that the
'bot Xris had been hired to steal was probably one of
the professor's Lane-laying robots. Such a find would be
very interesting, if you were an archaeologist or a devo-
tee of space flight history, neither of which described
Xris. Darlene was wondering why he'd asked her to
study up oil the subject, when the vidphone buzzed.
  Darlene swiveled in her chair to face the screen.
    It was Xris, still in uniform. "Hi, dear," she said to
him. "I enjoy hearing from you, but twice in one day?
I hope nothing's wrong. Little Harry didn't get his head
caught in the banister again, did he?"
    Xris smiled--the smile that was rarely a complete
smile, involved one side of his mouth only and some-
times glimmered in his one natural eye.
    "The kids are fine. We're all fine, including Professor
Lasairion. The reason I called is that a message just
came in for you. From your old job. They said it was
urgent. Amy Dixter wants you to get in touch with her.
She's got some computer files she wants you to down-
load. She says she's sorry it's your vacation and all, but
that you're the only one who can handle this."
    Amy Dixter . . . Darlene was momentarily baffled,
then she caught on. Or thought she did.
    "Amy Dixter? Are you sure? We had a little disagree-
ment, you know."
    Xris waved away that consideration with a motion of
his hand. "Completely forgotten. Call her at the old
numbel'."
    "I'd love to, dear," Darlene returned cautiously. "But
the last time I tried to call, the number had been
disconnected."
     "It's hooked up'again," Xris said. "Amy Dixter needs
 to talk to you as soon as possible. You can get through on
 the old number. You'll log on right away, won't you?"
     "Sure. If you're certain that the old number
 works .... "
     "l'm certain. I have go now. Love you!" Xris waved
 at her.
  "Love you, too, dear," Darlene said.

  The transmission ended.
     Darlene sat, mystified, staring at the vidphone screen,
 playing both conversations over again in her mind. The
 first she'd figured out easily. A new boss, Xris had said.
 One who was a royal pain and very demanding. That
 could only be His Majesty, translated: Xris and the team
 were working for the government. But now--Amy Dix-
 ter. A. Dixter. Lord Admiral Dixter. The team was
 working for the government, specifically the Royal Navy.
 The old number. That would have to be her flies at
 RFComSec.
     The last time she'd tried to access those files--admit-
 tedly by going through a "back door"--the computer
 had turned on her, sent a "worm" after her. But then,
 at that time, the Navy had been acting under the as-
 sumption that Major Darlene Mohini was a traitor.
 Now...
    Darlene went to the computer, sat down. She rested
her fingers on the keys. This would be a typed transmis-
sion. Voice wasn't approved, wouldn't be recognized.
She wondered, at first, if she could remember her access
code, had a momentary flutter of panic when it didn't
immediately come to mind.
    Panic eased. The code was there, inside her fingertips, if
nowhere else. She'd typed that entry at least once a day,
every day, for years. She wasn't likely to forget---ever.
    The Royal Navy would dearly love to get their hands
on her, erase from her mind all the information on
codes, secret bases, classified plans, classified weapons,
on all the other interesting and dangerous material that
she carried in her head. The Navy had some hold over
Xris and the others, but they were able to operate freely.
No one was asking her to give herself up in exchange.
Xris was smart enough and savvy enough and suspicious
enough not to let the Navy make a monkey of him, trick
him into revealing Darlene's location.
    Darlene was weighing her options when she had a
momentary image of Xris stomping around, seething
with impatience, waiting for word that she had logged
on. She grinned, shook her head, He was the one who
had always liked to kick the door down, rush in, guns

blazing. She was the one to stand out in the hall and
say, "What if ..." What if...
 Oh, the hell with it!
 Darlene typed in the code.
    It took the usual amount of time to get through the
passwords, the counter-passwords, the genuflecting, the
performing of the ritual sacrifices necessary in order to
propitiate the Security Gods, gain admittance to the se-
cret temple.
    Once there, she did her business swiftly--got in, got
out. Only one file was listed. She downloaded that file
in microseconds, logged off, assuming--probably cor-
rectly-that "Amy" Dixter would get peeved if Darlene
made any attempt to roam around the sacred grounds.
 The file was safely in her computer.
  Now intensely curious, Darlene brought it up.
  Xris was on screen.
    She grinned at him, though she knew he couldn't see
her. He was just a prerecorded image.
    "Well, at least now we can talk like regular people,"
he said. "None of that husband/wife crap. First, I heard
about the poisoning from Raoul. I'm sorry it happened,
friend. I hope it won't happen again, that you're safe
from them. But you and I both know the Hung. Don't
let down your guard. Not for a minute."
     "I won't, Xris," she promised, though he couldn't
 hear her.
    He went on. "You probably thought one of my cir-
cuits had come unplugged when I asked you to find out
whatever you could about Professor Lasairion and his
robots. The 'bot Jamil and I stole is one of them. God
knows now I wish l'd never seen the damn thing. We
stole the robot, but it paid us back. It ran off with our
Claymore."
  "Good grief!" Darlene exclaimed.
     "Yeah," Xris said, as if he had heard her. "It's a long
 story. You'll find it all in here, including my own per-
 sonal log. It'll make for entertaining reading. To put it
 briefly: As you probably found out, this 'bot is a Lane-
 laying robot."

     "Oh, my ..." Darlene exhaled in a soundless whistle.
 She thought she guessed what was coming. "The 'bot
 has the Claymore, it's going out to lay Lanes."
     "The 'bot has the Claymore," Xris was saying. "The
 damn thing's out there removing Lanes."
     "Removing!" Darlene repeated, trying to assimilate
 this new and unforeseen information.
    "IFs taken out only one Lane so far--a Lane we tried
to Jump into. Fortunately, the Lane was gone before we
leaped into it. If not ... if we'd been inside that Lane
when the 'bot took it out ... well, as Raoul put it, 'R-
r-rip!'"
  "Dear God," Darlene murmured.
    "We know where the 'bot is," Xris continued. "The
Navy fired a tick into the Claymore. The problem is, we
can't catch it, because we don't dare Jump into a Lane
anywhere near it. The Navy's sent planes, but they've
got the same problem we have."
    "Why?" Darlene said to herself. "Why is the robot
taking out Lanes? There must be some reason."
    "Dr. Quong, our resident robot expert, thinks that the
'bot must be operating on a preprogrammed pattern. We
know what Lane the 'hot has taken out. What we need
now is for someone to determine what Lane the 'bot is
going to take out next. The Navy can safely send fighters
to intercept it. We need to do this fast. Next time the
robot strikes, it might take out a Lane when there's a
ship inside.
    "I've given you all the data we have on the robot and
the Collimated Command Receiver Unit."
    Someone said something in the background. Darlene
thought she recognized Dr. Quong's voice.
    "Oh. yeah," Xris said, taking out a twist, "I guess I
forgot to tell you that part. A fellow named Grant has
this Collimated Command Receiver Unit. It's been talk-
ing to the robot.
    "As you can see from the coordinates, the robot is
still in the same sector of space we're in. It's still rela-
tively close. We might be able to reach it before it Jumps
again if we can figure out what Lane it's going to Jump
into. Anticipate its next move.

    "The Navy has its top people working on this. You
used to be one of them and the Lord Admiral hopes
that you'll look all this over and see what you come up
with. Use the same log-on if you find anything. RFCom-
Sec will patch you through to me. Good luck and take
care of yourself."
    Xris's image flashed off, to be replaced by a screen full
of text----everything Darlene had never wallted to know
about an ancient Lane-laying (and Lane-removing) robot
and Collimated Command Receiver Units.
    Darlene leaned her arms on the table, drew closer to
the screen, began to read.
    She completed studying the data the Navy had accu-
mulated on the robots, much of which was classified.
They had found several of the 'bots, over the years, and
had studied them, in an attempt to try to learn how to
lay Lanes. The studies had not been fruitful. Apparently
the robots on their own had not been able to lay Lanes.
The professor had given them instructions, which they
had then followed. It required the Collimated Command
Receiver Unit, every time, for a Lane to be laid.
    "That's it," Darlene realized. "The robot sends a mes-
sage to the professor saying that it has found an ideal
location for a Lane. The professor sends the signal via
the Collimated Command Receiver Unit, which activates
the robot's Lane-laying programming. It lays the Lane.
The professor checks the Lane out, determines if it
meets his criteria for space Lanes--whatever that may
be--and then sends a signal to the robot telling it that
the Lane is okay and that it should go on to the next.
But what if the professor didn't like the location of the
Lane? He would communicate to the robot that the
Lane was faulty and that it should be taken out.
     "Let's see." Darlene replayed the situation as she
 knew it, both from Xris's log and the Navy's files. "The
 Collimated Command Receiver Unit is stashed away in
 Grant's museum. He leaves it turned on, plugged in, uses
 it for a high-tech table lamp. The Navy finds the robot.
 They can't recover it, due to the bad relations with Pan-
 dor, but they send one of their intelligence people--
 Captain Strauss--to investigate. She sneaks onto the

 downed plane, finds the robot, reports that it doesn't
 work.
     "Odd," Darlene muttered to herself. "Of course,
 Strauss didn't have any sophisticated equipment, but if
 Xris caused the robot to turn on just by jostling it with
 his shoulder ... mmmmm. Oh, well. Maybe she was in-
 terrupted. Security came around or something.
     "Anyway, Strauss reports back to the Navy that the
 robot is not in working condition. The Navy wants it
 anyway, of course. Meanwhile. the Corasian agent
 Harsch hears about the robot. How? Good question.
 Most likely his contacts in the Navy. He wants the robot
 to sell to the Corasians.
    "Now, why would he do that." Darlene asked herself,
"if he knew the robot didn't work? That wouldn't make
any sense. But suppose he knew the robot did work.
Then it would be highly valuable to the Corasians. Espe-
cially if he knew about the existence of the Collimated
Command Receiver Unit. It would be interesting to ask
this Grant fellow if anyone ever offered him a lot of
money for his machine or maybe tried to steal it ....
    "Anyway, let's shy Harsch knows that the Collimated
Command Receiver Unit exists and that he can get his
hands on it. All he has to do now is find one of the
antique robots. He does and it's in the ideal place, the
ideal time for him to snatch it.
    "It is in an ideal place, isn't it?" Darlene said, now
talking to her reflection in the window. She had fit the
corner pieces of the puzzle together, put together the
outer rim. Now she could start on the interior. The com-
plete picture was staring emerge. "A little too ideal. This
was all a trap! The Navy set a trap for Harsch. Except
it was Xris and Jamil who walked into it. The robot was
the bait. What the Navy didn't count on was the fact
that the Collimated Command Receiver Unit still ex-
isted. Harsch didn't count on the fact that Grant would
take the machine and skip town with it ....
    "No! Wait! What if Grant is linked in with Harsch?
Xris says Grant is a mild-mannered, intellectual type,
but then so was Clark Kent. Maybe Grant's trying to
double-cross Harsch. Or link up with Harsch .... Bother.

That piece doesn't quit fit. Grant told Xris to blow the
plane up. He wouldn't say that if he were one of the
bad guys. Unless Grant knew that Xris knew that Grant
knew and he was trying to throw us off .... "
    Darlene rubbed her temples. This was starting to give
her a headache.
    "Never mind. That's not important now. What is' clear
is that apparently no one--maybe not even Harsch him-
self---counted on the fact that the unit and the robot
would establish a dialogue, steal a plane, and go around
the galaxy taking out space Lanes!
    "I don't like this," Darlene said softly. "It all looks
very ugly. And Xris isn't being told the whole story. Not
by a long shot. There's something I'm missing some-
where. But I can't take time to work on that part of this
now. The important thing is to stop the robot before it
kills someone."
    Darlene brought up the robot's flight trajectory. Its
path seemed random, at first glance, but she knew per-
fectly well that it wasn't. Robots never perform any
task randomly.
    She punched up a galactic map. A flashing dot indi-
cated the last known location of the robot. Red flashing
lines indicated the Lane that had been removed. Yellow
steadily glowing lines indicated Lanes in the area that
were, as yet, still functioning. Since the robot had only
taken out one Lane, the 'hot hadn't established a pat-
tern. Had it taken out that Lane because it was there?
It was close? Or ...
    Darlene isolated the robot's particular sector of space
and zoomed in on that portion. The Navy had provided
her with the coordinates for the space Lanes in that
zone. She was studying these when it occurred to her
that something about that sector of space seemed aw-
fully familiar.
  Much too familiar.
     Darlene left the computerl hurried over to the
 nightstand. Rummaging through the drawer, she came
 across an electronic circular, which provided travelers
 with interesting information on their cruise, gave instruc-
 tions for emergency evacuation, told where to find the

 life pods, reminded passengers of the serious nature of
 rescue drills, and provided a map and coordinates of
 their sojourn through space. She compared that map
 with the map on her screen.
  "Damnation!" said Darlene.
     The robot had entered Lane number Zeta Three Nine
 Three Omega. That was a short-hop Lane, a Lane that
 took planes from the outer portion of the sector to the
 inner. At least that's what it used to do. It wasn't there
 to do anything anymore. The Claymore had come out
 of the Jump in exactly the same sector of space as the
 Adonian cruise ship, the S.S. Heart',' Desire.
  A knock sounded on her cabin door.
  Darlene ignored it.
  The knock was repeated.
Darlene touched her coremlink. 'Tin busy."
The knock was repeated again, more insistently.
"I'm not dressed," Darlene snapped. She wasn't plan-
ning on opening the door to anyone. "Say whatever it
is you have to say and then leave me alone."
    "Captain's compliments, ma'am. We'll be making the
Jump in approximately two hours. I've made a note that
you are in your cabin. Please remain within for the
durat--"
    "Fine, thanks," she muttered, absorbed in her
calculations.
    Idiots. Why couldn't they leave her alone when she
was working? She frowned at her reflection in the win-
dow and put herself into the mind of the robot.
    "I've been programmed to lay Lanes," she said. "I lay
them in a systematic manner. I'm halfway through my
assignment--let's say--when I'm attacked. Someone is
trying to capture me. I do what the professor has in-
structed me to do. I run. I don't get far--this sector of
space is the sector which contains Pandot--and then ei-
ther my plane is shot down or I cause it to crash in
order to avoid pursuit. I am struck on the head, take a
long nap.
    "I wake up. I'm fine. Something's a little wrong with
my internal workings, maybe, but nothing that I can't
self-repair. To me, two minutes have passed, not two

thousand years worth of minutes. I send out my signal,
to let the professor know I'm alive and well, and I re-
ceive a signal back. I know, by that signal, that I'm sup-
posed to get up and go to work. I have probably been
programmed to escape confinement--the good professor
being the lovable paranoid that he is. I free myself from
the crate, commandeer the first spaceplane I come
across. I also end up with a human, one Jeffrey Grant,
which doesn't compute," Darlene admitted, "but I'll
worry about that later.
    "I go back to work. I'm ready to lay another Lane. I
send out the signal, expecting to hear the professor's
reassuring voice--and I don't. Something's wrong. The
professor doesn't like what I've done. I act to correct
the situation. I take out the Lanes ... in the order in
which I've laid them! Of course! The next one I take
out will be the one I laid prior to the one I just took
out. Now ... how can I possibly figure out which one
that will be?"
    She went back through all the information she had
received on the robot, endeavoring to find some sort of
pattern--not easy, since the robot had only removed one
Lane. Darlene had to assume that the robot would take
out Lanes systematically; that it wouldn't, for example,
suddenly jump from one sector to another without rea-
son. If it did that, she was finished before she began. So
far, the robot had behaved quite logically. There was no
reason to think it would deviate.
    But still, there were myriad Lanes in this sector. Dar-
lene fed the information into the computer, started it
working. She began work on her own calculations as
well, hoping to be able to make an intuitive leap which
would arrive at the answer in less time than the com-
puter would take sifting methodically through all the al-
ternatives. Leap taken, she could use the computer to
check her conclusion.
    In the meantime, she would contact the Navy, have
them advise each ship in this part of space that no ship
was, on any account--
    A voice came over the commlink. "This is your cap-
tain speaking. We will be making the Jump in approxi-

 mately one hour and thirty minutes. Naval regulations
 require that all passengers return to your cabins at this
 time. Please..."
     "Oh, hell!" Darlene stood up, walked to the door,
 stopped, turned around, walked back, sat down again.
 "Hell and damnation!"
    She'd done it again. Such absentmindedness was a
common failing of hers, as Xris would no doubt remind
her, if and when he ever heard about this. If she lived to
tell him. She had become so absorbed in the intellectual
complexities of this problem that she had completely for-
gotten how said problem might impact on her. Her and
about two thousand other people on board this ship.
 And what the hell was the Navy doing?
    She called up RFComSec, demanded that the com-
puter patch her through to the Lord Admiral's flagship,
the King James I1. asked to speak to someone m
command.
  "General Hanson here."
  "General, this is Major Mohini."
    "I must inform you, Major, that you are AWOL
and--"
    "Yes, yes!" Darlene snapped. "We'll discuss that later,
ma'am. For now, I've been assigned to track down that
runaway robot."
    "I know." The general frowned. "I advised against
bringing you in on this, but I was overruled. The Lord
Admiral wanted to speak to you himself, but he's unable
to get away. What have you found?"
    "I'm feeding you coordinates, ma'am. The robot is in
the Yanni Two sector of space. I haven't completed all
the calculations yet, but I'm certain that the robot is
going to stay in this sector. If it takes out another
Lane--which I believe it will--the Lane will be in this
sector."
    The general nodded. "Our experts have reached the
same conclusion, Major. Thank you. Now--"
    "They have, ma'am?" Darlene slammed her hands on
the table. "Begging the general's pardon, but what the
hell are you doing about it? I'm on board a cruise ship
in this sector, General. They've just announced that

we're going to be making the Jump in little over an
hour! Why hasn't the captain been informed of the dan-
ger? You need to warn every ship in this sector that on
no account should they enter a space Lane."
    "We have done that, Major." The general's voice was
cold. "All military ships and spaceplanes have been ad-
vised to refrain from using the Lanes until they receive
word that it is once more safe. All private ships, freight-
ers, planes, transports have received the same advisory."
    "Advisory! You advised them not to use the Lanes!
Excuse me, General, ma'am, but you apparently don't
realize the extreme danger,"
    The General was calm. "Major Mohini, do you have
any idea of the thousands of vessels of every sort cur-
rently plying the Lanes in that sector of space? Privately
owned vessels are not under our command. The Admi-
ralty can issue advisories. The Admiralty can make rec-
ommendations. If the captains of these vessels choose to
ignore these advisories and recommendations, that is
their prerogative. This is a free society. What would you
have us do---send out gunboats and threaten to shoot
down every ship that doesn't comply?"
    "Did you tell people the reason, General? Surely if
everyone understood the danger--"
    The general's jaw tightened, one corner of her mouth
twitched. "What are we to tell them, Major? That an
antique robot, two thousand years old, is going around
taking out hyperspace Lanes? How many of them do
you think would believe us?"
    "Oh, now I understand," Darlene said bitterly. "How
stupid of me. The robot's classified."
    "And it remains classified, Major. Remember that. I
suggest that you return to your work and help us catch
this robot before it takes out another Lane. Contact us
if you have anything further to report."
 The transmission ended.
 "Bitch," said Darlene.
     Well, it was not up to her. Somehow she'd have to
 convince the captain of this ship that he shouldn't make
 the Jump. She had to think of a plausible reason.
  Much as she hated to admit it, old Iron Guts was

 right. What captain in his right mind would deliberately
 disrupt the vacation plans of two thousand passengers?
 He would incur not only the wrath of the passengers but
 that of the cruise line, which would be forced to refund
 millions of credits for ruined vacations. And she couldn't
 be certain that this Lane was the Lane the robot was
 going to take out next.
     Yet, if the ship jumped into a Lane and the robot did
 take that Lane out ...
    Darlene shivered. There had been hyperspace acci-
dents before. No one ever survived. She remembered
reading about a ship once that had been pulled in two.
Half of it came out of one end of the Lane, half came
out of the other. And with each half, the bodies of the
dead ...
    She started for the door again, recalling, as she opened
it, that there was always the possibility the assassin was
out there waiting for her.
    Darlene smiled grimly. That would be the easy way
to go.
    Picking up a nail file--a gift from Raoul--Darlene
walked out the automatic sliding door. Before she left,
she slid the nail file under the door. If the door was
opened in her absence, the nail file would move along
with it. An old trick, but it worked. She performed it
routinely, automatically, didn't even give it much
thought.
    As she walked down the corridor, she noted--because
once, years ago, she'd been trailled to note such things--
that the door to the stateroom six down from hers was
slightly ajar. Inside a middle-aged man with graying hair
was seated in front of his own vidphone, talking to a
little boy of about seven, whose grinning freckled face
filled the screen.
    Darlene looked at the little boy, at the man. If she
couldn't find a way to stop the captain from making the
Jump, this child might never see his father again.
    Resolve hardening, Darlene increased her pace, hur-
ried to the bridge.

CHflP1[R
       3q

It's all in a day's work.

Anonymous

The gray-haired man in the room six down from Dar-
lene told the little boy on the screen, "Wait just a
minute, will you, son?" He stood up and walked to the
door. He watched Darlene stop in front of the lift.
    She tapped her foot nervously and irritably on the
deck, hit the lift button several times in an effort to
hurry it along. When the lift finally arrived, she darted
into it. The doors shut.
    The man waited a moment longer, just to make certain
she hadn't forgotten something or decided for some
other reason to come back.
    Leaving his door ajar, he walked back to the vid-
phone. "Uh, I gotta go now, Jason. Sorry I can't be there
for your big game, but you know how it is. Daddy's
work."
    "Sure, Dad, I understand," came the cheerful re-
sponse from a freckle-smattered face. "My new glove'11
bring me luck. Thanks a lot, Dad. This was the best
birthday present ever."
    The man smiled. "You play your best, okay, and re-
member: Winning's not everything. It's the game that
counts. Give your mom my love when she gets home.
Tell her I'll call her tonight."
    The boy's picture flashed off the screen. The man
spent a moment looking at it fondly. Then he picked up

 a small metal case, tucked it in his pocket, and walked
 out into the corridor.
     He had to wait a few minutes while a couple, clad in
 wet swimsuits, who had obviously been drinking more
 than pool water, went giggling and tottering down the
 hall to their room. The man lounged near an EMER-
 GENCY EVACI. JAT1ON PROCEDURE sign, pretending to be
 reading it carefully. When the corridor was clear, he pro-
 ceeded to Darlene's room.
      He had to figure he didn't have much time. He didn't
 know why she'd left, she might be back any second.
  He didn't need much time.
     The door lock was simple. He took out the electronic
 pass key, which he had purchased for a hefty price from
 one of the housekeeping staff. He hoped that the key
 would work. You could never trust Adonians.
  The pass key was gentlille; the door slid open.
    Once inside, he went immediately to the window.
Made of steelglass, the window measured about one
meter vertically, a half meter horizontally. The advertis-
ing brochm'e stated that the windows in each individual
cabin "provided the dazzled traveler with an unparal-
leled view of the magnificence of space."
    The man pulled out his case, took from it a tiny metal
device that he could have balanced on the tip of his
index finger. The device consisted of two small plates.
Inside was a minuscule power cell. Holding the device
between his two forefingers, he countertwisted the
plates. Feeling the slight vibration in his finger, he knew
that the device was activated. He placed the device onto
the lower left corner of the window.
    This done, he left Darlene's room, returned to his own
room, but did not enter. He continued on past his room,
walked through the blast doors and into another corri-
dor, kept on going.
    He wanted at least one set of blast doors--preferably
two--between him and Darlene Rowall.

CHRPIER
       3;

 And then the Windows failed--and then I could not
 see to see.

   Emily Dickinson, "1 heard a Fly buzz--when I died"

As it turned out, Darlene never spoke to the captain.
It was now about one hour to Jump. All passengers
were being herded back to their cabins, where they were
ordered to lie down in their beds and strap themselves
in. Those who felt the need could take "Jump seda-
tion"--a mild sedative. Specially built sensor devices in
the beds indicated which passengers were obeying orders
and which were not. Crew members were going from
cabin to cabin checking to make certain that everyone
was tucked in, strapped down, and comfortable.
    They found Darlene striding purposefully through the
corridors on the upper levels of the ship, heading for
the bridge.
    She was accosted by two stewards--a man and
woman.
    "Excuse me, ma'am, but the Jump sequence is sched-
uled to begin in forty-five minutes. Regulations state that
you must be in your cabin, lying in your bed, with your
webbing strapped securely--"
      "I must speak to the captain," Darlene said, trying to
keep her voice calm, level. "It's urgent."
  "I'm sorry, Ms,--?"
  "Rowan. Darlene Rowan."
  'Tin sorry, Ms. Rowan." The female steward smiled.

 "But that is qtfite impossible. No one is allowed on the
 bridge prior to making the Jump. Regulations."
     "Hang regulations!" Darlene snapped. "1 have to
 speak to the captain. He's got to stop the Jump. You
 must believe me. I have information--"
     "Oh, for the love of Elvis," muttered the steward,
 rolling his eyes. "Another one."
     The female steward gave the company speech. "Ms.
 Rowan, I can assure you that our captain and the bridge
 crew have the combined experience of over four hun-
 dred years of flying these ships. We've made the Jump
 at least fifty times in this vessel alone and everything's
gone smoothly.   I understand that you're feeling
apprehensive."
    "Damn right I'm apprehensive!" Darlene dodged out
of the female's grasp. "Look, your captain has received
a warning from the Royal Navy advising him that mak-
ing the Jump in this sector could be dangerous."
    "And how do you know this, Ms. Rowan?" the stew-
ard asked politely.
    "I can't tell you." Darlene pleaded. "I know this
sounds crazy. I know I sound crazy. But I'm not. I'm
telling the truth. If this ship makes the Jump, your cap-
tain is putting at risk thousands of lives!"
    "Thank you, Ms. Rowan. We'll let the captain know.
Now we'll just escort you back to your cabin .... "
    Accustomed to dealing with hysterical passengers, the
stewards took hold of her arms, one on each side, and
gently steered her back down the corridor toward the
lift.
    Darlene had the skill and the training to leave these
two lying on the deck in huddled, whimpering heaps.
Physically assaulting two members of the ship's crew
wasn't likely to advance her cause, however. If anything,
it would merely reinforce the idea that she was de-
ranged. She decided to go back to her cabin. By now
the computer would have completed its calculations. If
she gave the Navy something solid, they'd have no
choice but to send out the gunboats.
 "I assure you, Ms. Rowan," said the male steward,

arriving at her room, "that everything is going to be
fine."
    "Are you subject to premonitions?" the female stew-
ard asked.
"It's not a premonition," Darlene said, sighing.
Thousands of ships. Hundreds of Lanes. The robot
might take out any one of them. Yet our Lane is near
Pandot. Our Lane is close to the Lane the robot has
already removed. Darlene was starting to feel more cer-
tain by the minute. Our Lane is next. The Lane we're
going to jump into is next.
    "How about a sedative, Ms. Rowan? It will make you
feel better."
  "No, thank you."
"Do you need any help strapping yourself in?"
"No." Darlene only wanted now to get back into her
room, back to her computer. "I'11 be fine. I promise.
You can leave now. Thank you for all your help."
    "We'll be back to check on you," said the steward.
He remained standing in the corridor. It was obvious he
intended to stand there until Darlene was safely
incarcerated.
    She started to unlock the door, glanced down and saw
the fingernail file moved. It was in front of the door
instead of under it.
  Someone had been inside her room.
 Darlene hesitated, stood outside the closed door.
 "What's the matter now, Ms. Rowan?" The steward
 was struggling hard to remain patient., He must be con-
 vinced by now that she was delusional, paranoid.
     "Nothing. Thank you, just dropped my file," Darlene
 said meekly. "I'11 be fine now. I'm just a bit nervous.
 You've been very kind. I know you must have other
 duties to attend to. Let me give you something for
 your trouble."
     The stewards presented their service pads. Darlene
 punched in a generous tip for each of them.
     "Thank you, Ms. Rowan," said the male steward.
 "You go along inside. We'll wait out here for a few
 moments, just in case you need anything."

     You mean you'll wait to make sure I don't leave
 again.
     Darlene unlocked, opened the door. She kept to one
 side, did not immediately enter. Not because she was
 afraid of being attacked from behind. Hung assassins
 weren't the type to lurk about behind the door, waiting
 to knock her over the head with a lead pipe. They were
 far more sophisticated.
     Darlene stared hard at the deck, saw no tiny beam of
 laser light that she might break as she entered--the high-
 tech version of a trip wire.
     The stewards watched her. Glancing back, she caught
 the male grinning. He swiftly wiped the smile from his
 face.
  Cautiously, Darlene entered her room.
     She cast a quick glance around, saw nothing out of
 the ordinary. Nothing had been disturbed. She shut the
 door, shut out the stewards and their amusement. She
 turned to look everything over once more.
    A flicker of light came from somewhere near the win-
dow. Darlene tensed, but further investigation revealed
nothing. No gun barrel protruding from behind the
bedpost.
  "You're seeing things," she told herself wearily.
    She was suddenly tired of this, tried of jumping at
shadows, tired of making what were most likely harmless
little molehills into mountains of fear.
    Probably the maid had entered the room for some
reason. Leaving chocolates on the pillow, turning down
the bed. No one was hiding here with the intention of
stabbing Darlene in the shower. No one had put black
widow spiders in her nightgown.
    Just to make sure, she turned down the bed sheets,
searched under the bed and inside the bathroom. Noth-
ing. No one.
    "By God, I am getting paranoid," she said, and re-
turned to the computer.
    At least it had been doing something constructive in
her absence. It announced that its initial calculations
concerning the Lanes the robot might next remove were
complete. The computer offered a list of three Lanes

and included the probabilities of likelihood of deletion,
based on location of the Lanes in relation to the robot at
its present location, taking into account certain variables.
    Darlene looked over the data. Something clicked in
her head, but, at the same time, something clicked in
the room. She leaped from her chair, scooted out of
the way.
    Out of the way of what? Her imagination was offering
such bizarre theories now as crossbows in the vidset or
termination beams from the smoke detector. Logic told
her imagination where to get off. Breathing hard, more
from irritation at being interrupted than from fear. Dar-
lene searched the room again, hunting for the source of
the snick.
    The sound had come from in front of her, she recalled,
on thinking it over.
    In front of her was the computer, the side table on
which it sat. The table was bolted to the wall, presum-
ably so that it wouldn't roam around during the Jump.
    Well, maybe her computer had gone snick. Maybe the
drive was going out. Wonderful. Just wonderful. She
would never be able to find parts aboard this blasted
Adonian ship. Not unless she wanted to try to repair it
with swizzle sticks.
    Now, what the hell had she been thinking'? Something
.,. something about the computer's calculations ...
    Mulling over the numbers in her head, Darlene logged
on to RFComSec, transmitted the computer's data. She
considered requesting a patch-through to Xris. But what
would she tell him? That a fingernail file in her door had
moved? That something in her room had gone snick?
She logged off.
     "Fifteen minutes to Jump. All passengers should be in
 the prone position, their webbing securely fastened ..."
     Darlene tuned the voice out. She ordered the com-
 puter to continue working, sat back down in her chair,
 mulled over the computer's findings in her head. Her
 abstracted gaze went once more to the window, to the
 black backdrop of space, the stars slowly meandering
 past.

     That was it) She knew the Lane the robot would take
 out. She knew why.
  Her gaze suddenly fixed, focused, on the window.
  A crack.
     Darlene jumped up, knocking over the chair, and
 made a dive for the window. The crack was small, about
 the length of the tip of her index finger, and located in
 the bottom right-hand corner of the steelglass.
     But it wouldn't stay small. Not in deep space. Not
 with the pressurized cabin.
     As she watched, Darlene saw the crack extend an-
 other centimeter.
     In that instant, she put everything together. Her first
 emotion was relief. She wasn't paranoid, delusional, or
 overdosing on estrogen! Her instincts had been right!
    She had time. Not much, but some. She needed
evidence.
      Thinking back to the moment she'd entered the room,
she saw the flash of reflected light. Near the window.
  Light reflecting off metal. Not a gun barrel ....
    The crack had grown to about ten centimeters now;
the pressure inside the room causing it to expand rap-
idly. In the back of her mind was the horrific vision of
what would have happened to her if she hadn't noticed
that minuscule crack. Of the window blowing from the
pressure. Being sucked out into the frigid, deadly
darkness.
    The crack was about half a meter long now and ex-
tending rapidly, insidiously.
     Dropping down to her hands and knees, Darlene
searched the carpet beneath the window. She couldn't find it.
    It had to be here! She slid her hand over the carpeting
on the deck, felt something hard jab into the heel of
her palm.
    Breathing a sigh, she snatched up the tiny metal ob-
ject, clutched it tightly. She ran across the room, hit
the button.
    The door slid open. The two stewards were at their
posts. near the door. One was reporting in on the comm.

    "Number one-seven-six is still giving us trouble. Ac-
cording to the sensors, she's not in her bed."
 Darlene grabbed hold of the nearest arm, shook it.
    "There's a crack in my window!" she cried. "You've
got to evacuate this part of the ship!"
    "Now, look, Ms. Rowan ..." began the male stew-
ard, exasperated.
    "We've had just about enough, Ms. Rowan," said the
female steward.
    "Goddammit! There's a crack in my window and it's
spreading! It's going to blow! See for yourself!"
    Darlene dragged the man inside the room. Marching
him over to the window, she pointed.
  The steward peered at the steelglass.
    "Ms. Rowan, I don't see--" He suddenly went very
white. "A crack ..."
    He stared at it a disbelieving instant, then he was back
on the comm, his voice shaking.
    "Emergency! This is Steward Boseman. I'm reporting
a crack in the window of one-seven-six. It's spreading
fast."
    "Exit the room immediately," came the operator's
cool, well-trained response. "I repeat, exit immediately.
Leave all personal belongings."
    Alarms began their pulse-stopping blare. A rumble
shook the ship. Blast doors started closing. Metal panels
began to slide across the window, coming down from the
top--the Jump shields being lowered in an effort to keep
the window from exploding. But the shields were moving
slowly. The crack wasn't.
     And there, on the desk, Darlene's computer. It had
 arrived at the calculations a split second before Darlene.
 Taking into account all the variables, it had selected the
 Lane the robot was most likely to take out next.
     "This is not a drill. Repeat," came the announcement
 over the comm. "This is not a drill. Put on your pressur-
 ized suits and helmets and proceed to the nearest emer-
 gency station. Parents, put your own suits on first and
 then help your children."
     Darlene dodged around the steward, who was yelling
 at her to get out, and picked up the computer. She made

 a grab for the case, but the steward, catching hold of her
 around the waist, hauled her out of the room. Outside in
 the corridor, passengers wearing pressure suits and hel-
 mets were being herded toward the blast doors at the
 end of the hall.
     "The white lights on the floor lead to the emergency
 stations. Keep calm. The white lights on the floor lead to
 the emergency station. Keep calm. The white lights ..."
     Darlene and the two stewards ran headlong into the
 arms of the ship's emergency squad. Suited out in pres-
 sure suits with helmets and oxygen masks, three mem-
 bers of the emergency team, armed with repair kits and
 canisters of sealant, dashed into the room.
  They dashed out again almost immediately.
  "Too late! Get going!"
    Two men grabbed Darlene by her elbows and hustled
her down the corridor. At the end, they literally threw
her through one of the rapidly closing blast doors. The
stewards stumbled in behind her. The emergency crew
ran in last.
  "Is everyone out?" someone asked.
  "They better be," said one of the crew grimly.
  The blast doors shut.
    Out of breath and shaking, Darlene stared at the rest
of the passengers. They crouched in the corridor, wear-
ing their protective gear, staring back at her through the
bubbles of their helmets. Sonleone jammed a helmet on
her head, hooked her up to oxygen tanks. Someone else
told her to sit down. She sat, holding on tightly to her
computer.
    A muffled explosion sounded from behind the blast
doors. The ship rocked as if it had been hit by a missile.
The lights went out. For an instant, the ship was horribly,
terrifyingly dark. Someone screamed--an odd sound,
muffled by the helmet. Then the emergency lights
switched on. That was almost worse than the darkness.
Harsh white light illuminated frightened faces, casting
strange shadows, making the familiar suddenly alien.
    The ship listed. Darlene's helmeted head struck the
bulkheads. She was flattened against the deck. Someone
opposite her was sliding toward her. A hot-water line

broke; water spewed from a pipe overhead, pattering
down on their helmets, sounding like a rainstorm. Steam
filled the corridor, adding to the nightmare quality.
    And then the ship slowly righted itself. The captain
came over the emergency comm, announced that the
situation was under control; all passengers were to re-
main where they were and follow the directions given
to them by the crew.
    They would not, he added, be making the Jump to
hyperspace.
    Darlene edged her way out of the beam of bright light,
kept to the shadows. Somewhere in that corridor, per-
haps, was the Hung assassin. He would be wondering if
he'd succeeded or failed. He couldn't know, wouldn't be
able to see her in her helmet in the darkness.
    Darlene sat in the shadows, her computer hugged in
her arms, and grinned.

    The cruise ship limped, wounded, through space. The
blast had destroyed Darlene's stateroom and taken out
most of the adjoining cabins. The damage extended far
into the bowels of the ship, severing the main electronics
trunk line, the main power grid, and the water mains.
All communications were down, both internal and exter-
nal. The damage teams acted quickly. The water was
shut off. Internal comms were reestablished.
    Passengers were permitted to return to their cabins.
All but one passenger, who was arrested.
    The captain went back on the comm, explained to the
passengers what had happened, assured them that the
ship was in no danger, stated that the emergency mayday
signal had been activated and that they could expect
help to arrive within the hour. In the meantime, passen-
gers could remove their pressurized suits and helmets.
They were requested to remain in their cabins. The stew-
ards would be around to serve everyone free drinks,
compliments of the captain.
    Darlene, held under guard in a room off the bridge,
was not offered a free drink. His announcement com-
pleted, the captain entered the small room. He stood
glaring at her.

     "I don't know what kind of sicko you are, lady," the
 captain stated, barely able to talk, anger squeezing his
 voice tight, "and I don't know how the hell you managed
 to crack the steelglass in that window, but--by God--
 I'm going to see that you're charged with sabotage. at-
 tempted murder, and anything else I can think of!"
  "Yes, sir," Darlene said, composed.
     "I'm placing you under house arrest until the authori-
 ties arrive. You'll be under twenty-four-hour guard,
 locked in a cabin without windows"--his tone was dire--
 "and allowed to communicate with no one, not with any
 member of the crew or passengers."
    "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Darlene said, then real-
ized-as the man's eyebrows shot up to the brim of his
hat--that this probably wasn't the appropriate thing to
say. "Listen, Captain, I understand perfectly. You've
been in contact with the Royal Navy, of course. You
know that this operation is a matter of the highest-level
security. I promise to be fully cooperative."
    The captain opened his mouth, shut it again. He shook
his head in disgust, turned on his heel. "Watch her," he
said to the steward. "And don't let her get her hands
on any sharp objects."
    "Captain," Darlene said, raising her voice as he
marched out the door, "check that Lane. The Lane the
ship was going to use to make Jump. See if it's still
there."
    The captain made an obscene gesture with his hand.
consigning Darlene to Adonian perdition. The door slid
shut. A large female steward--not of Adonian breed-
ing--plunked herself down in a chair opposite Darlene
and eyed her suspiciously, obviously considering her ca-
pable of ripping out the bulkheads with her bare hands.
    Darlene sat in a chair at an empty desk and stared at
the bulkhead. When she caught herself staring fixedly at
the bare wall--looking for cracks--she forced herself to
pick up one the vidmags which they had brought her.
They had taken away her computer.
    Fifteen minutes later, the door opened. Two members
of the crew stood outside. They were, Darlene noted,
armed with lasguns. The two stood aside to permit the

captain to enter. He walked into the room, came straight
up to Darlene, stopped. He thought he was going to say
something, for his mouth opened. His mouth closed. He
stared at her in baffled, fuming, helpless silence.
     Darlene looked up briefly from her vidmag and
smiled. She very slightly shrugged her shoulders. The captain walked out.
    Darlene threTM the mag back to the desk. She lay down
on the bed, kicked off her shoes, stretched, and yawned.
For the first time since she'd started her so-called vaca-
tion she felt relaxed, comfortable
    The Royal Navy was most certainly on the way. They
would rescue the wounded ship, escort it to the nearest
port, see to it that everyone debarked safely. The Navy
would also hustle Darlene off this vessel, take her some-
place safe and secure. They'd ask her a million ques-
tions, of course, but Darlene had answered a million
questions in her line of work and knew how to handle
herself.
    They could never prove she'd deliberately cracked her
own window, Where her room had been was now a gap-
ing hole; where the corridor leading to her room had
been was now a gaping hole. They couldn't prove she
did. And she wasn't going to deny that she had cracked
it. People on board had been badly scared, but no one
had been hurt. And that would not have been the case
if the ship had made the Jump into a Lane that was no
longer there.
     Darlene wiggled her toes, yawned again. Maybe she'd
 watch a rid. She hadn't seen one in years and there were
 a few out she'd heard were really good. Or perhaps
 she'd read a book. She hadn't done that in years, either.
     The Hung assassin wouldn't try again. Not while she
 was being watched and guarded twenty-four hours, Stan-
 dard Military Time. No, for the moment she was safe.
     She'd have to deal with the Hung sometime soon. But
 she wouldn't do it alone. She had friends now, she and
 Xris and Mag Force 7. The Hung had better watch out.
     Darlene grinned, giggled, and started to laugh. The
 female steward was reaching for something, probably a
 hypo, to administer a sedative. Darlene didn't care. She

could see, in her memory, the computer's final calcula-
tion, the Lane flashing, the next Lane the robot was
scheduled to take out. And projected over that, the Lane
into which the cruise ship was scheduled to make the
Jump.
    The Hung assassin would never know it. He had actu-
ally saved her life.

 H PtER
            ]G

We are star stuff.

Carl Sagan, Cosmos

The robot was preparing to take out still another Lane.
It had taken out two now, so far. It Jumped into
the lanes, then removed them. When Grant asked why,
the robot's response left Grant sweating and shaking.
    "I laid many Lanes in this sector. The professor has
undoubtedly decided that there are too many. I have
transmitted the data on the Lanes I laid to the professor.
I have not received a response. That means I am to
continue taking the Lanes out."
    Grant attempted to reason with the robot, to explain
that what it was doing was wrong, but it was like at-
tempting to reason with a small child. Not that Grant
had ever been around many small children, but he had
heard his fellow employees talk and he knew that logic
and two-year-olds did not mix. Or rather, that two-year-
olds had their own particular kind of !ogic--a simple
logic, a refined logic, a distilled logic. A type of logic
based on their own view of the world, which was, of
necessity, short in stature, confined by immediate sur-
roundings, and centered entirely on themselves.
    Add to this toddlerlike perspective of the world an
almost certainly damaged logic board and that was the
robot. All very frustrating.
    "Isn't it possible," Grant argued, "that the professor
could be dead?"

     The robot was complacent. "That is just what the pro-
 fessor told us his enemies would say, in order to trick
 us into compliance."
     "But there are ships and planes in those Lanes you're
 proposing to remove!" Grant pleaded.
    "That is impossible," stated the robot. "The Lanes
were just laid. The professor has estimated that frequent
space travel utilizing the Lanes will not occur for another
thousand years."
    "What do you think we're doing here? All those peo-
ple on Pandor? Ask the plane's computer, if you don't
believe me," Grant cried. "Look in its memory banks!
You'll find the date, the time, information on the current
political situation, information about all the other inhab-
ited planets."
    "Nonessential," the robot returned. "Such informa-
tion was interfering with the computer's ability to follow
my orders. I dumped all such irrelevant material from
its memory."
  And, at that point, Grant gave up.
    He considered sabotaging the spaceplane, but he had
no idea how to go about it. The Claymore appeared
practically indestructible. He had just about given up
on this course of action when a voice hailed him from
the comm.
    "Claymore bomber One-Oh-Seven-Niner, come in. I
say again, Claymore bomber One-Oh-Seven-Niner, do
you read me?"
    Grant cast a sidelong, nervous glance at the robot. It
listened, but it paid no attention. The blue light flashed,
which indicated that it was taking note of the words,
storing them in its translation program. But it was not
taking any interest in what was being said.
    The robot was making surveys, performing calcula-
tions, reconfiguring the spaceplane's computer program-
ming to function more efficiently for the robot's needs.
To take out Lanes more quickly, accurately. As Grant
watched, the robot disabled the Claymore's rear guns.
    Grant sighed and moved over to the comm. The voice
was repeating its call,
 "Claymore bomber One Oh Seven Niner, come in.

Claymore bomber One Oh Seven Niner, do you read
me?"
     "This is Claymore bomber One Oh Seven Niner,"
Grant replied. "Yes, I read you. Who are you?"
  "My name's Harry."
    The voice was hearty and friendly and cheerful. Jef-
frey Grant warmed to it. He would have been run
through the terminator before he said anything uncom-
plimentary about a woman, but he found Captain
Strauss, while undeniably an attractive person, a bit too
intimidating, cold-blooded. She struck him as dangerous.
    "I'm the pilot of the PRRS," Harry was saying.
"That's short for Pilot Rescue and Recovery Ship.
How're you doing, Mr. Grant? What's going on?"
    "I ... I told you ... I mean I told someone ... to
shoot this plane down." Grant was irritated. "You didn't
do so and the robot took out two Lanes. Now it's plan-
ning on taking out another one. You know that, don't
you? You know that the robot removed two space
Lanes? Was ... was a ship in any of them? Do you
know?"
    "Nothing certain, Mr. Grant." Harry was cautious.
"Let's just put it this was: It would be really nice ... 1
mean really nice"--he emphasized that--"if the robot
didn't take out another Lane. We're in a heavily traveled
sector, if you take my meaning."
    "Yes, I do," Grant said ominously. "And that's why
I told you to shoot this plane down."
    "Naw, we don't want to shoot nobody down," Harry
said. "I take it that since you're talking to me like this,
the robot isn't monitoring communications?"
    "Yes, it is," Grant said. "I mean, it's taking note of
our words, but it's not assimilating them. It's not devot-
ing its energies to understanding us. Why should it?
After all, it's in control. It's doing exactly what it's been
programmed to do. I think it would try to stop me only
if I tried to stop it. From carrying out its programming,
I mean."
    "Yeah, sure." Harry paused to consider this. "Well,
just in case, I'm going to explain to you what a PRRS
does, Mr. Grant."

  "1 know--"
     "Let me explain, Mr. Grant," Harry repeated. "We
 have a tractor beam that is capable of locking onto a life
 pod, should it become necessary for the pilot to eject."
     "Yes, Mr. Harry, I know all that, you see--" Grant
 was cut off again.
     "What you may not know," Harry said in an emphatic
 voice, "is that when a bomber is heavily damaged and
 the pilot cannot or will not eject, then it becomes the
 copilot's job to eject both of them. Did you know that.
 Mr. Grant?"
    Grant paused. "Actually, no, I didn't know that. I've
only been in a single-person simulator. Do you mean
that the copilot can eject the pilot? Are you, in fact,
saying--"
    "No need to repeat ourselves, Mr. Grant. We both
understand each other. Now, don't you think that you'd
feel better if you were wearing your vacuum suit with
your helmet fastened and your oxygen attached and on
portable power?"
    Grant hesitated. He was very nervous. "I don't ...
I'm not ... Suppose? ...What if..."
    Harry remained calm. "Mr. Grant, you'll find a vac
suit in the closet at the back of the flight deck. Put it on
and then contact me. Harry out."
    Grant started to get up from the copilot's chair. The
robot turned its sad-eyed gaze on him.
 Feeling horribly guilty, Grant sank back down.
 But this was the way, the only way.
    "The odds of you surviving this mission are so small
they don't even bear mentioning," said the commanding
officer. "Go forth and do your duty. And know that you
will be forever hollored."
    "Yes, sir," Grant murmured, hearing the words of his
squadron commander in his head. Tentatively, he stood
back up. "Uh, do you mind if I put on something more,
that is, more, urn, comfortable?"
    The robot did not reply. It had swiveled back to com-
plete its calculations.
    Grant hurried to the rear of the cabin. "Quickly,
there, Captain. Mustn't show fear with the lads about.

Smooth and professional, that's it. Look good for the
lads."
    He was finding it somewhat difficult to enter his pleas-
ant fantasy. He really was in a Claymore bomber, pre-
paring to eject into deep space, preparing to risk his own
life to save countless lives. His dream-world rather paled
in comparison. His dream did have one element that the
real world did not have, and that was Grant's calm, cool
steel nerves. He decided to stay in his fantasy world.
    Grant knew all about pressure suits from his days as
a shuttlecraft pilot. Bolting on the helmet, he next
strapped on the power and air pack. The familiar actions
were calming. His hands shook very little. He plugged
in the hoses and cords, switched the unit from external
power to self-contained. He felt sick, as if his stomach
were going to surge up out of his throat and make a
mess on the deck. But his squadron commander
wouldn't approve.
    "Buck up, there, Captain! You've got a job to do.
Let's get hopping!"
    Grant returned to the bridge, settled back into the
copilot's seat. He flipped the communications panel to
hands-free again.
 "Mr. Harry, are you still out there?"
    "Hey, there, Mr. Grant. How're you doing? Are you
all dressed up and ready to go?"
    "I'm ready, Mr. Harry," Grant said miserably. "Now
what do I do?"
    "Let's say . . . what would a copilot do in a real
emergency'?"
    "Yes, that's what I meant." Grant started to sweat.
The robot had turned to gaze at him again. He gave it
a strained smile through the helmet.
    "Like 1 was saying before"--Harry's voice was reas-
suring--"the copilot's duty is to eject himself and the
pilot. To do that, he and the pilot must be securely
strapped into their chairs. You securely strapped in,
Mr. Grant?"
    There was a pause as Grant strapped himself in. "Uh,
pardon me, Mr. Harry, but what does the copilot do if
the pilot ... um ... refuses to cooperate?"

  "Would ttle pilot be somewhere over the pilot's seat?"
    "Yes, sir, he--rather, it--is hovering there." Grant
started to tremble.
    "No problem." Harry continued to be reassuring. "All
you do is reach between your legs under the seat and
pull the yellow handle. Do you see it, Mr. Grant, the
yellow--"
    "I see it," Grant announced, peering down between
his legs. He grasped the handle and gave it a tug, won-
dering, at the same time, what it did.  His seat exploded.
    The rocket beneath the copilot's chair hurled Grant
straight up. The top of the chair punched through the
canopy covering the cockpit. Steelglass shattered, as it
was designed to do, and fell away around Grant in a
cascade of glittering shards. The explosion was loud, but
only for a split second, and then immense and terrifying
silence swallowed him.
    Grant's vacuum suit expanded out, swelling like a bal-
loon. He tumbled head over seat, moving ever outward,
away from the Claymore. With each revolution, he saw
the spaceplane below him, debris streaming out from the
cockpit area, moving farther and farther away.
    It was only then that Grant realized what had
happened.
 He had been ejected.
    He stared down at his inflated, bloated body. His
thoughts were disconnected and floating, much as he
was himself.
    There is nothing between me and the cold, suffocating
blackness of space except plastic and rubber.
    I am alone out here. What happens if no one finds
me'? I can't yell for help. No one will hear me. What a
terrible way to die.
    And yet, it's quite beautiful. I can see forever. Huge,
immense stars are only specks. I am a speck. But at the
moment, l'm bigger than the stars ....
    At least the robot won't take out any more Lanes.
The robot. Grant experienced a moment of concern.
Where is the robot?
 The next revolution, he saw a metallic speck traveling

in the same direction as himself, arms twirling over
metal head. Grant felt immediately relieved. He'd been
afraid that it might have blown up in the explosion. The
robot was safe and they weren't alone. When he rotated
back to where he could see the Claymore, he saw the
PRRS come up around the disabled spaceplane.
    Grant waved his arm, discovered that this slight move-
ment caused a violent shift in his rotation. He wobbled
around sideways, catching glimpses of the robot, the
PRRS, and the Claymore at different times.
    He held himself completely still and gradually his rota-
tion slowed. Grant felt himself being tugged gently
toward the PRRS. Glancing around--as best he could,
for the view-constricting helmet--he saw the robot being
sucked toward the PRRS.
 A hatch beneath Grant yawned.
    I wonder, he thought, as he sailed gracefully toward
the gaping maw of the PRRS, if Mr. Harry will let me
keep this vacuum suit for my collection.

CHflPIER
       37

ú . . While we think of it, and talk of it
Let us leave it alone, physically, keep apart.
For while we have sex in the mind, we truly have
None in the body.

D.H. Lawrence, "Leave Sex Alone"

g~Vou got a fix on him?" Tess asked.
    / She stared out the viewscreen of the PRRS,
searching for Grant and the robot. Harry had said they
would be difficult to see with the naked eye, but that
Xris--with his enhanced vision--might be able to pick
them up.
 "I can't see them. Nothing," Xris reported.
    "Not to worry," Harry said softly, his gaze focused on
his instrument readings, hands poised over the controls.
"I see 'era. I've got 'cm. Lock on target," he ordered
the ship's computer. "And ... fire!"
    No missiles flamed into the darkness, no flashing lethal
laser light shot from the guns. An unseen magnetic beam
pulsed outward, bringing life, not death, though one
might never have guessed that from Harry's orders.
    What appeared at first to be nothing more than a red
flashing beacon came into sight, very rapidly expanded
into the form of a pilot, still strapped into his seat from
the Claymore. Grant's face was visible--looking moon-
shaped and distorted behind the helmet.
    Next, Harry targeted the second blip and brought it
in. The robot, with its sad eyes, stared straight ahead,

It looked like a terrified child stuck on a frightening
carnival ride.
     At least it appeared docile. Xris had been afraid it
might attack poor Jeffrey Grant. "How long?" he asked.
    "Another fifteen minutes," Harry said. "We've got to
take this slow. Too fast, and we could lose control, end
up with them splattered over the hull. Once we get them
safely in, I'll lock onto the Claymore." "1 suppose the Plane's useless."
    "For the time being," Harry conceded. "Hard to fly
without a cockpit. But any rebuild and overhaul facility
can put it back together."
    "For a price," Tycho said gloomily. "You can kiss the
ass of any profits we might have made off this business.
As for the robot taking that Lane out, have you consid-
ered what will happen to intergalactic commerce if word
of this leaks out? I have stock in several major shipping
companies--"
    "Kiss good-bye," Xris corrected. "Not kiss ass. That's
something else entirely. And we're not going to make
any profit anyway. Tycho, old friend, so just count this
as a dead loss."
 Tycho groaned.
 "The job's finished, huh?" Jamil said.
    "For us it is. Tess"--Xris nodded at her--"was on the
comm with the Admiralty. This robot's way too danger-
ous to turn over to Harsch. They don't want to risk it.
Our orders are to bring it back to the King James II."
    Tess was pale, unhappy. She sat with her head in her
hand, her elbow on the console. The other hand, resting
on her thigh, was clenched to a fist.
    Jamil was sympathetic, gave her a pat on the shoulder.
"A lot of work down the drain, I'll bet."
    "Months," Tess said, sighing. She raked her hair back.
"And we'll never have another chance. This was it. Oh,
I know they're right. The robot's far too dangerous. It
was okay when we didn't think it worked, but now we
know that it does ... not only that it works but that it
takes out Lanes. But don't pay any attention to me."
 She shrugged, looked at them, concerned. "I'm just

babbling. You men are the ones who are out a lot of
money. I'll talk to the Admiralty."
    "Never mind, it's not important," Xris said. Noting
Tycho turning the jaundiced yellow color his people
turned when going into sudden shock, Xris added hast-
ily. "I mean, we'll think of something. Maybe we'll ask
the Navy to at least pay for repairs."  "Obese chance," said Tycho.
    "] will go back to the air lock to meet the robot," Dr.
Quong offered. His eyes glistened. He tapped the tips
of his fingers together. "And Grant," he added as an
afterthought.
    "Take care of the human patient first, will you, Doc?"
Xris said.
    "What? Oh, of course. Certainly I will," Dr. Quong
returned stiffly. "The scanners monitoring Mr. Grant's
condition indicate that he is doing quite well, considering
the fact that he was never trained for such a catastrophic
event. His blood pressure is elevated, his heart rate is
accelerated, but not beyond an acceptable range. I will
administer a mild sedative to calm him. As for the
robot"-- Quong was intense, eager --"what should I do
for the robot?"
    "We have to shut it down," Tess said wearily. "From
what we've seen, it would be quite capable of taking
control of this ship."
    "It appears passive enough now," Dr. Quong stated,
staring out the viewscreen as the robot and Grant slid
past, on their way to the air lock, which was located at
the rear of the PRRS. "Still, I will be careful. I believe
I know how it can be deactivated. I've been doing some
research on it and, as it turns out, I found quite a use-
ful diagram."
    "I'11 come with you," Tess offered. "Where did you
find a picture of the robot?"
 "The encyclopedia," Quong said.
 "Told you!" Harry glanced around, triumphant.
    Xris snorted. He followed Tess and the doctor out
into the narrow corridor.
    "You go on ahead, Doc. I want a word with Captain
Strauss."

  "Certainly." Quong chuckled.
    Continuing on down the corridor, he ran into Raoul
and the Little One on their way to the cockpit. Quong
said something in a low voice to Raoul, jerked his thumb
over his shoulder.
    Seeing Xris and Tess, Raoul raised his eyebrows,
smiled delightedly, and, catching hold of the Little One,
yanked him out of the corridor with such rapidity that
he took the Little One, but left the fedora behind. The
hat fell to the deck. A bejeweled and manicured hand
appeared, snatched up the fedora, waved it in Xris's di-
rection, and vanished. Tess almost smiled.
    Xris growled, took out a twist. "You want to go to
the prom?" he asked her. "My dad gave me the keys to
the hover."
    This time she did smile. "It's all right. I understand.
Your people think a lot of you, Xris. They're not the
only ones," she added softly. Her hand twined in his,
fingers locking.
    Xris pulled her close. "This lousy excuse for a job is
just about finished. We drop the 'bot off at the King
James, and it's over. After that, well, we're meeting a
friend on the planet Moana. You know it? It's a
paradise."
    "The honeymoon planet?" Tess said. "I've heard of
it. I've never been there."
    "I'd like to take you," Xris said. "You said you had
some leave coming .... "
    She looked up at him, her expression grave, thought-
ful, unusually serious. Her hand in his tightened. A
small, dark furrow drew her brows together. "I'm not
sure ... You see ... the job's not quite over yet, Xris.
I ..." she paused, gazed at him intently. Her expression
cleared; the furrow was gone. She smiled at him, a true
smile. "l'd like that. I'd like that very much. I'll meet
you on any planet, any place, anytime. It doesn't have
to be a paradise. We can take care of that ourselves."
    Xris bent to kiss her, but, at that moment, Harry stuck
his head out of the cockpit. "Xris!" he bellowed, as if
Xris were at the other end of the ship. "Oh," he said,

grinning. "There you are. Sorry to interrupt, but we've
got another message coming through from the Admi-
ralty. For you, this time. Not Captain Strauss. I think it
has something to do with ... um ... you know. That
Adonian cruise liner." He gave a wink and a nod, proba-
bly thought he was being subtle. "And I'll be bringing
our passengers on any moment now."
    "It sounds like a private conversation. I'll go help Dr.
Quong," Tess offered. She slid her hand out of Xris's
grasp and was away, walking rapidly down the corridor,
before he could stop her.
    Xris turned to go back to the cockpit. What, he won-
dered, had she been about to say?
      A hand plucked at his sleeve. Xris glanced to his left.
Raoul was lurking in a hatchway.  "Well?" Raoul demanded.
    "Well what?" Xris glared at the Adonian, silently ad-
vising him to keep his mouth shut.
    The advice was completely lost on Raoul, who contin-
ued on. "Did you ... you know?" He accompanied the
words with a salacious wiggle of his hips, making ges-
tures that would have had him arrested on some of the
more conservative worlds in the galaxy.
    ~'Not that it's any of your business," Xris said through
clenched teeth, "but I was with her for exactly three
minutes in a narrow corridor."
    Raoul was clearly not impressed. "Unimaginative,"
was his pronouncement, "and lacking in manual
dexterity."
 "Xris!" Harry called urgently. His voice cracked.
 Xris shouldered Raoul aside, walked into the cockpit.
 "Yes, I'm here. What is it?"
    Harry, seated in the pilot's chair, peered over his
shoulder. His ordinarily choleric and cheerful face was
blotchy, patches of red mottled with white. He licked
his lips.
    Xris felt his stomach muscles tighten. "What the hell
is it? What's wrong?"
    "It's Darlene," Harry began, and had to stop to clear
his throat. "Before we caught it, the robot took out an-
other Lane. Her ship. The cruise ship ..."

    Xris was in the copilot's chair. "Put me through to
the admiral."
    "They don't know anything for sure, Xris," Harry
said. "Darlene sent them her data on the Lanes the
robot might take out next and that Lane was one of
them. She knew, Xris. She knew in time to warn the
captain."
 "Well, did she?" Xris demanded.
    "That's just it, Xris." Harry looked sick. "The Navy's
lost contact with the ship ... and with Darlene."
    "Damn! Fuck it! Damn!" Xris wanted to hit some-
thing, wanted to hit himself.
    The "ifs" began their tormenting litany in Xris's mind.
If he'd never trusted Sakuta. If he'd never taken this
rotten, lousy, fucking job. If he'd kept better track of
the goddamned robot. If... if... if...
Not one of them any damn good to him now.
"Xris," Quong's voice came over the comm. "I have
recovered Mr. Grant and the robot. Mr. Grant is suffer-
ing from shock but is otherwise unharmed. I have given
him a mild sedative and put him to bed. As for the
robot--"
 "Disable it!" Xris said, his voice thick.

    "Disable the blasted thing!" Xris swore viciously. "If
you can't or won't, I'll come down there and crack it
apart myself?
    "That will not be necessary." Ouong's voice was delib-
erate, cool. "As I was about to say, the robot is not
functional. I'm not certain why; it may have something
to do with the ejection. According to Grant, the ride was
a rough one. 1 will, of course, examine it thoroughly."
  "Fine. Good. You do that, Doc," Xris said bitterly.
  "What is the matter, my friend? You sound--"
  "The damn robot took out one more Lane before we
  stopped it. This time there was a ship in it. An Adonian
  cruise liner--"
    "Oh, dear God," he heard Tess say softly in the
background.
 "An Adonian cruise ship." Quong was silent amo-

ment, then said, "Have you--has anyone--heard from
Darlene'?"
    "They've lost contact," Xris said quietly. "But it was
her ship. The one she was aboard."
    "We don't know that for sure," Harry argued
stubbornly.
  'TII be right up, my friend," Quong said.
    "No. l'm fine, Doc. You stay there, make damn sure
that the robot's dead and that it's going to stay dead.
Xris out."
    Xris sat for long moments in silence. Jamil came in,
then Tycho. They'd both caught part of his conversation
with Quong, wanted to know what was going on. Harry
told them. Xris felt their eyes, felt them looking at him.
They were talking to him, too, but he didn't listen.
    Raoul came in, with the Little One. "Is it true? I just
spoke to Dr. Quong. How very dreadful. And Darlene?"
    Everyone looked at Xris, motioned for Raoul to keep
quiet. After one more "How very dreadful," Raoul
subsided.
    Tess arrived. The rest backed up against the bulk-
heads to make room for her. She leaned down. "Dr.
Quong told me you had a friend on that ship. Oh, Xris,
l'm sorry. So very sorry."
    He ignored her, too. She obviously wanted to say
something more, glanced around at the others. They
shook their heads. Eventually she, too, backed off.
 Xris said, very quietly, "Harry, change course."
 "What?" Harry looked startled. "Change course?
 What about the robot? We're supposed to deliver it to
 the King James II ASAP."
    "The hell with the robot," Xris said savagely, glower-
ing at Harry, at them all. "Take us to where that Lane
used to be. There might be survivors."
    The others exchanged glances. Harry gnawed his lip,
stared down at the console. Tess turned her face away.
The Little One made a whimpering sound. Raoul put
his arm comfortingty around his small friend. Jamil
rested his hand on Xris's shoulder.
    "Xris, I know how you're feeling. But you have to
face the facts."

    "I said, change course," Xris said softly. He had to
speak softly or else he would start to yell, and if he
yelled they would think he was losing control--and he
knew what he was doing. By God, he knew what he was
doing. There would be survivors. There would be survi-
vors. "We're a medical ship. We have a doctor on board.
We can tow in life pods."
    No time. There would have been no time to get the
passengers into life pods. Ri-i-i-ppp. Half the ship could
be at the beginning of the Jump, half at the end.
    "Change course," Xris said for the third time, and
then he was on his feet, getting ready to yank Harry out
of the pilot's chair.
    "Hold it. Hold it right there," Tess ordered. She held
a lasgun in her hand and that gun was pressed against
the side of Raoul's head. "Hands in the air. Come on--
you, too, Xris."
    "Ugh!" Raoul wrinkled his nose. His gaze slid side-
long at the lasgun that was pressing against his temple.
"She had that thing under her armpit!"
 "I said, don't move, Loti!" Tess warned.
 "She means it, Raoul," Xris said. "Hold still."
    He was starting to figure things out. And if he was
right, then he was in line for the Number One Chump
of All Time Award.
    Raoul's eyelashes fluttered. He was in agony. "Is the
gun mussing my hair?"
    Xris tested his theory. "Look, Captain Strauss, I don't
know what you're in this for. Maybe it's your colonel's
bars or maybe the glory. I don't much care. But--"
    "It's not the glory, Xris," Tess said. She shrugged,
smiled. "It's the money. Harry, back off. The computer
will be flying the plane. l've changed the course."
    "No need," Harry said. "The course is already laid in
for the King James'. Look, Xris, let's go to the King
James first, drop off the robot, and then we can--"
  "We're not going to the King James." Xris said.
  "Xris, she's gonna blow off Raoul's head."
    "Look at your instruments, Harry. What do they
read? What's our course?"
  "It's ..." Harry's voice ended in a strangled gargle.

"It's ... Hell's Outpost)" He twisted around. "The King
James II isn't at Hell's Outpost, Xris."
"We know that, Harry. Most of us do, at any rate."
"The Navy thinks I work for them, Harry," Tess said.
She continued to keep the gun pointed at Raoul's head.
"But the Navy's mistaken. In reality, I work for some-
one else."
  "Harsch," said Xris. "She works for Harsch."
    "But she's wearing a Navy uniform and everything."
Harry was a little slow on the uptake.
  "Ever heard of a double agent, my friend?"
  "Oh." Harry blinked.
    Xris, facing the hatchway, caught a glimpse of
movement:
    Quong was in the corridor. He had heard what was
going on over Xris's commlink. The doctor was padding,
soft-looted, toward the cockpit, a lasgun in his hand. He
would sneak up on Tess from behind.
    Xris saw the Doc, understood the plan, looked away,
shifted his gaze so as not to draw Tess's attention that
direction.
    "That's how Harsch knew about the robot," he said,
hoping to distract her. "And that's how Tess knew we
were coming to Pandor. Harsch hires us to steal the
robot. His agent Captain Strauss is posted on Pandor to
keep watch on us and the Navy at the same time. Mean-
while, she plays both ends against the middle, reports
on Harsch to the Admiralty.
    "Everything goes according to plan. Tess manages
Jamil and me. Hell, we fell for her story like a metric
ton of bullshit. We were supposed to take the robot to
Harsch. The robot has the bomb in it and the transmit-
ter, but my guess is that those 'malfunction.' You see to
that, of course. Harsch gets the robot. The Navy gets
squat. You roll those pretty blue eyes at the Lord Admi-
ral and say you can't imagine what went wrong.
    "Or, hey, here's an idea. Maybe you blame it on us,
Make us the fall guys .... Yeah, that's the deal, isn't it?
Even now. You come out of this smelling sweet and
squeaky clean. Who will the Navy believe, after all? One

of their own agents? Or us? We're already in trouble
with the Admiralty."
    Quong, gun aimed, was drawing nearer and nearer.
He didn't dare shoot, for fear of hitting Raoul. Or
maybe missing completely and putting a lethal hole
through the spaceplane's viewscreen.
    "She had it planned out well," Xris continued. "But
then things started to fall apart. You guys showed up.
That really scares her. Captain Strauss here figures that
we're about to double-cross her. Double-cross the dou~
ble-crosser, as it were. And then Jeffrey Grant arrives.
The robot takes off. And that leaves you in a pickle,
doesn't it, sister? Who was it ordered you to comman-
deer that plane and take off after the robot? Harsch--
of course you reported in to him. Or was it the
Admiralty?"
    "For once, they were in agreement. I have to admit,
things got pretty interesting there for a while," Tess con-
ceded. "Oi~, and speaking of that bomb--the one the
admiral gave to Jamil. Have you checked, lately, to see
if you still have it?"
 Xris shot a swift questioning glance at Jamil.
 Jamil shrugged, looked helpless.
    "Because you won't find it," Tess continued calmly.
"I planted it somewhere in this spaceship. It's set to
detonate in twelve hours, which is when we're due to
arrive at Hell's Outpost. I'm the only one who can stop
the detonation. I'm the only one who knows where the
bomb is. So I wouldn't try any heroics, Dr. Quong," she
added~ glancing over her shoulder. "l suggest you put
away the lasgun."
 The disconcerted Ouong looked at Xris.
 "She's the boss now," Xris said. "Do as she says."
    "Do you believe her?" Quong continued to hold his
lasgun, aimed at Tess.
    "Believe her!" Raoul said fervently. "Is there grease
on the barrel?"
    "I don't think we've got much choice," Xris said dryly.
"Harry, what would happen if a bomb went off inside
this spaceplane?"
 "Before or after we decompressed?" Harry growled.

    Quong shrugged, tossed the lasgun onto the deck at
Tess's feet. "She fooled me completely."
    "You aren't the only one, Doc," Xris said. "You
aren't the only one."
    Tess lowered the gun from Raoul's head. "Okay, Ado-
nian. You're free to go touch up your lipstick."
    Jamil was still squirming. "Uh, excuse me, Captain.
But I gotta go to the head. Real bad."
      "Sure." Tess waved her hand. "Go on. Check the case
for the bomb. You won't find it." Jamil gave Xris a look.
 Xris took out a twist. "Go ahead."
    Glowering at Tess as he passed her, Jamil left the
cockpit.
    "Well, you didn't think I was going to spend twelve
hours sitting here holding a gun on the Adonian, did
you?" Tess asked, amused. "I need my beauty sleep."
    "I don't know what for," Raoul said caustically. He
cast a reproachful glance at Xris. "And after all the trou-
ble we went to."
 The Little One kicked Raoul in the shins.
 Raoul groaned, rubbed his leg.
    Xris put the twist in his mouth, began to chew it. "I'm
beginning to lose sight of what I saw in her myself."
    Tess picked up the gun from the deck, shoved it into
her belt. "I'm sorry about all this, Xris. I really am.
Things were supposed to have worked out differently~
You would have never known the truth about me, But
first Grant shows up with his machine. We had no idea
one of those was still in existence! Then the robot takes
off on its own. All of which turned out to be good, in
a way."
 "Increased the robot's value for your boss," Xris said.
    "Yes. And then the robot proved that it was still func-
tional-"
    "By taking out Lanes. Boy, I'll bet Harsch pays you
a bonus for this one. Of course, that's not going to mean
much to the thousand or so people who died on that
cruise ship."
    "I'm sorry, Xris," Tess repeated earnestly. "I'm sorry
about your friend, I know you're not going to believe this,

but I wasn't lying about everything. I do really like you,
Xris, and maybe, when this is all finished, we can ..."
    Xris said nothing. He stared at her and eventually her
voice trailed off. Her eyes lowered.
Jamil returned. "The bomb's gone," he reported.
"Sure it's gone," Xris said. "Even if she's bluffing, the
bomb's gone. You don't get in the NI by making stupid
mistakes." He rounded suddenly on Raoul and the Little
One, who were both slipping quietly out the door. "Wait
just a goddamn minute!"
    He caught hold of the Little One by the collar of the
raincoat, dragged him backward.
    "What do you mean--all the trouble you went to? I
asked the two of you what was going on with Tess. You
knew the truth! Damn it! You two knew and you didn't
tell me!"
    "Do not shake him, Xris Cyborg!" Raoul said worri-
edly, coming to the rescue of his small friend. "You'll
ruin his digestion!"
    "Like hell they knew!" Tess said sharply. "I told
Harsch that using the telepathic scrambler was a waste
of time and money. The little fart's no more a telepath
than that girder there. I tested him two or three times
and he never once caught on. They've been conning you,
Xris. It's all a trick. I've seen better shows in a Laskar
nightclub."
    Raoul glanced at Xris from beneath lowered lashes.
The Little One tilted back his head, peered up at Xris
from beneath the brim of the fedora.
    No, Xris thought, whoever has been conned, it wasn't
me. These two knew the truth about Tess. They've
known it all along. And they hadn't said a word, because
...because...
  It's been a long time since I've had sex.
    You have to give Raoul credit. He has his priorities
in order. They don't happen to be the priorities of any-
one else in the known universe, but ... that's an Ado-
nian for you.
    "We're going to be making the Jump to hyperspace
in about twenty minutes," Tess was saying. "Fortunately,
the Lane we need is still there. I'm going to go lie down,

get some rest. I suggest that you gentlemen do the same.
l'm sure you'll want to be at your best when you meet
Mr. Harsch. Unless, of course, you want to spend your
time searching for the bomb. If that keeps you happy
and occupied, be my guests."
    "I'll stay here with Harry, monitor the Jump," Xris
offered. "The rest of you--go lie down. Like the lady
says, we'll want to be at our best when we meet Mr.
Harsch."
 Xris shoved past Tess.
    She caught hold of his arm, his phony arm. "Xris, I
wish :.." Her eyes were pleading. For what? Sympathy?
Understanding?
 As Tycho would say, Obese chance.
 Xris turned away.
    Behind him, he heard Raoul wail plaintively, "I can't
think where we went wrong."

CHflPIER
       38

You must be generous to double agents.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

The journey through hyperspace to the frontier was
long, tedious, and tense. The only compensation was,
as Jamil said, that everyone had a chance to catch up
on their sleep.
 Those who could sleep.
    Xris was not among that number and, from the rag-
ged-edged looks of her, Tess--for all her talk--wasn't
slumbering soundly, either.
    Good! thought Xris. Being in a Macbeth-like mood,
he hoped she turned into an insomniac.
    If she was worried that they were going to attack her
in her sleep, she needn't have been. Xris could have told
her as much. Not that the team was idle. Each had his
assignment and at least one had come up with some-
thing, appare~:tly.
    "l need to talk to you," Harry said in a low voice,
bumping into Xris in a corridor.
  Xris nodded. "Where's Tess?"
  "Back with the robot."
  "What's she doing'?" he asked.
    "Running an analysis on that machine of Grant's. l
asked her and she said that she wants to know how it
works before she presents it to her boss."
  "Fine. Get the others. Meet in the galley."

    Harry's face brightened. "Lunch," he said, and hur-
ried off.
    Xris entered the galley, where the others were seated
around the table. Raoul had made more sandwiches, but
only Harry was eating.
  "Well. what is it?" Xris asked.
    Harry, mouth full, chewed rapidly, swallowed. "l ran
the computer scan for the bomb. I found it," he said.
and took another bite.
    Xris reached over, snatched the sandwich out of his
hand. "You can eat later. Where is it?"
    "It's attached to the recovery bay structural girder,
about three-quarters back."
    "That bomb's the size of Harry's brain," Jamil com-
mented. "If it did go off, how much damage could it
do to this spaceplane? The plane's built to withstand
laser blasts."
    Quong corrected him. "The shields are built to with-
stand laser blasts. That's why they are there, in order to
protect the hull. The bomb wouldn't have to do much
damage at all. We are in hyperspace. The tiniest crack
could rip us apart."
    Xris chewed a wad of soggy twist. "Okay, we've found
the bomb. Can we disarm it, Doc?"
    "Not without risking setting it off. I examined the
bomb when it was in Jamil's possession. It is very sophis-
ticated, very delicate. Face it, my friend. She has us by
the shorts, as Tycho would say."
    Xris spit the twist into the trash compactor. "How's
this'? We set off the bomb, blow up this plane and every-
one in it. Including the robot."
    Tess's voice came from behind. "That would be the
noble thing to do." She stood in the doorway, was re-
garding Xris gravely. "But you won't do it."
    "I won't, huh?" Xris eyed her. "You think I don't
have the guts to do it? Or that maybe these guys
wouldn't go along?"
 "Do it," said Jamil briefly.
 "Sure, oo ahead, Xris!" Harry was grim.
    Quong nodded his head. "An appropriate sacrifice in
the name of humanity. I concur."

    Tycho nodded. "My insurance is fully paid. And I
have set up a tax-sheltered annuity for the death bene-
fits. My family would make considerable profit."
    Raoul's eyes glistened. "I have often wondered what
it would be like to die by some violent means. And this
... the terrible expectation, the mounting fear, and then
the blast itself..."
    The Little One made two fists of his hands, slammed
them together in a gesture Xris had come to know meant
the telepath was emphatically with them.
    Xris turned to Tess. "The vote's in and counted,
sister."
    Tess stood leaning against the door, her arms crossed
over her chest. "Oh, you'd do it. I have no doubt. If
Xris gave the order, you'd blow up yourselves, me, the
robot." She snapped her fingers, "Like that. But Xris
won't give that order,"
    Xris knew danled well that he wouldn't, but he was
interested in hearing her reason. "Why not?"
    She looked at him and smiled, not a cocky smile, not a
smirk. Just a smile, a warm smile. An affectionate smile.
"Because that would be giving up, admitting that you
were defeated. And that's something you'll never do, not
as long as there's breath in that shiny metal body of
yours. Am I right?"
 Xris took out another twist. He said nothing.
    Tess spread her hands. "Look, guys. Nick Harsch is a
businessman. He made a deal. He'll stick to it. The worst
that can happen is' that he'll dock you a couple of thou-
sand credits for being late. But seeing as how the robot
is more than he ever anticipated, he might give you a
bonus. You'll be on your way home soon enough, with
money in your account."
    "And a Lane-sucking robot in the claws of the Cor-
asians." Xris rolled the twist between his thumb and
forefinger. "A robot that's already killed a thousand
people."
  "We don't know that for sure," Harry said.
    Xris ignored him. "Sorry, sister. Counting money may
help you get to sleep at night, but it doesn't do much
for me."

     Tess regarded him thoughtfully. "Harsch misjudged
 you. I guess ! did, too."
     "It's a common mistake--misjudging people. I made
 it, too, sister," Xris said. "Big-time."
    Tess flushed faintly. "What I came in to tell you is
that I just looked in on Jeffrey Grant. He's coming out
of sedation. I informed him of what was going on. That
there's a bomb on the plane and we're flying it to take
the robot to Harsch. I'm not a doctor, but it's my opin-
ion that Grant might need to be sedated again. Well,
I'm back to work. You will let me know if you plan to
blow up the plane, won't you?" She walked off.
    "Resourceful, energetic, an expert on explosives. You
know"--Jamil gazed after Tess in mock admiration--"I
believe I might marry that woman. That is, if you don't
want her, Xris."
    "Personally," Quong said coldly, "I would enjoy shov-
ing her out the air lock."
    "Doc," Harry asked, "is there any way we could sabo-
tage the robot? Make it useless to the Corasians?"
    "Yes," Quong returned, in a bad mood. "Bring me
the bomb. I'll put it in the robot and we'll blow it up.
That would be the only way it would be useless to the
Corasians. They do not need to know how to use the
robot to build Lanes. Not anymore. All they need to
know is how to use it to take the Lanes out." He left to attend to his patient.
    Tycho shut off his translator, said something no one
understood, and went out after the doctor.
    "Does this mean we're not going to blow up the
plane?" Harry wondered.
    "I trust we're not," Raoul said. "The more I think
about it, the more I think that such a catastrophic event
would absolutely ruin my day. To say nothing of my
outfit at the time." He looked at Xris, the usually vacant
eyes suddenly snapped into focus. "I could poison her
coffee."
    "And what would you do about the bomb that's set
to explode in six hours? Poison it, too?"
    "All. I had not thought of that. Oh, well." Raoul
smoothed his hair with a delicate hand. "That's why you

are the leader, Xris Cyborg, and I am around for vi-
sual effect."
    Xris left, walked back to the empty cockpit, sat down,
stared out into the black nothing of hyperspace.
    He should blow up the plane. He knew that. Admit
failure. Admit that Tess and Harsch had outsmarted
him. Admit that he'd been beaten at his own game.
    Corasians would get hold of the robot. They'd use it
to take out the hyperspace Lanes. Make the Royal Navy
useless. Leave planets isolated, cut off. The Corasians
could come in and pick them off, one by one.
 He should blow up the plane. He knew he should.
 You won't, she had said.
    Xris took out a twist, put it in his mouth. This time
he lit it, watched the smoke twine up from the glowing
end. No one would be able to enter the cockpit until the
noxious fumes were sucked into the ventilation system.
But then no one was likely to come in here anyway.
 She was right, of course. She knew him inside out.
 Damn it all to hell and back again.

CHRPi[ 
       39

Tempt them with profits, instruct and retain them.
Thus double agents can be obtained and employed.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

They emerged from hyperspace into empty space.
The frontier--the galaxy s outer rim of stars--looks
very much like the more civilized interior: black, with
pinprick smatterings of light. But those who live and
work on the frontier will tell you that it is different, a
difference which they swear they can feel on board ship
or spaceplane, planet or inhabited moon. It is the idea
of living on the edge--literally. Of being far removed
from the majority of living species. It is a loneliness that
can drive you mad--or become addictive.
    Xris knew the frontier. In the "old days," when he
was just starting out in the mercenary line of work, it
had been his custom to frequent the moon known as
Helt's Outpost, conduct business in the infamous Exile
Car6. Xris was not one who had been seduced by the
romanticized loneliness. He had stayed at Hell's Outpost
only long enough to pick up work. He was always glad
to return to the interior, to the realm of breathing, snuf-
fling, gurgling humans and aliens. He enjoyed the knots.
the twists, the tangles, the challenge of life among the
teeming masses.
    Right now, though, he had to admit--he kind of liked
it lonely. He'd been afraid he'd find himself surrounded.
As it was, there were no planes or ships in sight.

    Odd. Hell's Outpost wasn't exactly overpopulated, but
there were generally planes in the vicinity. The Exile
Caf6 attracted a small but loyal clientele.
"So where's your boss, sister?" Xris asked Tess.
"Sister," she repeated, frowning. She glanced back at
him. "Do you realize how insulting you make that
sound?"
    "Yes. Where's your boss? That moon over there is
Hell's Outpost. Do we land or what?"
    Tess swiveled the copilot's chair away from him,
stared out the viewscreen. "We're to meet Harsch at this
location. You'll receive your instructions at that time."
    "There's no one out there2' Harry reported, peering
at his instruments and seeing no signs of a plane, or
a ship.
    "Hey," said Jamil, "we got here on time. If the client
can't make it, screw him. Turn this thing around, Harry,
and let's go home."
 "That would not be a good idea," Tess said.
     "He's there," Xris guessed. "He's looking us over.
Isn't that right, sister?" Tess didn't reply.
    "We're being scanned," Harry reported at almost the
same instant. "Pretty damn powerful, too."
    "I assume you gave your boss a complete descrip-
tion," Xris said.
    "Right down to every last nut and bolt," Tess
returned.
"You referring to me or the PRRS?" Xris asked.
Tess flicked him a glance. The strain was showing.
She had been staring intently out into space, tapping a
fingernail on the console. When she caught Xris's gaze
on her, she ceased the tapping abruptly, turning away.
    Interesting, Xris thought. What the devil is she afraid
of? She's bringing home the bacon.
    "Something's out there," said Harry in an ominous
tone. "I'm picking it up now. According to my readings
ú . . hell, l've never seen readings like this! What--
Holy shit!"
    Darkness engulfed the stars, swallowed them up. A
darkness that grew and solidified as they watched. A

 huge ship, devoid of lights, emerged from behind the
 moon that was Hell's Outpost. The bullet-shaped ship
 came into view, visible on their instruments, visible to
 the eye only as a black hellish mass that blotted out
 heaven.
  A Corasian mothership.
    So thaFs it, Xris said to himself, defeat a hard, cold
knot in his stomach. Tess isn't bringing home the bacon.
She's bringing the pigs to be slaughteredú
    Harry turned. His eye lids were open so wide, his eye-
balls looked as if they might roll out of his head. "Xris!
Do you know what that is? A Corasian mother--"  "I know. Get us out of here! Fast!"
    Harry was already on it. The engines roared, the
PRRS bucked and lurched, went nowhere.
    "Tractor beam," Harry said. His cheeks were blotchy.
"They got us."
    "Break loose!" Xris shouted over the whine of the
engines.
  "No way in hell!" Harry yelled back.
    The PRRS was a gnat trying to free itself from the
sticky web of an enormous spider.
    "Shut down the engines. I don't want to burn out."
Xris was on the comm, ordering everyone to the
bridge. Stat.
 Tess hadn't moved; she hadn't said a word,
    Xris grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her around to
face him. He leaned over her in the chair, put his hands
on the armrests, fencing her in.
 "You knew they'd be waiting for us."
     She sat cold and still beneath his touch, her jaw mus-
cles clenched tight. She nodded once, stiffly. Xris stood up, released her.
    "They're hailing us," Harry reported. He switched on
the comm.
    "Greetings, gentlemen," came the voice over the
comm.
    "That's Sakuta," Xris said, "for the benefit of those
of you who haven't had the pleasure of meeting him."
    "Not quite correct, Xris. Sakuta is one of my perso-
nae. Another is Nick Harsch, to whom you are now

speaking. I understand that you are bringing Professor
Lasairion's robot to me. Well done, gentlemen. Well
done."
    "Yeah, well, it was one hell of a job," Xris said, chew-
ing on a twist. Fie took it out of his mouth to add, "You
weren't exactly up front with us. A few little details you
neglected to fill us in on. Like how much your flesh-
eating friends are planning to pay you for bringing them
a real live Lane-laying robot in prime working condition.
My guess is that what you're paying us is squat com-
pared to the profit you'll be making."
 "Your point being?" Harsch sounded amused.
    Xris put the twist back in his mouth. "We want our
fair share. That's all. Cut us in for a percentage."
    Tess was looking at him in undisguised admiration, a
half smile on her face.
    "Captain Strauss told me you were the best," Harsch
said. "That's why 1 hired you. 1 only hire the best. Cap-
tain Strauss herself is extremely impressive, don't you
agree?"
    "Yeah," Xris said through teeth clenched over the
twist. "Impressive."
    Tess turned away, stared back out the viewscreen at
the Corasian ship.
    "I was considering making you an offer to join my
team, but Tess tells me that you can't be trusted. You
have a streak of common decency in you."
    "It runs right up my back," Xris said wryly. "I take
it this means we're not going to get any extra money?"
      "No," said Harsch pleasantly. "But I am. The Cor-
asians are paying me an additional sum."  "Let me guess--for the fresh meat?"
    "A very crass way of putting it, but yes, if that's how
you want to refer to yourselves."
    "Tell them not to be surprised if they find this meal
a bit hard to digest. Harry, shut that bastard off."
 Harry switched off the comm. Tess sat, unmoving.
 "What is going on, Xris?" Dr. Quong was on the
 comm, his voice loud in Xris's ear. "Did you say some-
 thing about a Cotasian mothership--"
  "That's what we got, Doc," Xris said.

     "A Corasian mothership!" Quong was terse. "We
 should leave the vicinity immediately!"
     "Love to, Doc," Xris returned. "But they've got us in
 a tractor beam. Tycho, you read me?"
     "1 copy, Xris. Did I translate correctly? Corasians?
 Those we call in my language Corpse Eaters?"
     "A bit inaccurate," Xris said dryly. "They prefer their
 meat live, when they can get it. What's the weapons
 stockpile oil this ship?"
  Tess was on her feet. "Xris, you can't--"
  He ignored her, concentrated on Tycho.
     "Standard for a military vessel," he reported. "Four
 beam rifles, four .22-decawatt lasguns, one stun grenade,
 and a utility knife."
    "Hand 'em out," said Xris. "Jamil, go help Tycho dis-
tribute the weapons."
    "Xris, this is crazy!" Tess protested. "You can't win!
Harsch has men of his own on that ship. And God
knows how many Corasians--"
    "We're being pulled in," Harry reported. "All systems
are shut down. What's the plan, Xris?"
    "It's pretty simple," Xris said. "They're going to trac-
tor the PRRS on board the Corasian mothership. Once
we land, they'll have to blow the hatch to get to us;
we're sure as hell not going to open the door for them.
When they come on board, we start shooting."
 "Yeah," Harry said, eager. "Then what?"
 "That's it, Harry. That's the plan."
 "But I don't get it, Xris. How do we escape?"
    Tess was quiet, watching him tensely, her hand
clutched over the back of the chair.
    "You remember that Corasian 'meat locker,' Harry?
The time we went in to rescue those people."
    "You mean your wife?" Harry said. He thought back,
nodded slowly. "I guess I understand now, Xris. We
shoot until they kill us."
    "That's about the size of it." Xris was back on the
comm. "Yes, Raoul, what is it?"
    "Jamil has just explained the situation, my friend,"
Raoul's voice was calm. "I want you to know that I have

located certain supplies in the pharmacy which would
allow me to prepare cocktails for everyone."
    Xris was about to say that this was a lousy time to be
thinking of martinis when it occurred to him what type
of cocktail the Loti meant.
 Feeling no pain, as the saying went. Permanently.
    "Thanks, Raoul," Xris said. "Not for me. That's not
the way I want to go out. But ask the others."
    "Yes, Xris Cyborg. You do not mind if that is the
way ..." Raoul hesitated, then said, "I am such a hope-
less shot with a gun .... "
    "Your choice. Same goes for the rest. Tell them 1
said so."
    "Thank you, Xris Cyborg, and may I say that it has
been a pleasure working for you. Far more than for my
late former employer, Snaga Ohme. The Little One asks
me to express his admiring feelings as well and to tell
you that we will meet in the picnic area of the park. I
am not certain," Raoul added solemnly, "but I believe
this to be a reference to his people's vision of the
afterlife."
    "It's been a pleasure working with you, Raoul," Xris
said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. "Same
goes for the Little One. I'm just sorry I got everyone
into this mess. Xris out."
    A loud clatter sounded from the plane's interior--
hasty hands dropped a beam rifle on the deck. His team
was going about their business swiftly, efficiently. It was
a pleasure working with them all, every one.
    Tess stood in front of him. "Xris, this isn't the way!
Please) Listen to me--"
  He put his hand on her arm, gave it a pat.
    "Feel free to detonate that bomb anytime your little
heart desires," he said, and walked past her.

 Jeffrey Grant was confused. Extremely confused.
    He wasn't used to all this upset and turmoil. His emo-
tions had never taken such a flight. Up one minute and
down the next, up again--soaring--and then dive-
bombing, plummeting toward the ground. At first it had
all been exhilarating. But now he was only exhausted

 and somewhat light-headed from the hypos the man who
 called himself a doctor had been giving him.
     Grant was certain of at least one thing--he wasn't
 going to take any more sedative! The drug dried out his
 mouth and made it seem as if everything around him
 had turned to jelly and he was trying to swim through it.
    Having made this decision, Jeffrey Grant sat up in his
bed. He was in sick bay, he saw, along with the robot,
which was spread out on a metal table. Groggy, Grant
slid off of the bed and tottered across the deck to look
at his friend.
    He thought of the 'hot as his friend, and then immedi-
ately felt horribly guilty for doing so. The robot was,
undoubtedly, a murderer. A mass murderer.
    He gazed down at the 'bot. It lay on its back, its sad
eyes staring up sightlessly at the ceiling, its reticulated
arms stretched out in front of it or dangling off the edge
of the table.
    Some of the arms were damaged. No lights flashed.
The robot did not speak. It had not been strapped down
when the cockpit ejected. The violent upheaval--Grant
had not realized just quite how violent the ejection
would be--had flung the 'bot through the canopy, He
could imagine, with a kind of horror, the thump of its
head striking the steelglass viewscreen. It lay on the
table, !imp and lifeless.
    "I should rejoice," Grant murmured. "The robot will
not kill again."
    And part of him was glad, but part of him was deeply
grieved and part of him was angry. The robot should
not have been disturbed. It should have been left to rest
in peace, not raised, unhallowed and unblessed, from
the dead.
    Grant was angry at the cold and callous manner in
which the doctor on board had poked and prodded at
the 'bot, talking to a recording device all the while,
speaking of the robot as he might speak of any machine.
And the man had the effrontery to laugh when Grant
had meekly suggested that he treat the robot with
respect.
 At which the doctor gave Grant another injection,

which sent him into a realm of jelly, with the robot's sad
eyes staring accusingly at him,
    It was Grant who felt like the murderer. Removing
the sheet from his own bed, he placed it gently, respect-
fully over the robot.
"You," came a voice behind him. "The civilian."
Jeffrey Grant turned, apprehensive and somewhat in-
dignant. He thought, after all he'd been through, that he
deserved something better.
 It was the woman, Captain Strauss.
    Grant was immediately on his guard. He looked be-
hind her for the doctor.
    "I won't take any more injections," Grant stated
unequivocally.
    "Good," Tess said vaguely, not really hearing him.
She had entered the room in a great hurry, but had now
come to an abrupt halt, was staring at him, studying him,
measuring him with her eyes. And it seemed she was
not completely happy with what she saw, for her hand
went to her furrowed forehead, rubbing the skin as if
she could smooth away the lines.
    She finally said "Mmmm," and was in motion again,
moving swiftly and surely toward what must have been
her goal in the first place, before the sight of Grant
distracted her. She opened a locker and pulled out a
canvas belt with two canisters hanging from it. Grant
recognized them: grenades. Probably some sort of nu-
clear devices. They looked truly frightful.
  "Something's going on, isn't it?" Grant said.
    When the captain didn't answer beyond an incoherent
mutter, Grant pressed. "Someone said something about
Corasians. Are you giving the robot to the Corasians?"
    "Not giving," Tess said, straightening from her task.
She looked over at him. "Selling's more the word.
Look," she went on, as he was sputtering with shock
and outrage, "I don't have time for all this. Something
very bad is about to happen. And I don't want you to
get hurt. The others"--she glanced back over her shoul-
der, out the door, where Grant could hear the sound of
voices, speaking in tight, tense monosyllables--"they

 came for the money. And me--I'm in it ... well, for my
 OWl1 reasons.
    '~But you." She gazed at Jefh'ey Grant and her expres-
sion softened. Her eyes shifted to the robot lying on the
cold steel table. "You came after a dream," she said. "I
suppose it's more worthy dying for a dream than for
money. But you're still just as dead." Her gaze--now it
was a searching look--left the robot and flicked over the
sick bay. Her eyes fixed on a small steel door, as if her
own morbid thoughts had led that direction.
    MOR(;UE was stenciled on the steel door in white
letters.
    "By God," she said. "That's it. Look, do you know
what's going on?"
    "I don't know how I could be expected to know,
after--"
    "Fine. Never mind. I'll tell you. Cotasians are about
to board this ship. Hundreds of Corasians. Have you
ever seen a Corasiam Mr. Grant?"  He had, but only in vid games.
    "Let me tell you about them," Tess continued. "They
are some form of mostly energy, we don't quite know
what. They look like blobs of molten lava, but they're
intelligent blobs. They have a great fondness for human
flesh. They devour their victims slowly, starting at the
feet and working upward; encasing the person in what
might be termed gelatinous fire. It is a terrible way to
die, Mr. Grant. That's why those men there--Xris, I
mean Captain Kergonan--and the rest, are getting ready
to fight to the death. They don't have a prayer, a hope
of surviving. They don't want to survive. A laser blast
through the head is much less painful."
    "Are ... are you going to shoot me?" Jeffrey Grant
asked, thinking that this was what all this had been lead-
ing up to. He wondered how he felt about being shot,
but his emotions were so drained that he really
couldn't decide.
    "No," said Tess. "l'm going to give you a chance to
save your skin. Through that door are tubes, which are
built into the spaceplane's bulkheads. Those tubes are
meant to hold corpses, to keep them in storage until

autopsies can be performed, or until proper burial can
be arranged. If you have the courage, Mr. Grant, you
can hide in one of the tubes. I don't think the Corasians
will find you."
    "You don't think. You can't be certain .... "Jeffrey
Grant stared at the steel door marked MORGUE. Images
of being buried alive filled his mind.
    "I can't be certain of anything, Mr. Grant," Tess said
tensely. "It's up to you. I've got to go. You don't have
much time, Mr. Grant. I suggest you make up your
mind."
    She started to leave, the belt with the grenades in
her hand.
"What are you going to do?" Grant wondered.
"What I have to do," Tess responded, and hurried
out the door. She made certain it was shut and sealed
behind her.
  "Humpf," said Jeffrey Grant. He opened the door
marked MORGUE, found himself in an extremely small
room. A neat stack of bags--presumably body bags--
were piled up in a corner, took up about one-third of
the deck space. Directly opposite him, mounted on the
bulkhead, were three small hatches, each with a spin-
lock.
    Grant touched experimentally a button beside one of
the hatches. The hatch swung open. He peered inside,
then crawled inside, to see what it would be like.
    What it was like was cold, with a peculiar smell--
disinfectant. Lying prone in the tube (there was no room
to sit up--which function, of course, most occupants of
the morgue were not expected to perform), Grant dis-
covered that it was going to be difficult, if not impossi-
ble, to operate the hatch from the inside. Which made
him wonder how he was supposed to get out, once he
got in.
     A lever labeled EMERGENCY HATCH RELEASE proved
 to be the answer. Either the designers had thoughtfully
 provided an exit in case someone was placed here by
 mistake or, more likely, this was a standard safety re-
 quirement, perhaps for those who entered to clean and
 disinfect.

    Jeffrey Grant climbed out again. He opened the door
on the second tube, was looking inside and considering
his next move, when the ship jounced, rocked, dropped,
and then settled into place with a horrendous bang. The
jolt threw Grant off balance. He fell on the pile of
body bags.
    Obviously, the PRRS had landed. No one had, of
course, bothered to inform him where, but then, "I'm a
civilian." Grant growled to himself.
    He made up his mind then and there to go ahead with
his plan. He might be a civilian, but he knew that the
robot should not, on any account, under any circum-
stances, be allowed to fall illto enemy hands.
    Outside, he could hear Captain Kergonan shouting,
something about "blow the hatch."
    Jeffrey Grant gathered up one of the body bags and,
lugging the bag in his arms, he hastened over to the steel
table on which lay the dead robot.

    "They're going to blow the hatch!" Xris yelled. He
could hear the clamping sounds of explosive charges
being placed on the outside. "Everyone set?"
    He and Harry, armed with beam rifles, stood well back
from the hatch, behind a girder. When the hatch blew,
they would pour blazing death at whatever tried to get
inside. The others were spread out through the PRRS.
Jamil was prepared to blow out the viewscreens. Tycho,
with his sharpshooter's aim, would pick off anyone at-
tempting to enter the plane from that direction. Bill
Ouong stood to one side, armed with a pistol and the
stun grenade. He would toss it in when the firefight was
turning the wrong way.
    Raoul wandered into view, carrying a tray of drinks.
He was dressed in a vibrant orange suit with wide, flow-
ing pants and long, flowing sleeves, cut low to reveal the
Adonian's shoulders.
    "I won't be buried in olive drab," Raoul remarked
in passing.
    Xris could have told him that he wouldn't be buried
at all, decided to skip it. The smell of lilac lingered in
the air. "Jamil, Tycho, Quong, report in."

 Silence.
 That was definitely not right.
 Xris tried again. "Jamil! Report in! That's an order!"
 Nothingú
 "Tycho, turn on your translator!"
 No apology from the chameleon.
 "Quong? Where the devil are you?"
 Silence.
 What was going on now?
    "Harry, stay here. I think my comm's out. I'm going
to check on--"
    He turned, saw Tess standing right behind him. She
held up a grenade for him to see, then tossed it into the
small enclosed area in which they were standing.
 The grenade rolled to a halt, almost at Xris's feet.
 "I'11 save you!" Harry cried.
 He flung his body full length on the grenade.
 "Harry, it's a--"
    There was a muffled whump, a soft hissing sound. Yel-
low-gray fog curled up from beneath Harry's broad
stomach. Harry grunted. A funny look crossed his face.
He lifted his head.
  "Sleep-gas grenade," Xris said.
    "Yeah, I--" Harry's eyes blinked, his head lolled,
thumped down on the deck.
    Tess lifted a gas mask, placed it over her nose and
mouth, and set off another grenade.
    Xris tried to raise his gun, to fire, but the weapon fell
from his hand. He keeled over, halted his fall with his
hand, tried to push himself back up, fighting the gas,
fighting the darkness that was his brain shutting down.
  He lost, pitching forward onto the deck.
    "I'm sorry, Xris." Tess's voice, muffled by the gas
mask.
  Yeah, right.

CffRPIER

Unless someone has the wisdom of a Sage, he
cannot use spies; unless he is benevolent and
righteous, he cannot employ spies.
ú . . It is subtle, subtle!

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

Xris woke to a blind darkness, numbing cold, and a
throbbing pain behind his eyes. Memory was bless-
edly fuzzy for a few minutes, then he saw Tess with the
gas grenades and heard her "I'm sorry." He knew then
what had happened and where he was. Dark, cold, like
a refrigerator. Very much like a refrigerator. He was in
a Corasian "meat locker."
    He lay still, trying to think, to force his brain to work
when it would have much preferred to crawl off in a
hole and howl. The pain was nothing more than the
aftereffects of the sleep gas. It would go away. The gut-
twisting knowledge of defeat, the certain knowledge of
the horrible fate which awaited him and the members of
his team would not go away. He asked of the Creator
only one thing before he found himself listed on the
Corasian dinner menu as "Catch of the Day." He
wanted to get his hands on Tess. Preferably the hand
with the vise grip.
    It was at that moment that he realized he had an-
other problem.
 His hand was missing.
 "Shit!" Xris sat up.

"Xris is awake," said a voice in the darkness--
Tycho's, by the mechanical sound.
    Xris readjusted his cybernetic eye to infrared, was
then able to see the warm bodies of his friends, though
nothing else.
    Corasians have no eyes and therefore have no need
for lights on board their spacecraft. The darkness was
absolute. Xris was the fortunate one, He could at least
see heat sources. His fellow team members, not gifted
with his augmented vision, were effectively as blind as
if their eyes had been gouged out.
    He made a quick count. At least they were all here
and, since they were all radiating body heat, they were
all still alive. Xris felt better. Not nmch, but some.
    "How are you, my friend?" Quong asked, peering into
the darkness in the completely wrong direction.
    "Over here, Doc. I'm wonderful, absolutely wonder-
ful. Well rested. Don't know when I've slept better. How
about the rest of you?"
    "The same," Jamil said lightly. "I'm thinking of
going jogging."
    "I'm okay," said Harry. He cleared his throat. "Uh,
about that grenade, Xris---"
    "You saved my life, Harry," Xris said solemnly, sud-
denly glad of the darkness that was hiding his smile.
"Well, you would have, if that grenade had been the
exploding kind. But that was still the bravest thing I ever
saw anyone do. I mean it, Harry, I owe you one."
    "Naw, you don't, Xris." Harry was pleased, probably
blushing. "You've saved my skin plenty. Don't give it a
second thought."
    During the conversation, Quong had crawled over in
Xris's direction, found Xris by clutching at him.
    "Do you think the place is bugged? Do you think
Harsch is listening?" he asked in a low voice, using their
subcutaneous commlinks,
    "Wouldn't you?" Xris replied dryly. "And he might
be able to pick up even that much noise. Keep it down.
Way down." He added aloud, "Say, do any of you guys
happen to know what happened to my hand? I can't
seem to find it anywhere."

    "Maybe you left it in your other pants" Raoul said,
and burst into a fit of high-pitched laughter.
  "What's the matter with him?" Xris asked.
    "He's been like that ever since he woke up. I am
afraid that the sleeping gas mixed with some other chem-
ical substance in his blood. The Little One won't wake
up at all. Well, he will, but he keeps drifting off to
sleep again."
    "The bastards took off my hand, didn't they? Fortu-
nately it was the cosmetic one. Keep talking, Doc. I have
to check something."
    Under cover of Quong's long-winded diagnosis of the
Little One's condition, Xris pulled up his pants leg. He
snapped open the compartment, felt inside, sighed in
grim relief. His weapons hand and his tool hand were
still there, along with various assorted small rockets and
other implements.
 Quong finished. "Are they there?"
     "Yeah. So, Harry," said Xris loudly, "tell us more
about Professor Lasairion." "Huh? Now?"
Tycho, sitting next to him, nudged him in the ribs.
"What? Oh, yeah, sure. Let's see. I think I can re-
member most of it. Mom always said I had a photogenic
memory. Professor Lasairion was born in Belfast, Ire-
land, Earth, in the year 2069. He was one of twelve
children ..."
    "The Corasians took your hand," Quong said softly.
"I was just coming around and I saw two of them in
here, working on you. The blobs lit up the place nicely,
plus the humans carried nuke lamps. A man, whom I
assume was Harsch, was with them, plus four other hu-
mans, probably his bodyguards. And the charming Cap-
tain Strauss."
    "Bless her little heart. She must have told them I was
a cyborg. I'm probably damned lucky that's the only
piece they took off me," Xris said.
    Quong shook his head. "It is only a matter of time,
my friend. According to their discussions with Harsch,
the Corasians consider you an ideal subject. They plan
to copy your mechanics, to give their own robotic bodies

greater capabilities. The Corasians wanted to start op-
erating then and there. Strauss told them not to. For the
time being, at least."
    "That was sweet of her." Xris gave a few seconds to
the prospect of having his body pulled apart without
benefit of anesthetics. A few seconds was more that
enough. "What's she want to keep me around for?" He
waved his remaining hand. "Other than as her sex toy,
of course."
     Quong grunted. "Seems there's some questions
Harsch wants to ask you about the robot."
  "Yeah? Like what?"
  "Like where is it?"
    Xris stared at the infrared outline of his friend. In the
background, Harry was droning, "The professor at-
tended MIT for two years, but was expelled for being in
possession of a controlled substance--"
    "Oh, that's too much!" Raoul doubled over, helpless
with laughter.
    Xris said cautiously, "Okay, I give up. Where is the
robot?"
    Quong shrugged. "Search me. The last I saw, it was
in sick bay. I was preparing to dissect it-- Oh, sorry."
He patted Xris on the shoulder, the shoulder that was
missing a hand. "I wasn't thinking. Anyhow, the 'bot's
not there now, apparently. And someone else is miss-
ing, .too."
     Xris glanced around the room. He counted six faintly
glowing bodies, including his own. "Who're we lost?"
  "Jeffrey Grant."
 "Son of a bitch. I forgot all about him. Where is he?"
     "He's not here, that much I know. And no one's said
a word about him. No one----catch my drift?" "You mean Strauss?"
    "Yes. I don't think she's mentioned him to Harsch. I
told the others to keep quiet. According to what I over-
heard Strauss tell Harsch, the robot was on its own."
    "Strange," Xris said, trying to account for this and not
having much luck. "Maybe she's keeping Grant on ice,
plans to cut a little deal for herself after Sakuta's gone.
Although that doesn't make much sense. Wouldn't be

worth the risk, in my opinion. But then, what do I know?
I've been operating in the dark this whole fucking job."
    "... married," Harry was saying, "to Greta Jean
Schnickbaum, a Ph.D. in nuclear physics. They had no
children. They used to say that their robots were their
children .... "
    "Four humans." Xris was adding up the score.
"Armed?"
    "To the teeth. Their teeth may be armed, for all I
know. They're walking arsenals. Looks like each one has
an anti-Corasian dampener device."
 "What the hell's that?" Xris demanded.
     "It fires a blast of oppositely polarized energy, short
circuits them, so to speak. Say you had a battery--"
 "Say I didn't. What else?"
    "They each have several high-caliber needle-guns, de-
signed to crack open plastisteel."
    "Looks like Sakuta doesn't exactly trust his Corasian
hosts." Xris glanced around at his team. "I presumed
they searched us while we were out. I don't suppose
they overlooked anything?"
    "They missed nothing," Quong said glumly. "They
even took a small corkscrew which I hake a habit of
carrying in my wallet."
    "Those guns would outfit us nicely," Xris said in
thoughtful tones. "Give us a real edge."
    "Against the thousand or so Corasians on this ship? I
admire your_notion of fair play, my friend."
    Xris smiled. "Beats throwing Raoul's high heels at
them."
    Quong was not to be deterred. "Not to mention the
fact that we are locked in this cold-storage compartment
with no way out--Jamil couldn't find a door."
    "He won't. Not in a meat locker. The Corasians don't
like to have to chase their lunch around. Only one way
in, and that's from outside."
    "And," Quong continued, "you are the only one who
can see in this confounded nightmare, with the possible
exception of the Little One, who may have natural
infrared."
 "And that's the good news." Xris slapped Quong on

the back. "It's what I like about you, Doc. Your optimis-
tic viewpoint."
    "I feel it is my duty to identify the difficulties," Ouong
said stiffly.
  "I know, Doc. 1 know," Xris said. "It's just--"
    A clanging sound interrupted him, conling from the
wall.
    "Company," Xris warned. "At my signal, Doc, jump
them. Pass the word."
 "Jump whom?" Quong demanded. "With what?"
 "I have my weapons hand," Xris said softly.
    "Oh, well." Quong grumbled. "That makes all the dif-
ference. Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
    "And tell Jamil not to let them shut that door!"
Xris ordered.
    Quong grunted again and stumbled off into the dark-
ness, hands outstretched, feeling his way along. He
bumped into Tycho, imparted Xris's orders. Tycho told
Harry. The word spread quickly, to judge by Raoul's
partially stifled laughter. The team spaced themselves
within arm's length of each other, reaching out their
hands to keep in touch.
    A giggling Raoul shook the Little One, propped him
onto his feet.
    The Little One's head slumped; the fedora tumbled
onto the floor. Raoul prodded him. The Little One's
head snapped up. He gazed around sleepily, and then
apparently the mental turmoil struck him, for he was
suddenly alert and wide awake. He shifted his gaze
toward the wall. The banging sounds continued. Appar-
ently they were attempting to open the door and not
having much success.
    The Corasians are obsessed with obtaining human
technology, primarily because they are so bad at it them-
selves. Almost all of the technology they have ever ac-
quired has been stolen from the human and alien
residents of the Milky Way galaxy next door. Often the
Corasians borrowed the mechanics, without having any
real clear understanding of how they operated, which
meant that   machinery breakdowns were frequent
occurrences.

    Unfortunately, it had been Xris's experience that the
breakdowns usually happened only to mundane equip-
ment--such as hatch seals. Corasian' weapons, which
were attached to the robotic bodies and operated by
impulse energy from a computer "brain," worked just
fine.
    Xris boosted his hearing. Beneath the banging and
clanging, he could hear swearing. A human voice, proba-
bly Harsch's, though it was too faint to be able to tell.
The voice didn't sound happy.
    Xris grinned. Harsch was in one hell of a spot. He'd
promised to deliver one Lane-laying robot and was now
faced with the prospect of explaining to this bunch of
flesh-devouring fiery globs of god that he wasn't going to
be able to keep that promise. Harsch must be sweating--
literally. No wonder he was keeping those bodyguards
close. And they would likely be paying more attention
to their Corasian hosts than to a sorry group of unarmed
prisoners. The bodyguards wouldn't be expecting an as-
sault from that quarter.
    It was a chance. Not much of one. The guards were
well armed and it wouldn't take them long to shift their
thinking and their aim. And there was always the Cor-
asians. But a chance, even a slim one, was better than
no chance at all.
    Xris ripped the sleeve from his cybernetic arm, tore
off the fleshfoam, laying bare the metal "bones," the
instruments, the flashing lights. He popped open the
panel on his steel leg. Taking out his weapons hand, he
attached the hand to his wrist. Fortunately, he was so
accustomed to doing this that he could work in the dark.
He felt the hand click into place, made adjustments. A
green light blinked on; the hand was operational.
    Xris looked around. Everyone was set. He could talk
now; the banging would cover his voice.
    "I have my weapons hand attached and ready to use.
At my signal, jump the guard nearest you. Don't worry
about the Corasians: I'll take care of them. When you
take out the guards, grab their weapons. Jamil, whatever
happens, don't let that door shut. Understand?"
 He heard a chorus of affirmatives and one hysterical

hiccup. The banging had ceased for the moment. Harsch
came across clearly now, loudly berating someone. A
computerized voice offered explanations. The voice was
tinny, mechanical, without feeling, and a shiver started
at Xris's tailbone, went up his spine.
    Soon he might be listening to those voices talking
about him, talking over him, as he lay stretched out on
a table while they slit him open and tore out ...
    He shook his head angrily. What was he doing, letting
his imagination run amuck!
    A small body barreled into him, grabbing him by the
knees. Startled, Xris looked down.
    The Little One had hold of Xris's pants legs, was tug-
ging on them emphatically, nearly pulling them off.
    "What the--" Xris was keyed up. "Raoul, what the
devil is wrong with him? Get him off me! Hurry!
They've almost got the door mechanism fixed! They'll
be in here any second) I can't fire with him hanging on
to me)"
    Raoul, chuckling, sauntered over to retrieve his small
friend. "I know that you are fond of Xris Cyborg. We
are all of us fond of him. But this is neither the time
nor the place in which to express yOUrm"
    Raoul stopped talking. He stared at the Little One,
who was clinging to Xris's trousers with one hand, gestic-
ulating with other.
    "Oh! I see!" Raoul cried in delight. "I see! You were
right all along! My friend!" He turned to Xris, who
could have sworn that the Adonian's eyes glowed red in
the darkness, like a cat's. "The Little One says to tell
you that Tess works for Naval Intelligence!"
    "I bloody well know that)" Xris shouted, fuming. The
banging had started again, was accompanied by an omi-
nous-sounding clank, as if a seal had given way. "Get
him off me!"
    "Company coming," Jamil reported from his position
near the door.
    "She's only pretending to work for Naval Intelligence.
She's really working for Harsch!" Xris attempted to pry
the Little One's clutching hands loose.
 Raoul was performing some sort of mad, insane dance,

revolving on his tiptoes, his hands clicking in the air like
castanets. "She's working for NI, working for Harsch,
working for NI!" He made it a little song. "She's been
working for the Naaa-vy!"
    "Good God! He's stoned out of his skull!" Xris
muttered.
    He ripped the Little One's hands loose, shoved the
empath away. The Little One stumbled into Raoul. The
two collided, tumbled onto the deck.
    "And stay there!" Xris ordered. "Keep your fool
heads down or they'll get blown off."
    The Little One made a frantic attempt to regain his
feet, but he tangled with Raoul, who was attempting
drunkenly to accomplish the same task. The two weren't
having much success.
    Xris hurriedly thrust the hand that was no longer a
hand but a rocket launcher into the front of his uniform
jacket. He stood cradling the limb as if ashamed to re-
veal the fact that the arm was missing an appendage.
    The door--little more than a crack in the wall--was
starting to open. A hideous red light welled through.
Heat radiated.
    Jamil was plainly visible now, flattened against the
wall near the door. Sweat beaded on his black skin. He
was peering out the opening. He raised a hand; it was
bathed in red light. One finger--that was Harsch. An-
other finger--probably Tess. Four fingers--the body-
guards. Two more fingers--Corasians.
    The door swung wide. the Corasians rolled inside. The
light and the heat grew brighter and stronger.
    The implications of what the Little One had been say-
ing struck Xris.
     Working for Naval Intelligence, working for Harsch,
working for Naval Intelligence/
 A ... triple agent?
 Was that possible?
    Yes! Something in Xris shouted hopefully, but he ig-
nored the voice, because he refused to listen to the part
of himself that was talking; the emotional, irrational,
damnably romantic part of himself who wanted very

much to believe that Captain Tess Strauss was on his
side.
    Xris didn't trust that part of himself and he didn't
trust her. He couldn't trust her! His life and, more
important, the lives of his people were at stake.
    The door opened wide enough to allow the Corasians
to enter.
    Orange blobs of molten goo encased in plastisteel
bodies that trundled about on wheels. The Corasians
were more repulsive than frightening--that is, unless
you've seen them ooze out of their robot cases, swarm
over a living human being, burn the flesh off the bones,
then start on the bones ....
    The Corasians were followed by Harsch, his four
bodyguards crowding on his heels. Tess entered next.
Xris was supposed to be watching Harsch, watching the
bodyguards, waiting for an opening. But his gaze kept
going to Tess. Could he read the truth in her face?
    Of course not. She was good. Very good. Whichever
side she was on. She refused to make eye contact with
him, had glanced in his direction only very briefly, and
that to make certain she knew where he was and what
he was doing. Her gaze took in everyone else at the
same time. Her face was set in concrete, hard, without
expression. Her eyes were dark as the darkness in the
corridor behind her.
    Xris cursed the Little One, cursed him for putting
doubt in his mind. Xris had been going to kill her; he
could have killed her with a clear conscience, without
regret. Now he wasn't sure ....
    Harsch held a lasgun in his hand. He turned the gun
on Xris. "Where is the robot?"
    Xris shrugged, nursed his maimed arm. "I don't
know."
 "I don't believe you."
    "l don't blame you," Xris said. "l don't much believe
myself. But it's the truth. We don't know where the
robot is."
    "We could help you look," Quong offered politely.
"Where did you see it last?"
 "Did you try under the bed?" Tycho was helpful.

    "You gentlemen are funny." Harsch glanced at each
of them, a slight line marring his smooth forehead. One
side of his mouth twitched, one hand flexed. He was
angry... and scared.
    "Very funny. Unfortunately, my customers don't have
much of a sense of humor. They are growing impatient.
Tess ..." Harsch stepped back. "You know these men.
Handle it."
    Tess raised her lasgun, aimed it at Quong. Her gaze
flicked to Xris. "Tell us where the robot is or your friend
the doctor dies. You have five seconds. I'll count. One."
    Her hand holding the gun was steady, never wavered.
The eyes were empty.
 The Little One was wrong.
 "Two."
    The small rockets mounted on Xris's weapons hand
were of his own invention and design, intended to be
used specifically against'the Corasians. He owned the
patent. He'd sold it to the Navy, made a small fortune.
It was that fortune which had allowed him to put the
team together. With one rocket, he could take out one
Corasiam plus Tess and Harsch.
    But the moment he lifted his cybernetic hand, aimed,
Tess would fire. Quong would be dead. And there would
be nothing Xris could do. "Three."
    That left the foul' bodyguards and one Cotasian. Xris
would take out that Corasian with his second rocket,
and by that time the bodyguards would have recovered
and he would be dead.
 "Four." Tess was frowning, not pleased.
    Quong stood still, stoic. He knew the score. Harry was
balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to hurl his bulky
body at the nearest bodyguard. Jamil was by the door,
the only escape route, for those who survived. Raoul,
giggling, had made it to his feet. He staggered, stumbled,
veered in Harsch's general direction. The Little One's
hands were hidden in the raincoat pockets. Tycho's skin
tone had altered to red,
    "You won't tell me where the robot is?" Tess kept
her gaze fixed on Quong, addressed Xris.

 He needed to make her shift her attention to him.
     "Now!" he yelled loudly, and jerked his weapons hand
out from his coat. He jumped forward. Tess shifted her aim, fired.
    The laser blast burned through the back of Nick
Harsch's skull, exited the front.
 Xris had never seen anyone look so surprised.

CHfl

PT
ql

[R

Do not remain on isolated terrain.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

Harsch died standing on his feet, his mouth gaping
nearly as wide as the hole in the back of his head.
His bodyguards--hearing the sound of the blast--turned
to see what was happening, discovered that their jobs
had just become superfluous. Harsch started to crumble.
"Now!" Xris yelled--again.
    Harry, bellowing like a bull, charged his man, caught
him amidships. The guard's beam rifle flew from his
hands, hit the deck. Tycho was on hand to grab it. He
turned, fired, took out another bodyguard, who was lin-
ing up on Quong.
    The third guard was swinging his rifle around to take
out Xris. He hoped somebody would deal with that,
couldn't take time to do anything himself: A Corasian
was standing directly behind Tess.
    "Strauss!" Xris bellowed over the laser blasts and
whines of the beam rifles and screams of the wounded.
"Down! Get down!"
    Tess dropped face first to the deck, covered her head
with her arms. Xris fired one missile, struck the Corasian
in the robot head. The head exploded, destroying the
computer "brain." That didn't kill the Corasian. Its plas-
tisteel body cracked open; the fiery amoeba form began
to crawl out, oozed toward Tess's feet.
 Xris dashed forward. "Die, damn you, die!" He swore

helplessly at the Corasian. Laser blasts didn't affect the
aliens. They appeared to thrive on the energy. Xris's mis-
sile used a negative charge that drained the alien, negated
the energy. This time he'd failed, obviously. The lavalike
blob was almost on Tess, was creeping up to her booted
foot. She kept her head down, couldn't see the danger.
    Xris had watched the Cotasians kill humans before,
had seen them devour the living flesh in flame. He would
have to fire again, although that left him only four mis-
siles and they still had a long way to go. He took aim.
    The Corasian's red-orange glow began to dim. It contin-
ued to move, but more slowly. The blob began to blacken.
    Xris reached Tess. He grabbed her roughly by the
shoulder, dragged her behind him, put his body between
her and the dying Corasiam Tess's head jerked up, star-
tled. She saw the Corasiam sucked in a breath, and
scrambled the rest of the way on her hands and knees.
  "Xris!" JamiFs voice, urgent, warning.
    Xris swiveled. Corasians, being each single units of
one gigantic collective brain, had the ability to communi-
cate with each other instantly. The second Corasian had
apparently alerted central control. The door was sliding
shut. And once it shut, there was no way to open it from
the inside.
    Jamil stood in the doorway, prepared to use his body
to try to keep the door open. Unfortunately, the metal
door was heavy, massive. Jamil wouldn't be a doorstop
very long. He'd be jelly.
    Xris fired a second missile at the remaining Corasian.
His aim was low; he hit it square in the massive body.
The missile exploded on impact, but only cracked the
plastisteel case.
    Tess was on her feet at his side. She fired her lasgun.
The Corasian's head blew up. The lavalike larva inside the
case was still alive, but one of the shots had damaged the
case, destroyed the mechanism which allowed the case to
open, For the moment, the Corasian was trapped.
    And so were Xris and Tess. Laser fire flashed'in front
of them, lighting up the dark room. The two surviving
bodyguards were using the dead Corasian's broken case
for cover, trading shots with Quong, crouched behind a

girder, and Tycho, lying fiat on the deck. The chameleon
was so excessively thin that he was a difficult target, as
long as he kept his head down. It looked to be a stale-
mate. Xris didn't have time for stalemates.
    Harry had added his weight to the fight with the
door--he was wedged in tight--and, for the moment,
the door was holding. Jamil had disappeared; presum-
ably he'd gone out the door into the corridor. Outside,
the red glow was steadily brightening. More Corasians.
 Xris was suddenly very tired.
    Why fight it'? he asked himself. It would be a whole
lot easier on everyone concerned if we just gave up
right now.
    Tess tugged on his sleeve. Leaning close, she shouted,
"The spaceplane! The PRRS! It's in the docking bay at
the end of this corridor!"
 He eyed her grimly. "You really work for the Navy'?"
    "1 really do." She smiled. "You want to see my pen-
sion plan'?"
     "1 just want to see you live to collect it. The rest of
us included. You say that the plane's nearby?"
 "Not one hundred meters away."
 "You had this all arranged?"
    She shook her head. "Not really. I'm making it up as
I go along."
    "Great!" Xris grunted. "Well, you haven't done bad
so far. When this is over, remind me to kiss you."
    "It's a deal." Tess peered out through the smoke and
laser flashes. "My plan only works if we make it to the
door. How do we get rid of these two'? It looks like
they're figuring on settling down here."
    Xris readjusted his weapons hand to fire a laser. "I'm
going to try to circle around behind them. You keep
them busy."
 "No, Xris!" Tess said. "They'll--"
    The moment Xris moved, one of the bodyguards
looked that direction, shifted his aim, fired.
    Xris went down flat, hugging the deck, Tess at his side.
The blast took out a chunk of bulkhead behind them.
 "--spot you," Tess finished. "The light reflects off the

metal on your arm! To say nothing of those flashing
doodads. What about one of those Corasian-killing mis-
siles of yours?"
    "I have three left. We're going to need them once
we're out of there."
    Another blast burst over them. Tess scrunched down.
"Times like this, I wish I was flat-chested!" She shook
her head. "Look, Xris, if we don't make it out of here
alive, we won't need those three missiles!"
    Xris conceded she had a point. He aimed, was just
about to fire when a smothered giggle and a hand on
his shoulder interrupted him.
    "Excuse me, friend Xris. Don't shoot." Raoul, crawl-
ing on his hands and knees, was pointing at something
in the semidarkness. "BUt would you look at that? Did
you ever see anything so silly? He's going to get himself
killed!" Tears of mirth rolled down the Loti's cheeks.
    Xris looked. The Little One, raincoat flapping around
his ankles, had done what Xris was going to do, had
circled around behind the two remaining bodyguards.
The Little One was visible only intermittently, small
body showing up vividly when the laser light flashed,
vanishing into the darkness when the light died.
    "What the hell--" Tess began. "He's not even
armed." She started to get up.
    "Wait!" Xris caught hold of her arm, pulled her back
down. He yelled, hoped the comm would pick up his
command. "Tycho! Quong! Fire high! Aim for the
ceiling!"
    The Little One took up a position directly behind one
of the bodyguards. The small figure reached his hand
into a pocket of the raincoat, pulled out what appeared
to be a stick. He clapped the stick to his mouth.
    The bodyguard, intent on his battle, probably never
felt a thing. Or, if he did, he might have thought it was
a sliver of flying metal from a ricochet burst.
  It wasn't. The bodyguard suddenly ceased firing.
    In the next flash of light, Xris could see the man
slumped over his gun.
    The Little One moved on, creeping up behind the sec-
ond bodyguard. Quong and Tycho were keeping the

guard busy, though he must have been wondering what
had happened to their aim, for the laser blasts were now
bursting on the overhea& raining down showers of
sparks.
    The Little One made the same motion--hand to
mouth--with the same result. The guard lurched for-
ward, head first, toppled over in a heap.
 "What--" Tess was mystified.
 "Blowgun. Poisoned darts. Come on!"
    Xris jumped to his feet, helped Tess to hers. He took
a moment to assess the situation. The only light re-
maining in the meat locker now was coming from the
trapped Corasian, crawling all over the inside of its ro-
botic case. By the red glow, he could see Harry wedged
in the door opening, Jamil standing outside, keeping
watch on another red glow that was growing in intensity.
Tycho and Quong were up and heading for the door.
Xris started in that direction, remembered.
    He turned, reached down, snagged a handful of Raoul,
hoisted the Loti to his feet.
 "Can you walk?" Xris demanded.
"No," said Raoul in a lilting voice. "But I can dance."
"Great! Waltz over to the door! Make it fast or you're
going to be an appetizer." He shoved Raoul, staggering,
m the general direction of the door, waved at the Little
One, who was already scurrying back to retrieve his
friend.
    "Ah!" cried Raoul, and made a dive for something
lying on the deck. "My handbag!"
    He slung the strap of a dampener rifle over his
shoulder.
    Having seen Raoul in action on a firing range, Xris's
first thought was to take the gun away. His second--that
this would entail a fight. Raoul was very possessive of
his purse. Xris let it be.
    He joined the rest of the team, gathered around Harry
and the door.
 "Here's the plan," Xris said.
 "We have a plan?" Quong was impressed.
    "The PRRS is down the corridor, to the left." Xris
looked to Tess for confirmation. She nodded. "About

 one hundred meters away. When we get out of here, the
 rest of you make a run for it." He flourished his weapons
 hand. "I'll take care of the rear. Okay, Harry, you can
 move."
     "Uh, that's gonna be a problem, Xris," Harry said, his
 face glistening with sweat and extremely red. "I'm
 stuck."
  "Stuck!" Xris swore.
     "Could you hurry, Xris?" Harry continued plaintively.
 "It's kinda hard for me to breathe."
     "They're coming, Xris!" Jamil reported from outside
 in the corridor. "Corasians! I can count ... four, five ...
 maybe more after that."
     "You can bet there'll be more after that," Xris mut-
 tered under his breath. "Did you find the controls for
 the door?"
  "Yeah. No luck. I think the door's jammed."
     Xris put his cybernetic foot against the metal hydraulic
 door and shoved.
     The door was heavy and it wasn't moving. Harry
 panted and gasped. A burst of laser fire lit the corridor
 outside. The range was short, but closing rapidly.
 "Hand me one of those dampeners!" Jamil called.
 Quong passed his through the opening, above Harry's
 head. Jamil grabbed it, twisted aroilnd, opened fire. He
 wasn't aiming at the Corasians, he was aiming at the
 supports of a large piece of metal ductwork on. the
 ceiling.
     Xris braced his back against the wall, planted his foot
 against the door, and, drawing on all his reserves, bat-
 tery-powered and flesh and blood, he shoved." The door
 held a moment, then gave way, sliding on its track so
 suddenly that Xris landed on his back.
     Harry, with a groan, staggered out the door. Quong
 caught him, supported him. Tycho dove through, gun
 blasting, kept Jamil covered. He blasted away at the
 ductwork.
      The ductwork sagged, dropped at one' end. Another
few rounds, and it fell, crashing to the deck, blocking
 the corridor between them and the Corasians. Xris re-
 gained his feet.

    "Go! Go!" he shouted. "I've got the Little One!" He
scooped the erapath up under his right arm. "Follow
Tess!"
    Tess ran for the end of the corridor, yelling and flash-
ing her nuke lamp so that they could see her in the
darkness. Harry waved off Quong's assistance and broke
into a run. Quong grabbed hold of Raoul, who was doing
the tango, and hauled him along. Tycho and Jamil fired
one more burst each, then they took off, racing toward
the docking bay.
    The Corasians were momentarily halted by the fallen
duct, but their robotic arms were already grappling with
it, shoving it aside. Xris fired one of his special missiles
into their ranks. He heard it explode, didn't wait around
to see the results. The red glow grew appreciably dim-
mer, however.
    He dashed down the corridor. The Corasians fired
after him, but they appeared more intent on removing
the ductwork. Xris hung on to the Little One, who was
clutching his fedora with both hands, and followed the
gleam of Tess's nuke lamp. The rest of the group had
disappeared inside the docking bay, were probably al-
ready climbing aboard the PRRS.
    "By God," Xris said to himself, "we might just actu-
ally make it!"
    He hurtled through the docking bay door, ran head-
long into the rest of the team, who were bunched up
together in the opening.
    "What's going on?" he demanded. "Why the hell
aren't you on board?"
 "On board what?" Tycho's translator screeched.
 "There's nothing here, Xris," Harry said.
 "She lied." Jamil was grim.
    "And we are nicely caught in a cul-de-sac," Quong
added.
    "I want you all to know that I am not the least bit
amused. I don't find this at all funny!" Raoul burst into
noisy, gulping sobs.
    Xris activated the nuke lamp on his arm, flashed it
around the docking bay.
 Empty. Not a spaceplane in sight.

CHfiPT[R

Make strategic plans for encircled terrain.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

Xris dropped the Little One.
   "Tycho. You and Jamil cover the door."
    Behind him, he could hear the ductwork barricade
scraping across the deck. Xris grabbed the nuke lamp
from Tess's unresisting hand, shone the light full on her.
    "I swear, Xris! I swear--the PRRS was here! It should
still be here! I left Jeffrey Grant on board and--" Tess
stopped, put her hand over her mouth. Her eyes grew
wide. "Oh, dear God! Grant! He stole the plane!"
    "Again?" Harry shook his head. "That man's a
menace."
 "Xris, they're coming!" Jamil shouted.
    Xris shut off the glaring white light,'tried to think.
There had to be another way ....
    "Harsch's plane," he said. "He had a plane, didn't he?
He didn't walk on board."
    "Yes!" Tess clutched at him, nearly knocking him off
balance. "Yes! Harsch flew here in a Scimitar! I know
where--a level above! There's an access from here, the
maintenance door!"
    Xris switched on the nuke lamp, flashed it around,
shone it on a crude lift.
  "We can use that!" Tess said. "Come on--"
 She started off.
 Xris stopped her. "Why the devil should I trust you?"

    "No reason," Tess answered softly. "None at all. Ex-
cept..."
    She didn't finish, looked back out the door where
Jamil and Tycho crouched, firing down the corridor.
    Except--Xris filled in the blank--you don't have a
whole hell of a lot of choice.
He started to give the command to move out.
Something large and metal clunked on the deck.
"Take cover!" Xris roared. He threw Tess away from
him, literally picking her up and tossing her as far as he
could before he hit the deck.
    The explosion was brilliant, blinding, deafening,
numbing. It lifted him up off the deck, slammed him
down again hard. Shrapnel flew through the air. A thin,
piercing scream tore into his head, hurt worse than the
bits of metal slicing through his flesh.
    And then everything was dark and silent, except for
a terrible bubbling sound and, from somewhere else, a
groan.
    Xris shook off the concussive force of the blast,
heaved himself to his feet. A stabbing beam of light
aimed at nothing in particular. The nuke lamp Tess had
been holding lay on the deck a few centimeters from
Xris's hand. He bent over to pick it up, nearly passed
out. He staggered, steadied himself, tried again.
    Retrieving the light, he flashed it around, searching
for Tess. He found her. She was on her hands and knees,
shaking her head muzzily. But she was alive. He contin-
ued searching. The bubbling sound had ceased. The
groaning continued. And out in the corridor, the red
glow pulsed brightly.
    Xris stood in the door to the docking bay, aimed at
the glow, fired another missile. One left.
    The missile hit one of the Corasians standing in the
center of the group. Perhaps that Corasian had been
carrying more grenades, because the resulting blast was
far greater than it should have been. The red glow flick-
ered and died. The corridor was dark.
    But there were more Corasians. Once they found out
that people were still alive down here, there would be
lots more.

    "Report in!" Xris gasped. He licked his lips and tasted
blood. He could still hear, in his memory, that shrill
scream. "Who's hurt?"
  "Xris! Bring the light! Over here!"
    Xris picked his way through the debris left by the
explosion. He found Jamii lying propped up against the
bulkhead, one leg stretched out in front of him, a pool of
blood beneath. Xris played the light on his friend's face.
  "You okay?"
    Jamil's face glistened; he nodded, said, "Not me, Xris.
Not me." His eyes shifted.
    Xris followed with the light. "Bloody hell!" he whis-
pered. "Damn it all to bloody hell."
    He crouched down, reached for Tycho's wrist, but he
knew he'd feel nothing. Not with a wound like that. He
held on to Tycho's thin-fingered hand--about the only
part of Tycho that was intact--and yelled savagely,
"Doc!"
    He heard a crash, a curse, and Bill Quong's cool voice.
"Hold the light so that I can see, my friend. I will do
you no good stumbling around blind."
     Xris held the light, not sorry to move it from the
bloody mass that was all that was left of Tycho.
  "You hurt bad?" Xris asked Jamil.
    "Shrapnel tore through my leg. I won't be running the
marathon anytime soon, but I can walk. You?"
    Xris looked down. The sleeve covering his good arm
was torn and bloody. He couldn't feel anything, for the
moment.
 "I'm okay. If we have company, keep them occupied."
     Grunting, Jamil twisted around to lie~at on his belly,
the dampener rifle held in front of him. "It was a grenade," he said.
    "Yeah," Xris responded, holding the light steady. He
could see Quong moving about in the darkness, could
see Tess pausing beside Raoul. "We were lucky. What-
ever that machine is over there contained most of the
blast."
    "Tycho wasn't lucky," Jamil said. "Strauss led us in
here. She led us into a trap."
 "I keep hearing voices," Raoul was saying queru-

Iously. "Someone's talking inside my head. And this
small and unknown personage in a raincoat keeps hug-
ging me." He paused a moment, then demanded loudly,
"Where am I? What am I doing here? Why can't I re-
member my name?"
    "Amnesia," Quong said, making his way to Xris. "He
was hit in the head. We can only hope it is temporary."
    Xris sighed inwardly. Raoul's mind was like a butterfly
net at the best of times. Now the net was cut and the
butterflies were fluttering about loose. God only knew
where they'd land.
    Quong took the nuke lamp from Xris's hand, played
the beam over Tycho's body, shook his head. "There is
nothing I can do, Xris. Our friend never knew what hit
him. The blast caught him from behind, as you can see."
    No, Xris couldn't. There wasn't enough of Tycho left
to tell his front from his back.
    "Thanks, Doc. Do what you can for Jamil. And where
the devil's Harry?"
 "Here, Xris," came Harry's aggrieved voice.
 "You hurt?"
    "1 got hit in the ass. It feels like I'm on fire back
there!"
    "Just as long as it doesn't interrupt your mental
processes."
    "No, Xris," Harry returned. "I said I got hit in the
ass."
    "That's what I meant. Doc, how's Jamil? Can he
walk?"
    "The calf muscle is torn. He has lost a lot of blood,
will be in considerable pain, and he will need assistance.
If I had my med kit--"
    "If you had your med kit, we'd be on the PRRS and
Tycho wouldn't be dead and we wouldn't be trapped
like rats on this motherfu--" Xris stopped, sucked in a
deep breath. Reaching into his pocket for a twist, he
noticed his hand was shaking. He pulled himself to-
gether, thrust the twist into his mouth. "Sorry, folks.
Jamil, you see anything?"
 "Red light. Getting brighter."
 "They've figured out we're still alive and kicking.

Most of us, anyway. Harry, you help Jamil. Get him up
and mobile."
    "Who are you people?" That was Raoul, irritable.
"Why have you brought me to this awful place? And
why don't any of you know who I am?"
    "Quong, calm Raoul down. See if he's got something
in his purse that will tranquilize him--"
    "Drugs!" Raoul's voice was shrill. "Are you mad? My
body is a temple."
    Xris continued, ignored the outburst. "We've found a
way off this ship. Harsch flew here in a Scimitar. We'll
use it to escape. Tess knows the way. We'll follow her."
 They stared at him; all of them, staring at him.
    "I know the way," Tess said, her voice strained. "I
think we can make it."
 No one spoke. No one moved.
     "I'm going with Tess," Xris said. "The rest of you can
come with us or you can stay here. It's that simple."
  Harry helped Jamil to his feet.
    Jamil draped one arm over Harry's broad shoulders,
pulled himself upright. He tried putting his injured left
leg to the deck, grimaced and grunted.
    "This way." Tess held the nuke lamp, led them deeper
into the darkness of the docking bay.
    Harry and Jamil both glanced at Xris as they passed
him.
    "Tycho had it easy," Jamil muttered out of the corner
of his mouth.
 Xris didn't answer.
    Quong and the Little One--his fedora had been
crushed, but he appeared otherwise uninjured--were at-
tempting to get Raoul up and moving and not having
much success. "My head aches. My feet hurt. I'm sleepy.
I don't want to go anywhere."
  "Tell him he's in a shopping mall," Xris said.
    "Shopping?" Raoul perked up. "But what happened
to the lights?"
    That brought him to his feet and following after
Quong. The Little One trailed along behind, shaking his
battered hat and wringing his small hands.
  Xris stood alone in the darkness next to Tycho. He

knelt beside the body, which was rapidly cooling, fast
disappearing from Xris's infrared sight. Xris lifted the
limp, dead hand.
    He tried to talk, paused, cleared his throat, started
over. "I'm sorry, my friend. I'm sorry."
    He let the unresponsive hand fall. Standing up, Xris
went after the others.

IHn

PT
q3

[H

On fatal terrain you must do battle.

Sun-tzu, The Art of War

Xis found them gathered around a large metal plate
et into the deck. Tess located a control panel on the
wall, opened it, tapped the controls. The metal plate
shivered and then, with a screech and a whoosh of air,
began to rise up out of the deck.
    "By the Maker!" Quong breathed. "Pneumatic! A
pneulfiatic lift!"
    Corasians, with their wheeled, plastistee! bodies,
weren't capable of climbing ladders. The docking bay
was probably filled with these lifts, which carried the
robots to the catwalks far above the deck.
    "There's an access door up above," Tess explained.
"It leads to the docking bay on the third level, which is
where Harsch landed his spaceplane." She brought the
lift to a shuddering halt. "Hop on."
    "Ladies lingerie, please," Raoul said politely, stepping
daintily onto the lift. He had a brief struggle with the
dampener, which was heavy and awkward. He managed
to adjust it and was heard to mutter, "I can't think why
I chose this style handbag."
    Ouong lifted the Little One to join his friend. Harry
assisted Jamil onto the lift, stood beside him. There was
room for one more.
    "I'11 operate the controls," Tess said. "You get on,
Xris."

 "I'll wait here with you," he answered.
    "Look, Xris, I can understand why you don't trust
me--"
    "We got company coming." He interrupted her, then
switched on the light on his weapons arm, shone it onto
the control panel. "1 have one missile left. Give the nuke
lamp to Quong, I've got light. Start this thing up."
    Tess said nothing more, started the lift moving. It took
its own sweet time and made a horrendous noise in the
process. The people standing on it shook and shuddered
from the vibrations.
    Xris shifted his gaze to the corridor outside the dock-
ing bay. The red glow was again growing bright.
    The lift came to a halt, must have been designed to
do so automatically when it reached the right level. Xris,
peering upward, could see Quong hustling everyone off
the lift and onto one of the catwalks. He flashed the
light.
 "All clear!" came the shout.
    "Good," Xris said over the comm. "Keep quiet. If
Raoul peeps, slug him."
    Tess hit the controls and the lift, with a screech,
started back down.
    She glanced over her shoulder. "They're getting
closer."
    "Yeah." Xris said, chewing on ihe remnants of the
twist. "Tycho'11 stop them for a time. They like to feed
whenever they get the chance. And they don't figure
we're going anywhere." He spit the wad on the deck.
"One question. Where's the robot?"
    Tess's face, in the harsh glare of the nuke lamp, was
dead white. Her eyes were moist, glistened. She gave a
helpless shrug. "I don't know. I told Grant to hide,
showed him a place .... He must have hidden the robot,
too. I didn't mean for him-- I never supposed-- the
robot was so heavy ..."
 "Bottom line: The Corasians don't have it."
    "No. And it would be better if they did. You see,
Xris, before I left the plane I--"
 "Skip the confession," Xris said. "I'm not a priest."
 Tess managed a half smile, shook her head.

    The lift was nearly level with them now. As the lift
came flush with the floor, it ground to a halt, paused for
a moment, then began to rise. Tess and Xris climbed
onto it. The lift lurched upward, moving in fits and starts.
The platform jounced and creaked.
    "This is one of the few times I could wish that the
Corasians had made a few more technological ad-
vances." Xris looked over the edge of the lift, saw the
red glow had come to a halt, was clustered around some-
thing in the doorway. The smell of burning flesh was
strong, pungent.
    Tess gave a little gasp, covered her mouth and nose
with her hand.
 "Don't look," Xris said, and put his arm around her.
    She closed her eyes, sagged against him. "I'm sorry. I
should be used to this. I've seen it before."
    "So have I," Xris said. "And it doesn't get any
easier."
    He tried to follow his own advice, tried to look away,
but he couldn't. He watched the red globs swarm over
Tycho until the rim of the platform blocked them from
his view.
    The lift reached the catwalk. Ouong was there to help
them off. "They got Tycho."
 "I know. Hand me that dampener."
    Taking the rifle from Ouong, Xris leaned over the
catwalk and fired a blast at the lift's controls. The panel
blew off. That lift wouldn't be going anywhere anytime
soon.
 Xris glanced around. "Where is everyone?"
    "Jamil and Harry went to check out the access door.
It's at the end of the catwalk to your left. I sent Raoul
with them. He's looking for a different handbag, one to
match his shoes."
 Xris took out another twist. "The Little One?"
 "Keeping Raoul from falling off the catwalk."
    Xris nodded. Tess went ahead, to join Harry and Jamil
at the door. Xris and Quong followed, gathering up
Raoul on the way.
 "I can't find the handbags," he complained.
  "Of course not," Xris said. "You're in men's wear."

    Raoul shuddered. "Three-piece polyester suits. How
ghastly."
    The red glow below them was intensifying. A laser
blast burst on the catwalk beneath their feet. Xris and
Quong increased their speed, hustling Raoul along at a
rapid pace. The Little One trotted along behind.
    "Let's open the door, gentlemen," Xris said briskly,
coming to a halt at the end of the catwalk. "It's going
to be getting warm in here."
    Another blast--this time closer. The Corasians were
improving their aim.
    "Right," Harry said. "We wanted to wait for everyone
to arrive, in case there was an escort waiting."
    "Can't hear anything," reported Jamil, standing on
one leg, propped up against the bulkhead, gun ready.
"But that doesn't mean much. This door must be at least
fifteen centimeters thick. By the way, these dampener
rifles need to be recharged after about fifty rounds. So
don't waste your aremo."
    Xris held up his weapons hand. "I've got one missile
left. Open the door and stand back."
 Tess hit the controls. The door rumbled open slowly.
 No red glow. Xris cautiously peered out.
    Darkness. He looked, saw nothing; listened, heard
nothing. All very strange. The Corasians down below
must be in contact with their fellow blobs, must have
told them their dinner was walking out the back.
    Quong remarked, "I have prayed to the Maker. Per-
haps this is the response."
    Xris motioned for Tess to join him. "Where's the
plane from here?"
    "The corridor runs in front of us for about twenty
meters, then another branches off to the right. The
plane's in the docking bay at the end, about another
thirty meters." She looked around, uneasy. "This is
weird. Where are they?"
     "Angels took care of 'em, according to Doc. Watch
out for locusts and falling frogs." "Huh?" Tess stared at him.
 Xris turned back to the group. "I'll take point. Tess,

you're with me. Harry, you and Jamil come after. Little
One, you're in charge of Raoul."
    The Little One nodded. Xris wasn't certain if the em-
path was reacting to his words of his thoughts, supposed
it didn't matter. The Little One reached out a small
hand, grabbed hold of Raoul's hand, and clung tightly.
    "We're looking for accessories," Raoul said in a low
voice.
    "Quong, you bring up the rear. Keep your eyes and
ears open," Xris counseled, added grimly. "This is all
nmch too easy."
    They made their way down the corridor. Xris switched
on his light. Tess had retrieved her nuke lamp, flashed
it continually along the bulkheads and the deck in front
of them. Harry and Jamil came behind, Jamil hobbling,
stifling his groans every time the foot of his injured leg
touched the deck.
    Tugged along by his small friend, Raoul complained
that this was a very strange shopping mall and wondered
in a loud voice that set everyone's teeth on edge why
nobody would turn on the lights. Quong brought up the
rear, dampener ready.
    They reached the intersection of the corridor, halted,
flattened themselves against the walls. Xris peered
around the corner.
 More darkness, thick, impenetrable, blessed.
    He and Tess aimed the beams of the nuke lights down
the corridor, and there was the docking bay, its doors
wide open.
 Xris shook his head. "This stinks."
    "You are a man of little faith, my friend," Quong said
over his shoulder. The Doc was guarding the rear, facing
back the way they'd come. "Take the gift the Maker
gives you. Proceed forward with confidence."
    Xris proceeded forward, though not with much confi-
dence. His augmented hearing was picking up strange
sounds. He tried to place them. Hums, whirs, and occa-
sionally a creak or a squeal.
  "You hear anything?" he asked Tess.
  She shook her head. "No. Nothing. You?"

    "Yeah. If I closed my eyes, I'd swear that we were
surroun--"
    Xris knew. He saw--or didn't see--the trap into which
they were blithely walking.
    "Shields! Opaque shields!" he shouted. "Get back!"
He raised his arm, aimed the missile--
    The laser blast caught him in the left shoulder, spun
him around, slammed him to the deck.
    Tess dropped the nuke lamp, crouched down beside
him. Raising her lasgun, she returned fire. "Doc!" she
yelled.
    Laser blasts burst in the corridor. Sparks showered
down around them.
"Ah," said Raoul, enchanted. "The toy department."
The Little One dragged his friend down to the deck.
Harry and Jamil found cover ill doorways, were both
firing. Quong ran forward, knelt down beside Xris. "Pick
up that lamp," he ordered Tess. "Shine it here, on his
shoulder."
    "You gotta work on those prayers, Doc!" Xris
grunted, as Quong's fingers poked and prodded.
    "It was your crack about frogs that did it." Quong
peeled off Xris's smoldering uniform. HarI3, and Jamil
were keeping up covering fire. "You were hit in the
steel-reinforced part of you, my friend. That is very
good news."
    "Very bad news," Xris said bitterly, sitting up, with
Tess's help. He pointed to his cybernetic arm, at the
weapons hand, which hung at his side, dead weight, use-
less. "What am I supposed to do? Throw the damn mis-
sile at them?"
    Laser light streaked past them, exploded on the panel
above their heads. Tess flung her arms around Xris,
shielding him. Quong stood up, heedless of his own
safety, poured murderous fire in the general direction of
the shot. He continued firing until his gun went dead.
He threw it away, crouched back down.
    Jamil and Harry were concentrating their fire in the
same place. A pop and a clatter and a small flash of
light came from the end of the corridor.
 "1 think we got one," Harry reported.

 A laser blast nearly took off his head.
    "Or maybe not." Harry ducked back into the
doorway.
    Xris looked at Tess, who was lying on top of him.
"You just can't keep your hands off me, can you?" he
asked.
    Tess sat up, shoved her hair out of her face, tried to
look as ff she'd done nothing special.
    "It's your fatal charm." She glanced down the corri-
dor. "Speaking of fatal, their aim is rotten today. We
should all be dead about now."
    "The shields that keep us from seeing them are proba-
bly also keeping them from seeing us," Quong main-
tained. "Disrupting their sensors. You see, my prayers
may have been answered, after all."
    He was back down beside Xris, inspecting the damage.
"Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about the arm.
The connections between the arm and your brain have
been fried."
 "But the weapons hand itself is okay?" Tess asked.
 "It appears to be, yes."
 "Can the missile be fired manually?"
 "If Doe takes my hand off," said Xris.
    "Detach the hand," she said crisply, "and show me
how it works."
 Quong looked questioningly at Xris, who nodded.
    "Gb ahead, Doe." He managed a smile. "I'd give my
left arm to get rid of these bastards."
    "I count two of them, Xris!" Jamil yelled. "One to
the left of the door and one to the right. My gun's run
out of juice." He threw the useless dampener to the
deck.
    "Mine, too," Harry reported. "I'm switching to the
beam rifle."
    Quong took hold of Xris's arm, gave it a twist. The
limb came off. Tess took hold of it.
    "I can't see!" she complained. "Where's the firing
mechanism?"
  "You can feel it here, inside the wrist, a small bump."
  "I think so." She sounded dubious.

    "Don't push on it!" Quong cautioned. "Until you
are ready."
    Tess nodded. She aimed the arm like a rifle and fired,
hit the Corasian on the right. Its opaque shield cracked
open. The red glow lit up its companion.
    Harry concentrated fire from the beam rifle on their
new target. One hit split open the Corasian's .side, a
second burst blew the hole wide open. The fiery ooze
began to crawl out.
    Tess shouted at him, "Don't shoot laser energy at the
blob! They feed off it! I don't have any more missiles!"
    Raoul and the Little One lay on the deck in the mid-
dle of the corridor. Raoul kept lifting his head; the Little
One kept shoving it back down. Xris, looking back at
them, recalled the dampener on Raoul's back.
    "Harry!" Xris shouted, and aimed the nuke lamp
that direction.
    Harry saw the dampener. He made a flying leap, did
a belly flop practically on top of Raoul, who shrieked in
alarm and hid his face in his hands.
    Harry yanked the weapon from Raoul's arm, nearly
dislocating the Adonian's shoulder. Flipping over on his
back, Harry fired. The weapon's projectile embedded in
the center of the glowing mass, exploded. The glow
began to fade.
    Xris aimed the nuke lamp down the corridor, could
find no sign of Corasians.
    Raoul's voice broke the stillness. "You beast! Give
me back my handbag!"
 ú "What handbag?" Harry was baffled.
    "This!" Raoul tried to wrest the dampener from Har-
ry's hand.
    Harry stopped him. "Let me keep it awhile. Okay?
I'll give it back. I promise. And why don't you let me
go first."
    Raoul sniffed. "Keep it, then. I never could find any-
thing in it anyway."
    Harry walked ahead, dampener at the ready. The rest
followed; Quong helped Jamil. Tess and Xris brought up
the rear.
 "What about your arm?" she said.

    It lay on the deck. There was something pathetic
about it. Xris was reminded of the robot with the sad
eyes. We give this metal life. Are we the ones who
endow it with spirit, as well? Or do we truly understand
the definition of "life"?
    "Leave it!" he ordered her, as she bent to pick it up.
"The Doc'11 make me a new one."
    They followed the others. The corridor opened up
onto a large hangar deck. And there, inside--a long-
range Scimitar.
    "Harry, give me the dampener," Xris instructed. "You
go get this thing fired up. Tess, you guard the door."
    The long-range Scimitar--shaped like the blade for
which it was named--was a fighter spaceplane, smaller
than the PRRS and much faster.
    Harry climbed the ladder leading to the top, opened
the hatch. He disappeared inside.
    Xris scanned the area for the telltale glow of Cor-
asians. Above him, at the far end of the hanger, he could
see faint light.
 Xris turned. "Hurry up! They're coming!"
    Jamik hopping on one foot, leaning on Quong, en-
tered the hanger. He looked up at the ladder leading to
the Scimitar's hatch and grunted.
 "Sorry," said Xris, "but it's the only way."
    "Yeah, I know." Jamil paused a moment, drew in a
breath, then began to climb.
    Quong was right behind him, helping and offering en-
couragement. "That is correct. Balance the weight on
the uninjured leg. I am here behind you. Don't worry
about slipping. Don't think of the pain. Tuck it away in
a small recess in your mind."
    "Doc," Jamil said, pausing, gasping in agony. He
pressed against the side of the Scimitar. "Shut up."
    "That is very good)" said Quong, approving. "Take
your feelings of hostility out on me."
    "What's up there?" Raoul asked suspiciously, halting
at the bottom of the ladder.
    "A car&" said Xris. "Meant to look like a space-
plane."

    "How quaint," Raoul commented, and climbed the
ladder after Quong.
    The Little One glanced up, shook his head, heaved a
sigh, and ascended the ladder, considerably hampered in
this endeavor by the raincoat.
 Tess stood at the door, lasgun in hand.
 "More coming down the corridor, Xris," she reported.
 "Fall back)" he ordered her. "Come on)"
    She didn't need a second command. Running to the
ladder, she halted beside him, her lasgun in one hand,
Xris's arm in the other. "Up," he said.
    Corasians trundled overhead on the catwalks above
the Scimitar. Xris could hear the creak of wheels, the
whir of the motors in the swiveling heads, lining up
the lasguns.
    He fired off a round with the dampener, more to force
them to keep their distance than because he hoped to
hit anything.
 "Get a move on)" he called.
    Jami! collapsed, almost fell down the ladder. Quong
hung on to him, bellowed for help. Harry popped out of
the hatch. Between Harry and Quong, they pulled and
dropped Jamil inside the Scimitar.
    "Live entertainment," Raoul remarked, and dropped
down inside the hatch.
Hands reached up to catch hold of the Little One.
"You're next," Xris said to Tess. "I'll cover you."
"Wrong," Tess returned. She plucked the dampener
from his hand. "You're a civilian, and wounded at that."
She jerked her head. "Get your ass up that ladder,
mister."
    Turning, she fired the dampener. Her aim was much
better than Xris's could have ever been, even if he'd had
six good arms. She hit one Corasian; it spun out of con-
trol and tumbled off the catwalk.
    Xris climbed the ladder awkwardly; it was a difficult
task with only one hand, but he made it.
    "Tess!" he yelled, afraid for a moment that she was
going to try to square things by getting herself killed.

    She slung the dampener over her shoulder, scrambled
up the ladder. Xris waited.
 "Go!" She motioned him.
    Laser fire struck the Scimitar. Xris jumped down into
the hatch. Tess tumbled after him amid a shower of
sparks. He caught her, held her a brief moment, long
enough for a smile between them.
Xris started to move forward, heading for the cockpit.
Tess stopped him, gently pushing him down into a seat
in the passenger area. "There's nothing you can do. You
need attention, and the Doc can't give it to you unless
you sit still. Face it, dear. You're useless without your
arm and with half your systems shorting out."
    "I'm a control freak," he said. "Don't worry. I won't
get in the way."
    "You're hopeless." Tess gave him a swift kiss on the
cheek, then hurried to the cockpit. By the sounds of it,
Harry already had the computer convinced that he was
today's pilot, and had taken over the controls manually.
The engines wound up. Tess sat down in the copilot seat.
Xris propped himself up behind her.
    Jamil lay unconscious in a hammock. Quong rum-
maged through the spaceplane's medical supplies.
Raoul glared at him. "Waiter!" he finally called.
Xris, Harry, and Tess stared out the spaceplane's
viewscreen into a solid steel wall. The hanger bay doors
were shut and the Corasians probably meant for them
to stay that way.
 "So, any ideas?" Tess asked.
    Harry stared at the controls. "It appears friend Harsch
had some modifications made to this Scimitar. Watch
this!"
    Harry depressed a button on the console. Four plasma
cannons on each wing blazed. The light was blinding.
All of them were forced to shield their eyes.
 "Hang on!" Harry shouted. "This is gonna be wild!"
 Xris grabbed hold of the ladder.
 "Doors gone?"
 "Dunno!" Harry returned. "I can't see!"
    The spaceplane lurched, bucked, and suddenly shot
forward. Xris, his eyes shut against the glaring, painful

light, could only hope that this ride wasn't going to be
really short.
    The light vanished. The plane did not smack into a
solid steel wall. Xris opened his eyes, pulled himself back
to a standing position.
"My God!" Tess whispered. "That was ... amazing."
The spaceplane, surrounded by millions of tiny pieces
of metal, hurtled away from the Corasian ship. The can-
nons had breached the hull doors, and the pressure of
the atmosphere did the rest, blasting the plane and all
of the contents of the hangar out into space.
  "We ain't out of this yet," Harry muttered.
    He swung the plane around and began to program the
Jump computer.
  And then everything came to a halt.
"What the hell?" Xris clutched the seat for support.
"Tractor beam. Damn it! I thought the blast would
throw us clear. I can't break loose!" Harry looked over
his shoulder at Xris. "I think they got us this time."
    "Then they can have us," Xris said. "I'm' too tired. I
don't care .... "
 "Maybe not," said Tess softly. "Look."
     Shafts of white-yellow light streaked out of nowhere,
coming from nothing that any of them could see.
 "Lascannon fire," said Harry.
    He looked at his instruments, looked up, somewhat
sheepishly, at Tess.
 "That's the King James II out there."
    "Yes," said Tess. "I know. Took them a bit longer to
arrive than I had anticipated, but--"
    The Scimitar suddenly lurched forward. Harry was on
the controls immediately, took the spaceplane into a
steep dive underneath the lascannon fire.
"Tractor beam shut off," he reported unnecessarily.
The hulk of the King James II loomed into view, the
enormous vessel surrounded by other large warships, all
pouring fire into the Corasian mothership.
 Nothing Xris had ever seen looked quite so beautiful.

CHRPIER
       qq

 La verite existe; on n'invente que le mesonge.
 ["Truth exists, only lies are invented."]

            George Braque, Le jour et la nuit

Fighters, short-range Scimitars, and Claymore bombers
streaked past, wave after wave, heading for the Cora-
sian mothership. The Corasians hesitated, launched a
few of their own fighters, almost immediately pulled
them back. The enemy decided to head for home.
    The King James H battle group, with its six warships,
two carriers, and hundreds of fighters, was there to see
that the Corasians didn't make it.
    "We're free and clear," reported Harry. "Where to?"
He was looking wistfully at the fighters, now moving into
attack formation.
    "Don't even think about it!" Xris said tiredly. "Take
us to the King James."
    Tess looked back at Xris. "All right if I use the
corem? I have to report to the Admiralty. I'll tell them
about you and your team, Xris. How you got us off that
ship. I'll put in for commendations."
    At the look on his face, her voice trailed off. She bit
her lip, lowered her eyes.
    "Commendations." Xris was bitter. "Just have them
send that to Tycho's mother, will you?"
    Tess said nothing. She turned away, reached for the
comm.
Okay, it was a cheap shot. Xris knew he'd hurt her,

knew she didn't deserve it, but he didn't much care. He
was feeling rotten inside and out, didn't see why every-
one else shouldn't feel the same way.
    "Good news, guys," he announced, climbing the lad-
der, emerging into the small living quarters aboard the
Scimitar, "we're all going to get commendations."
    "Make mine black, with lace," said Raoul drowsily.
He was swaying gently back and forth in one of the
hammocks that served as beds aboard the Scimitar. The
Little One sat on a bench below, keeping a worried
watch on his friend.
    "I've given him a sedative," Quong said. "I believe he
has suffered a mild concussion. His memory is starting to
return, but he is dizzy and disoriented."
    "Back to normal, huh?" Xris took out a twist, fum-
bling at the box with one hand, his good hand. He man-
aged to get the twist out, but dropped the box onto the
deck. Swearing, he started to give it a kick.
    Quong intercepted him, picked up the box. He handed
it back to Xris.
    "I will give you a sedative, too, my friend. Are you
in pain?" He looked at the mangled hardware, the fraz-
zled wires sticking out of Xris's left shoulder.
    "Hell, no!" Xris chomped down on the twist, almost
bit it in two. "It doesn't hurt, Doc. It's not real!"
    "I wasn't referring to your arm," Quong said quietly.
He handed Xris a cup of coffee.
    Xris shook his head, accepted the coffee. "That kind
of pain, no sedative in the world can touch."
    Quong nodded his head, returned to Jamil, who lay
stretched out in a hammock, his leg bandaged. He was
now awake and alert.
    "Boy, I can pick 'em, can't I?" Xris said to Jamil,
while sitting down on the bench beside the Little One.
"What are we down this job? One Claymore, one PRRS,
one Lane-sucking robot, one civilian, my arm, your leg,
Raoul's mind, and two friends." Xris leaned back against
the bulkhead, closed his eyes. "Two friends."
    He raised his coffee cup. "Here's to Darlene Rowan
and Tycho." He sipped at the coffee, took too big a

mouthful, burned hell out of the inside of his mouth. He
suffered in silence.
    "I dunno," Jamil said after a moment. "I think it was
better Tycho went the way he did. When he found out
how much money we've lost on this job, the shock alone
would have killed him."
    "And we don't know for certain that Darlene is
dead," Quong said.'
    Xris shook his head again, sat holding the cooling cof-
fee. It tasted like mud.
    Tess climbed the ladder, came to join them. "How are
you feeling?" she asked Jamil.
    "Terrific. Nothing like a little shrapnel tearing through
your leg. Makes you appreciate life. Grab me some cof-
fee, will you, Doc?"
    Quong moved over to the small dispenser, poured cof-
fee, brought a cup for himself and one for Jamil. The
Little One huddled into a ball, buffeted by waves of
rough emotions. Raoul fell asleep. Down in the cockpit,
Harry could be heard, talking to the King James 1I, re-
questing clearance to land.
    Tess stood, hands on her hips. Her gaze swept all of
them, halted when it came to Xris. "Look. I'll say it. I'm
sorry. I'm damn sorry. About your friends, 1 mean."
    "Don't apologize," Xris said. "You did your job. You
did what you set out to do. At least, that's what I'm
Or     '    ,,
~,uesslng.
    "I'm not apologizing for doing my job," Tess said.
"You're right. I did do what I set out to do. I stopped
Nick Harsch from selling technology to the Cotasians. 1
kept that robot out of his hands and out of the Corasian
galaxy. Who knows how many lives we saved?"
    "I only know that we lost quite a few on the way,"
Xris said.
    "Stop whining! So the job didn't turn out to be the
easy, cushy chance to make a fortune that you expected.
The mercenary trade is a risky one. If you can't take it,
I suggest you find another line of work!"
    She was angry now, too angry to talk. Small red dots
burned in her cheeks, her eyes glinted. She headed for
the ladder, for the cockpit below.

  "Tess," Xris said. "One question.'*
    She halted, not looking around. "What?" Her voice
was hard.
  "Why didn't you tell us the truth?"
    "We would have helped you nail that bastard,"
Jamil said.
"You only had to ask politely," Quong added.
Slowly, Tess turned back, faced them. She glared
around at them, truly exasperated. "Tell you the truth!
How the hell could I? How could I trust you?"
    "Ah," said Xris, enlightened. "You couldn't trust us!
I get it now. This from a woman with so many angles she
would have made an honors class study for geometry."
    The corner of Tess's mouth twitched. She tried to stay
mad, but she couldn't. She even managed a small
chuckle. "All right. I guess I earned that one. I'll tell you
everything, okay? Then you can judge for yourselves.
    "Navy Intelligence has known about Nick Harsch and
his dealings with the Corasians for years, but, like I told
you earlier, Xris, we could never catch him, He had a
contact in the top levels of the Navy, someone feeding
him information. We found out who the person was and
took him out--very quietly, no publicity. What we refer
to as 'early retirement.' We figured Harsch would try to
find someone else. NI chose me for the job. I set myself
up. Lost lots of money at the gaming tables, let it be
known that I needed credits and needed them bad or
my career was down the toilet.
    "NI thought for a while Harsch wasn't going to bite,
but then we intercepted one of his shipments to Corasia,
confiscated the weapons. Harsch lost big. Shortly after
that, one of his agents contacted me. After some negoti-
ation, I agreed to work for him.
    "I proved my worth, warned him in advance of a cou-
ple of raids. Problem was, I never met the man. He
handled everything third- or fourth-hand. We needed
something big to lure him out,"
 "Lasairion's sad-eyed robot," said Quong.
    "Exactly. It was perfect. The Pandorans were kicking
up a fuss about the robot. The Admiralty promptly over-
reacted, made it all hush-hush. level-one security, for-

your-eyes-only, DNA-check-your-spit type of stuff. Of
course, as you said, Dr. Quong, these Lane-laying robots
were programmed to respond only to Lasairion. So we
didn't think there was much danger."
"I can't believe Harsch didn't know that," Xris said.
"He was a deal maker, an entrepreneur. He's like a
used vehic dealer, who wouldn't know a gravator from
a generator. What he did know was his customers and
what they wanted and needed. When he told the Cor-
asians about the robot, they were wild to have it. They
promised to set him up in luxury for life."
    Tess sighed, ran her hand through her hair. "That's
when everything started falling apart."
"Coffee?" Quong asked, and went to get her a cup.
"Thanks. Everything was going according to plan. I
became Captain Strauss of the Army and managed to
get myself stationed on Pandor, which was easy, because
most military personnel are busy trying to get themselves
transferred off Pandor. No one on base knew I was
working for NI, not even the colonel. That's how secret
this operation was.
    "I examined the robot myself. I swear to God"--Tess
gave Xris a wry grin--"that 'hot was broken. I couldn't
get it to function. Of course, I didn't dare move it, not
then, not while we were trying to smooth things over
with the Pandorans. But I scanned it and it checked out
as unworkable. What the devil did you do to it?"
  ~'Bumped into it. Jostled it. I don't know."
    "A broken connection," Quong said. "A short in the
wiring. Something that wouldn't necessarily show up
on scans."
    "At any rate, I reported to NI that the 'bot was safe.
Boy, was I wrong on that one!" Tess sighed, sat nursing
the coffee cup in her hands, as if trying to warm them.
"We figured Harsch would ask me to steal the robot.
We had it all planned. I was going to snatch it, put the
bomb in it, hand it over to Harsch. I made sure it would
go to Harsch himself. That was part of the deal. I refused
to deliver it otherwise. He agreed.
    "We wanted to catch him alive, of course, to interro-
gate him, find out just what secrets he'd passed on to

the enemy. But if that didn't work out, the bomb would
see to it that he never sold anything to the Corasians
again. Unfortunately, Harsch had other ideas. He didn't
want me to steal the 'bot, he didn't want to risk my
being caught. He said he would hire someone to steal
the robot for him. He asked me if I knew anyone."
    "You recommended us," Xris said, starting now to see
the whole picture.
    "The Lord Admiral recommended you, 1 gave your
name to Harsch. From that point on, you know what
happened. I arranged for Jamil to be transported to the
King James H without causing suspicion, arranged for
you, Xris, to sneak off base. If everything had gone ac-
cording to plan, you and Jamil would have put the bomb
in the robot yourselves, delivered it to Harsch at Hell's
Outpost--"
    "He sells the 'bot and us to the Corasians." Xris
shook his head. "Thank the Lord Admiral for the rec-
ommendation, but tell him from now on we find our
own jobs."
    "I don't think Harsch planned to double-cross you.
Not at the beginning. He was a sharp businessman and
he knew when he had a good thing going. But nothing
went according to plan."
    "I still don't see why you couldn't have told us all the
truth," Jamil said. "You told us part of it."
    "Well, I didn't want to blow my cover, for one thing.
If this failed, N1 would still need me to spy on Harsch.
And for another, what was I to think when the whole
damned team showed up? Maybe you're going to try
to double-cross Harsch. Maybe you're working for him.
Maybe you're in this up to your eyeballs. Maybe you'd
help me and maybe you'd sell me out. How could I
know?"
"You knew," Xris said softly. He stared at the cold
coffee.
    Tess sat down beside him, put her hand on his knee.
"All right. I knew. And if it had just been me--my life--
on the line, I would have told you. But there were more.
Countless more. Everything was falling apart, all around
me. First the robot works when it isn't supposed to.

Then Grant shows up with the professor's unit. Then the
robot escapes and takes Grant with it. Then the blasted
robot begins taking out Lanes. Then Harsch hears that
the robot's taking out Lanes--" "From you."
    "Not from me. Apparently he's got more than one
spy in the Navy. Anyway, he passes the news to the
Corasians, raises the price.
    "The Corasians are so excited that they send one of
their motherships over here to pick up the 'bot in per-
son. They tell him to bring the 'bot to the ship directly.
    "Harsch wasn't pleased about that, but he didn't have
much choice. The Corasians let Harsch know that they
would be very unhappy if he didn't deliver, might start
attacking a few of our outposts.
    "And so now what do I do?" Tess appealed to them.
"If the Navy flies in to take out the Corasians, we lose
Harsch. If we lost the robot, we lose Harsch. Harsch
loses the Corasians. The Corasians attack our outposts.
God! I got lost myself trying to solve that one.
    "But then, suddenly, everything's all right!" Tess
spread her hands. "We recover the robot. I think, fine,
we can carry out the mission as planned. Everything's
on track. And then you"--she looked at Xris--"want to
chuck the whole thing and run off on some godforsaken
rescue mission!"
    Xris sat silent, sucking the flavor out of the wad of
the twist in his mouth.
    "All right, so I have a suspicious nature," Tess said.
"In my business, that's what keeps you alive. I won-
dered: Were you really ready to chuck the job and go
off on a mission you knew was hopeless? Or did you
intend to steal the robot, now that you knew how valu-
able it was? All my doubts came back. I had to do one
thing: Get the robot to Harsch. And I had to do it fast.
Maybe I made a mistake, threatening to blow up the
plane. Maybe I should have just told you the truth, but
even now, looking back on it, I don't see where I could
have reasonably made any other decision."
    "She's got a point, Xris," Jamil said. "A lot of what
we did wasn't real bright."

    "Ali's well that ends well," Quong observed with a
shrug. "Harsch will never again sell technology to the
enemy. And the Corasians will not be able to build space
Lanes or take them out. Tycho died for a worthy cause.
He deserves a commendation."
    "I'm not sure the rest of us do. One thing." Xris lifted
his head, looked at Tess. "Why did you gas us when we
landed oil the Corasian ship?"
    "Because you were going to fight to the death. I knew
that. I couldn't allow that to happen. I knew then that
you were on the level. It was my responsibility to see
that you came out of this alive, if I could. I figured that
once we were on board, we'd at least stand a chance.
As it turned out, I made yet another mistake." "You lost Jeffrey Grant."
    "That was a last-minute thing. I don't know quite why
I did it or what I hoped would happen. It's just... I felt
so sorry for him. He was the innocent bystander. He
didn't ask for any of this. I knew Harsch and the Cor-
asians would come on board the PRRS to pick up the
robot. I figured that once they found it, they'd leave
without bothering to search the rest of the spaceplane."
    "What did you plan to do with him then?" Quong
asked.
    "When I boarded the Corasian mothership, 1 sent a
secret signal to the King James II, giving them our loca-
tion. I knew the Navy was on its way. I figured Grant
would stay hidden until I could come back for him. What
I didn't count on was the fact that Jeffrey Grant not
only hid himself, he hid the robot, too."
 "So that's what happened to it," Xris said.
    "That's all 1 can think of. Harsch was furious when
he couldn't find it. Furious and scared. He knew what
the Corasians would do to him if he came up empty-
handed. At least it gave me a chance to keep you alive,
Xris. The Corasians wanted to dissect you oll the spot.
I told Harsch that you had hidden the robot. He ordered
the Corasians to keep you alive until he found out
where."
 "We owe you our lives, Captain," Quong said for-

mally, and made a little bow. "I, for one, extend my
thanks."
    "Me, too," said Jamil. "And if Xris there doesn't offer
to take you someplace romantic and treat you to cham-
pagne and a chance to watch the moon rise over the
ocean, you let me know."
    "You don't owe me anything," Tess said, her face
flushed. "I botched this job from the beginning. If it
hadn't been for you, for all of you ..."
 Xris took out another twist. "Let's call it even."
    "Xris!" Harry shouted up the ladder. "Message for
you. From the Admiralty."
    Xris wondered what this was all about, figured it must
be Dixter waiting to offer his heartfelt thanks. At the
moment, Xris wasn't in the mood. He stood up reluc-
tantly, walked past Harry, headed for the cockpit.
    Xris threw himself into the pilot's chair, faced the
comm.
 "Xris here," he said.
    A face appeared, but it wasn't the rugged, aging face
of the Lord Admiral. It was ...
    "Darlene!" Xris breathed. He was on his feet, leaning ú
out to the screen, actually touching the screen as if he
could touch her, make sure she was alive.
 "Hi, Xris," Darlene said. "Good to see you."
    "It's damn good to see you!" he said fervently. "What
happened? Are you all right?"
    "I'm fine. So's everyone on board the cruise ship. We
didn't make the Jump into hyperspace. We weren't in
the Lane when the robot took it out. But the ship was
damaged by the explosion and we lost communications."
  "Explosion? What explosion?"
  "When my window blew out."
  "Your ..." Xris stared at her. "What--"
    Darlene grinned. "It's a long story. I'll have to tell
you later. The captain won't let me talk long. I'm
under arrest."
    "Arrest!" Xris was completely baffled. He didn't even
know where to begin. "Look, just answer me one thing.
Are you okay?"
  "The captain's turning me over to the Navy. I'm under

 twenty-four-hour guard. I'm fine, Xris. Good-bye for
 now. I'll see you soon. Tell little Harry and the rest of
 the 'kids' I said hi." She waved at him.
     Her image faded away, was replaced by the grinning
 face of Mendaharin Tusca.
     "Don't worry, Xris," Tusk said. "We know what's
 going on. We'll keep her safe."
     "Thank you, Tusk," said Xris. "I mean that. And tell
 the Lord Admiral thanks, too."
     "And our thanks to you, Xris. You and your team.
 Oh, by the way, we recovered your Claymore. We'll
 have it fixed up, returned to you. And the Navy will
 probably be able to find some money to reimburse you
 for your time."
    "Do me a favor, will you, Tusk? You heard about
Tycho? Send that money to his family. I'll let you know
where, who to contact."
  Tusk nodded. "Sure thing. See you on board, Xris."
  The screen went dark.
    The Scimitar cruised toward the massive King James
II. Harry turned over control to the computer, went up
to give the rest the news.
    Xris spent a moment alone, gave his thanks to Who-
ever might be listening. He took another moment to ask
that same quiet Listener to take good care of Tycho.
    Then he called up, "Tess, can you come down here
a second?"
    She came to him, her expression troubled. "What is
it, Xris? You sound so solemn."
    He took hold of her hand with his good hand, his
only hand. "Is Jamil right? Are you into champagne and
moonlit beaches?"
    Tess smiled. "Actually, I'm more into beer and cheap
motel rooms, but--"
    He took her into his arms--make that arm--and
kissed her.
    Up above, Jamil whistled, Harry chortled, the Little
One stomped his feet, Quong scolded the others for
being crass, and Raoul--waking briefly--asked for sonle-
one to bring him his lip gloss.
 "One more question," said Xris, when he was free for

talking. "What happened to Jeffrey Grant and the
robot?"
    "We're not sure," Tess said. "We hope to find him
soon. The robot is immensely valuable to us now. For
the first time, we have one that works and we have the
professor's unit."
    "So what's the problem?" Xris asked. "Find Grant
and take the robot back. He won't be happy, but then,
he's a civilian."
    "I wish it were that easy." Tess sighed. "You see, I
told you one other little lie. I didn't plant a real bomb
in the PRRS. The bomb Harry found when he scanned
was a decoy.
  "I put the real bomb in the robot."

CHflPIER

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on . . .

John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn

Jeffrey Grant managed to escape the Corasians quite
easily. He simply sat down in the pilot's seat, ordered
the computer to launch the PRRS, and then flew off. He
expected someone to shoot at him. No one did.
 He expected to be caught in a tractor beam.
 No beam appeared.
    The Corasian collective mind was focused on other,
more important details. such as endeavoring to discover
the whereabouts of the robot and the acquisition of sev-
eral prime hunks of meat. The collective mind paid no
attention to Jeffrey Grant.
 One might say it was the story of his life.
    Mildly amazed at the ease of his escape, expecting
any second to be surrounded by Corasian fighters, Grant
nervously ordered the computer to find the nearest space
Lane and jump into it.
    The computer located the Lane, but reported that ac-
cess was prohibited. Another ship or plane was occu-
pying it at the time. Afraid that the Corasians were
going to catch him, Grant flew on and eventually located
another Lane.
 This one was free. The PRRS made the jump.

    The ship in the first Lane was the King James II, but
Jeffrey Grant was never to know that.
    While in hyperspace, on his way back to XIO, he
spent the time polishing the robot, making it ready.

    It occurred to Jeffrey Grant, just prior to landing, that
the people at the rental-plane agency might take excep-
tion to the fact that he had lost their plane. While still
in orbit above the planet, Grant contacted the agency,
and attempted to explain.
    "I had it parked on Pandot, you see, and left it only
for a moment to go look--"
 "Trant?" said the young woman. "Jeremiah Trant?"
    "Grant," said Jeffrey humbly. "Jeffrey Grant. I was
only gone amo--"
    "Ah, Mr. Grant! No need to worry. Your rental plane
was returned."
    "It was?" Grant realized a bit late he shouldn't sound
surprised. 'q mean ... so it was. Should have been. I'm
glad. Is ... is everything all right?"
    "Yes, Mr. Grant. The gentleman returned the plane,
said that you would no longer be requiring it, and paid
the bill in full."
    What she did not tell Jeffrey Grant was that the pilot
who had returned the plane had arrived under Naval
escort, had flashed his Naval Intelligence ID and had
asked to be contacted if anyone named Jeffrey Grant
turned up inquiring about the rental plane.
    Jeffrey Grant was relieved and bothered at the same
time. He was relieved over the fact that the plane was
back--he had been wondering how he was going to pay
for its loss.
  He was bothered by its unexpected return.
He had the feeling that someone was following him.
All kinds of wild schemes and evasion plans flooded
Grant's mind, caused it--like an old-fashioned gas-
powered engine--to stall out. Eventually Grant did what
he had been planning to do ever since he escaped the
Corasian mothership. He landed the PRRS in a field
about fifty kilometers outside on XIO City.
  Once down, he packed the robot in its crate. Using

the remote control. Grant activated the robot's crate,
guided it to the hatch of the PRRS. Before he left, Jef-
frey Grant wrote out a brief note of apology to the
Royal Navy, explaining that he hadn't really meant to
steal their spaceplane, thanked the Navy for all it had
done for him and the galaxy. He left the note on the
console.
    Grant made a final tour of the plane, picked up a
briefcase which one of the Army officers had left behind,
then exited the PRRS. Grant made certain the door was
locked, then--briefcase in one hand, remote in the
other--he led the robot, concealed in its crate, out of a
corn field and onto the main highway.
 They hitched a ride with a graytruck into town.

    Jeffrey Grant sat at the cluttered desk in his small
museum, penning meticulously and neatly the words on
the placard.
    LANE-LAYING ROBOT. CIRCA 2180. INVENTED, DESIGNED.
AND BUILT BY COLIN LASAIRION, PH.D. FOR FURTHER INFOR-
MATION, ASK CURATOR.
    Grant had been a bit hesitant about adding that last
notation--foreseeing endless questions from tourists--
but he believed that it was his duty to do what he could
to educate his fellow man. He printed in bold letters
across the bottom, DO NOT TOUCH.
    He allowed the ink on the placard to dry, then set the
placard in its stand.
    Jeffrey Grant stepped back. Folding his hands to-
gether, he silently, calmly, proudly regarded a dream.
    The robot with the sad eyes stood in the place of
honor in the quiet little museum, against the far wall,
directly across from the front door. The machine, desig-
nated as a Collimated Command Receiver Unit, stood
at the robot's side. The blue light no longer flashed, the
machine no longer hummed. But the soothing light from
its screen--light which Jeffrey Grant had always found
very attractive--glowed brightly.
    Perhaps it was the angle of the light, shining up from
underneath the robot, that caused the humanlike eyes
of the robot to change expression. They looked--at least

to Jeffrey Grant--almost happy. Either that, or the
robot, now surrounded by familiar items from the past,
felt truly at home here. Jeffrey Grant hoped that it was
the latter.
    He studied the exhibit a long time. He rearranged one
of the robot's telescopic arms at a better, more lifelike
angle. He dusted all the rest of the objects in the mu-
seum, arranged and neatly stacked his old books.
    Then he went on a search throughout the rest of the
building, looking for other occupants, thinking that per-
haps someone might have moved in while he was gone.
    But no one had. It was a holiday on XIO. The building
was empty.
    Grant returned to the museum, waited for an hour or
so to see if tourists would arrive.
 None came. The street, as usual, was deserted.
     Grant took one last look around, to make certain that
all was as it should be.  It was.
    He picked up the briefcase, walked out the door,
made certain--fussily--that the door was locked. He
walked down the street, walked several blocks, until he
was in sight of his house.
    Something unusual was happening at his house. Police
cars, their lights flashing, were parked out in front, along
with several expensive-looking vehics that were not
marked. His neighbors had gathered in his yard. As he
watched, avid news crew pulled up.
    Jeffrey Grant sat down on a bench at a bus stop. He
could see, up the street, the building that housed his
museum. He could see, down the street, his house.
    Jeffrey Grant opened the briefcase. He reached inside.
and pressed a small red button.
    The explosion blew out the front of the museum, took
down the entire building, sent a cloud of dust and debris
a hundred meters into the air. The tremendous blast
shook the ground.
    Men in uniform dashed out of Jeffrey Grant's house
at a run. Heads turned. Fingers pointed to the rising
column of smoke. The neighbors surged after them. Po-

lice sirens began to wail. Police cars sped past Jeffrey
Grant.
    The unmarked expensive vehics soared into the air.
They flew past Jeffrey Grant.
    Tile vid crew, which had, by purest chance, a vidcam
aimed in the right direction, was going on the air, live.
The crew roared past Jeffrey Grant.
    Jeffrey Grant's neighbors, who mostly didn't know
him, ran past him, hastening to the scene of the disaster.
    Jeffrey Grant sat on the bench at the bus stop and
happily explained to a young child, who had come out
to watch the police cars, all about Professor Lasairion's
wonderful Lane-laying robots.