Mighty Good Road

CHAPTER 6

The flight back to Lowlands seemed interminable despite the fact that this time they took the most direct route. Heikki did her best to concentrate on the numbing task of editing the cameras’ data into a preliminary report, but by the time they landed at the Lowlands airfield, gliding down through the last of the afternoon’s rain, she had barely pulled together a crude precis. She shook her head, collected the disks, and followed Djuro from the jumper.

The field was sunlit again, despite the stray raindrops, light lancing through gaps in the slowly dissipating clouds. A warm wind ruffled the surface of the puddles, and set the jumper’s wings creaking faintly against their braces. Heikki looked toward the tower, shading her eyes against the low sun, and frowned. A low-slung car was sitting in the tower’s shadow, its windows blanked against the sun. A familiar figure— FitzGilbert, Heikki thought—stood beside it, her hands jammed belligerently into the pockets of her long overcoat.

“What the hell?” Djuro said, softly, and Nkosi said, from the jumper’s hatch, “Heikki, the tower says that Dam’ FitzGilbert is waiting to speak with you.”

“I see her,” Heikki said, without inflection. “Did the tower say what she wants?”

“Of course not,” Nkosi answered. “Did you expect they would?”

It wasn’t an unreasonable question, Heikki thought, irritably, but said nothing. She stared instead at the waiting car, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. The two Iadarans, emerging from the jumper, started to say something, and then fell silent, watching her. Heikki made a face, fully aware of the others’ stares, and jammed her hands into the pockets of her shift. “Wait here,” she said abruptly, and started across the hot-metalled strip toward the car, heedless of the wind that whipped the shift’s freefalling panels around her boottops.

FitzGilbert came to meet her, scowling, hands still buried in her pockets. “We got your message,” she called, as soon as her voice could be expected to carry across the space between them. Heikki raised a hand in answer, but said nothing until they stood almost face to face. FitzGilbert was wearing corporate uniform beneath the overcoat, the well-tailored high-collared jacket and loose trousers seeming oddly out of place on the airfield. Her hair was braided up and back, held in place by a filigree net, invisible except when the sunlight caught it. Heikki was suddenly aware of her own disarray, of the undershift she’d slept in and the crumpled, well-worn shift, and her hair held back by a twist of cloth. She put that old inferiority aside, and made herself speak briskly.

“Then you know we found the latac.”

“So you said. Did you find the matrix?”

Heikki raised an eyebrow. “No. What do you mean, ‘so you said’? Has Lo-Moth lost so many craft that it can’t keep track of the wrecks?”

FitzGilbert had the grace to look abashed. “Our— principal—oh, hell, our parent company—wants to be sure it is the right craft before they spend the money. They’re being overcautious, but that’s their right.”

It was as close as FitzGilbert was likely to get to an apology, but Heikki was not appeased. “The serial numbers match, the crash site is damn close to the projected spot, and probably the foot we found can be matched to somebody’s medical records. I should’ve brought that with me.” FitzGilbert grimaced, and Heikki’s temper snapped. “Jesus, do you think we’re stupid, or just criminal?”

“I don’t think either,” FitzGilbert retorted, goaded, and stopped as abruptly as she’d begun, glancing over her shoulder toward the car. “You said you didn’t find the matrix?”

Heikki shook her head. “Whoever brought down the latac smashed everything moveable, but I think they took the matrix with them.”

FitzGilbert made a face, a tight movement on her lips that might have started out to be a bitter smile. “Our principal is taking the position that your job is done, now that you’ve found the site,” she said, her voice once more under tight control.

“My contract with Lo-Moth,” Heikki said, “hired me to analyze the wreck as well. And I think you might need that, considering.”

“What do you mean?” FitzGilbert’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Heikki allowed herself a crooked smile. “Like I said, your latac was shot down, FitzGilbert. There were burn marks on what was left of the envelope, and on the gondola. Somebody ripped a hole in their balloon, and watched them crash, then went in and smashed everything, possibly including the crew. Or else the orcs got them.”

FitzGilbert shot her a look that would have melted steel, and Heikki was suddenly ashamed of herself. There was no point in taking out the day’s frustrations on FitzGilbert, no point and any number of reasons not to. She made a face, trying to frame an apology, and the other woman shook her head. “All right,” she said. “Did you find anything else?”

Heikki looked curiously at her, not knowing what she wanted, and FitzGilbert made a face. “Tracks, anything? Any trace of who?”

“There was one patch that showed crawler tread,” Heikki answered, trying by the honesty of her answer to match the other’s capitulation. “It was a standard make, probably an Isu or a Tormacher, nothing I could ID any better just by looking. We may be able to tell more when we’ve had a close look at the tapes, and at the wreck itself.”

FitzGilbert swore under her breath, and turned away. “That’s just what you won’t be able to do,” she said, and turned back toward the other woman. “Tremoth wants you to hand over your data and go home.”

Put so baldly, the sheer ridiculousness of the request struck Heikki dumb. She stared for a moment, unable to believe what she had heard, and then, when FitzGilbert did not deny it, drew a slow breath. “Do you mean to tell me that we’re being fired?”

“Our principal’s position,” FitzGilbert said, slowly and with irony, “is that you have fulfilled the requirements of your contract. They are willing to pay you in full for your work, and to pay the applicable success bonus. Our principal feels that this is an internal matter, and best handled by internal security.”

“What the fuck are you up to?” Heikki asked, and FitzGilbert stared back at her morosely,

“I wish to hell I knew.”

Heikki took another deep breath, making herself count to ten and then to fifty before she spoke. “So you want me to hand over all my records, and the coordinates, and let you go to it.”

“That’s right.” FitzGilbert looked away.

There was no choice, and Heikki knew it. Lo-Moth—or Tremoth, it’s Tremoth that’s stage-managing this—was willing to pay everything the contract called for, and that willingness robbed her of any reason to complain.

Except, of course, she added silently, for professional pride. “Your people, your labs, aren’t experienced at this sort of thing,” she began, and let her voice trail off as FitzGilbert managed a bitter smile.

“That’s not the point,” she said. “Whatever the point is, that’s not it.”

There was no one to appeal to, nowhere to lodge a protest. Heikki steadied her voice with an effort. “If you’re determined, then,” she said, and FitzGilbert nodded.

“Our principal is determined.”

“Then I will flip you our raw data in the morning,” Heikki said. “I expect to get vouchers for our full payment as soon as you receive the disks.”

“That I can manage,” FitzGilbert said, and turned away. Heikki watched her back to the car, squinting a little in the slanting light, and saw the door open and a shape lean forward to beckon the other woman inside. Even at a distance, she recognized Slade’s blocky figure. She stood watching as the car drove away, wondering what had gone wrong, what the troubleshooter had against them, what convoluted internal politics were involved, then shook herself, slowly, and walked back to the jumper.

“What the hell was that all about?” Djuro asked.

Heikki smiled coldly. “We’re off the job, Sten.”

“What?” Djuro’s shout was made up equally of disbelief and indignation.

Nkosi said, “That is not right—it is not reasonable behavior, Heikki, under any circumstances.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Alexieva muttered. She looked at Heikki, her expression suddenly very serious. “Whose idea was this? Not FitzGilbert’s?”

And what do you know about FitzGilbert? Heikki thought, but held the question in abeyance for the moment. “I’m told the decision was made off-world.”

“They did say Lo-Moth did itself in,” Sebasten-Januarias said, carefully not looking at Alexieva. The surveyor scowled.

“What do you mean by that?”

Sebasten-Januarias gave her a limpid glance. “It was common talk when it happened, that Lo-Moth was responsible for the crash.”

“It would have been nice to know that two days ago,” Heikki said sourly, cutting off Alexieva’s angry response. “Whatever happens, we’re getting paid in full.” Djuro looked up at that, and Heikki nodded. “Oh, yes, and I didn’t even have to scream about it. They’ve asked us to turn over the disks as soon as possible; I told them I could have them ready tomorrow morning. We won’t bother doing any analysis, we’ll just hand them the raw data.”

“You’re just going to do it?” Sebasten-Januarias demanded.

“I don’t have any choice,” Heikki answered, and cut off further protest, saying, “Look, Jan, technically we don’t have any cause for complaint. They’re willing to pay our contract in full, even though we haven’t completed the work. What can I object to?”

“So this is it,” Alexieva said.

Heikki looked at her. “That’s right.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Sebasten-Januarias asked, “Just go home?”

“I’ll send your voucher tomorrow,” Heikki said. “Unless you don’t trust me?”

Sebasten-Januarias shook his head. “Tomorrow’s fine.” He turned on his heel, and stalked off toward the terminal.

“I’ll be going, too,” Alexieva said. Her voice was utterly without expression, but Heikki thought she glimpsed an unbudging anger in the other woman’s eyes. She watched the surveyor walk away, and sighed slowly, the tension that had sustained her draining from her.

“So you’re thinking of fighting this,” Djuro said.

Heikki looked at him, startled, then gave a lopsided smile. “I’ve been considering our options, yeah. How’d you know?”

“Putting the innocents out of reach,” the little man answered dryly, and surprised a laugh from her.

“Well, it wouldn’t be right to get them into trouble with the company, not when they have to live here.”

“Is there anything you—we—can do, do you think?” Nkosi asked, and Heikki shook her head slowly.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

The hostel was very quiet on their return, even the faint electronic murmurings of the concierge seeming somehow muted. Heikki led them through the silence to the lift, saying nothing until they were inside the suite and she had switched on the minisec. Even then, she sat very still, staring at the monitor cube, and tried to think of something that would take away the feeling of failure.

“I will make drinks, shall I?” Nkosi said, after a while, his voice sounding very loud and cheery after all the silence. He disappeared into the suite’s kitchen without waiting for an answer; Heikki and Djuro sat listening for what seemed a very long time to the muted whirring of machines, before the pilot returned, bearing an enormous pitcher and three stacked plastic tumblers. He filled the glasses with exaggerated care, then handed one to each of the others. “I would like,” he said, “to propose a toast. Murphy strikes again.”

Heikki chuckled in spite of herself, and lifted her glass in answer.

“Murphy,” Djuro said, the same wry smile on his face. They touched glasses solemnly, and Heikki took a long drink. It was one of the elaborate—and extremely potent—sweet-sour concoctions that Nkosi usually reserved for his women-of-the-moment, and she couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.

“It is all I know how to make, these days,” Nkosi said, with a shrug and a smile that were more boast than apology.

“I’m surprised anyone can function after one of these,” Djuro said.

There was a little silence then, and Heikki cleared her throat. “All right. I figure we have the following options.” She held up her hand, ticking each one off on her fingers as she spoke. “First, we can do nothing—hand over the data and go home with our pay. Second, we can refuse the money, keep the disks, and file an official protest, probably with the Contracts Board.”

“They’d laugh us off the Loop,” Djuro muttered.

“Probably.” Heikki allowed herself another lopsided smile. “Third, we can play for time—turn over copies of the data, or maybe even turn it over in installments, and put Malachy onto the contract itself, see if we have any legal recourse.”

“On what grounds?” Nkosi asked softly.

Heikki shrugged. “I don’t know, that’s what I pay him to find out. But, damn it all, I don’t like being thrown off a job for no reason.”

“So that’s your decision, then,” Djuro said.

Heikki looked at him, trying to guess the emotions behind the neutral voice. “That’s my recommendation,” she said, after a moment, and stressed the word. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“I’d like to know why we were bounced, that’s all,” Djuro said. “I think it’s important.”

“So would I—so do I,” Heikki said.

Djuro went on as though she hadn’t spoken, his tone still scrupulously uninflected. “After all, this could have more to do with Lo-Moth’s politics—or Tremoth’s—than any intention of insulting us.”

Heikki looked down at her drink. She knew perfectly well what Djuro was saying, but shook her head irritably in rejection. “They’ve been jerking us around since we took the job. I don’t think they should get away with it.”

“Damn it, Heikki, there’s nothing we can do about it,” Djuro said.

Heikki took a deep breath, controlling her anger. “I grant you, not directly. Fine, we have to hand over the data, and I’m willing to do it. But I also think, given how strange this job has been right from the beginning, that we should keep certified copies of every disk, and put Malachy onto the question.”

“You are thinking of suing Lo-Moth to make them show cause for ending the contract?” Nkosi asked.

Heikki nodded. “That’s right,” she said, and looked at Djuro. “It’s self protection.”

The little man shook his head. “You’re the boss, Heikki.”

That’s right, Heikki thought. She said, suppressing her impatience, “I think we have to know, for the sake of our reputation, if nothing else. If they want to keep things quiet, that’s fine, but I don’t want us to suffer for it.”

Djuro made a face, but nodded reluctantly. “You’re right,” he said, after a moment, and nodded again.

It was more than she had expected, and Heikki dipped her head in unspoken thanks. “I’m going to contact the Marshallin as soon as possible.”

“There is a direct line available into the Loop,” Nkosi said.

“Probably monitored,” Djuro said.

“Quite possibly,” Heikki agreed. “However, we’re not doing anything wrong, remember? We’re within our rights to check this out.”

“I know,” Djuro said softly. “I just don’t like it.”

At least he didn’t remind her that he had objected to the job from the beginning. Heikki stood, feeling the past days’ work in every muscle. “I’m going to try and get the Marshallin,” she said, and went on into the workroom.

To her surprise, Iadara and EP Seven were roughly congruent, and there was an opening in the transmission queue. She gave the synchronizer Santerese’s mailcodes and then her own bank payment code, wincing a little at the cost quoted her. Then there was nothing to do except wait, pacing, for the connection to be established. Nkosi appeared in the doorway, offering more to drink; Heikki let him refill her glass, and returned to the communications station.

It took a little less than an hour to establish contact, an unusually short turnaround. Heikki settled herself in front of the room’s cameras, waiting with a familiar impatience while the media wall lit and slowly focused. The image flickered steadily despite the compensating enhancements as the transmission passed through the distortion of the open warp, but it was all too recognizably Santerese. Heikki smiled, the day’s events momentarily forgotten in the sheer pleasure of seeing Santerese again, and saw the same delight in the other woman’s grin. Predictably, it was Santerese who spoke first.

“Well, doll, I was expecting to hear from you, but not like this.” Her tone sharpened abruptly. “What’s up? I was on the verge of calling you myself.”

“Murphy’s law, according to Jock,” Heikki answered, and saw Santerese’s smile widen. “We’ve lost our job, too—not precisely lost it,” she amended, “since we’re getting paid, but the effect is the same.”

Quickly, she outlined what had happened, first the job and then Lo-Moth’s reaction, and finished, “So I was wondering if you could get onto Malachy for me, have him check out our legal position.” She hesitated, then said slowly, “Do you remember Idris Max?”

“The transit cop you were living with when I met you?” Santerese asked.

“We were roommates,” Heikki said, with some annoyance, and Santerese gestured an apology.

“Sorry, doll. Do you want me to talk to him, too?”

“I think it might be useful. I hear he’s with the Terran Enforcement now; he might be able to tell us if there’s anything we ought to know about Tremoth.”

“I’ll do that,” Santerese said, her hands already busy on a shadowscreen.

“So what were you going to call me about?” Heikki asked.

Santerese hesitated, finally said, with unwonted seriousness, “You remember I asked you if you had a relative, doll? Named Galler?”

Heikki paused in turn, not knowing what to say. This was not the way she would have chosen to explain things to Santerese, at a distance and over a flickering ultima line, but there was no evading the question. “Yes,” she said at last, and couldn’t think how to continue.

“Yes what?” Santerese said, after a moment. “Yes you remember, or yes, he’s related?”

“Both,” Heikki said. “I had—have—a twin brother named Galler. We lost contact a long time ago, and frankly I’d rather not regain it.”

“It may be a little late for that,” Santerese said. “When I got back from Pleasaunce, there was a message cube waiting for you, and the sender’s listed as G. Heikki. So, unless you’re sending yourself letters. . . .” She let her voice trail off.

Hardly likely, is it? Heikki thought, but bit back the angry comment. There was no blaming Santerese for this, only Galler—and only herself, for allowing herself to be found. She said, her voice strictly controlled, “What does he want?”

Even on the cloudy screen, she could see Santerese’s shrug. “I don’t know. The cube’s palm-sealed, love, no way for me to play it. Do you want me to send it on, or do you think it can wait till you get back?”

“Let it wait,” Heikki said. She paused then, considering, and ran her hand over the shadowscreen. It would take physical mail almost a ten-day to reach them—the main Iadaran FTLship had just made planetfall, bringing Santerese’s cube; the next scheduled landing was almost a week away—and by that time she and the others would be on their way back to the Loop. There was really only one other possibility…. “You know as many shadow-sides as I do,” she said abruptly. “What’s the odds of their fixing the seal?”

Santerese made a face at her through the pulsing static. “That’s illegal,” she said firmly, in a tone that was intended to remind her partner of the open line. When Heikki did not respond, she sighed. “It’s the new model cube, Heikki. I doubt it could be done.”

“Then it’ll have to wait,” Heikki answered. “We’ll be home in a ten-day anyway.”

“Good enough,” Santerese said, and smiled. “I’m looking forward to it, doll.”

Heikki smiled back, looking for an excuse to prolong the conversation despite the expense. There was none, and she knew it; her smile twisted slightly, and she said, “I think that’s everything.”

Santerese nodded with equal reluctance. “Nothing else here.”

“Then transmission ends,” Heikki said firmly, and watched the screen fade.

It took less than a day to make the necessary arrangements for their return to the Loop. A cargo FTLship on a semi-scheduled run was due to land at Lowlands in a little under a local week; as Iadara was its last stop before swinging back to Exchange Point Three, the captain was only too happy to fill her otherwise empty compartments with paying passengers. Somewhat to Heikki’s surprise, Lo-Moth made no objection to covering the additional costs for equipment transfer—she had more than half expected to have to have the heavy crates shipped on a fully scheduled corporate flight. Maybe it was the fact that she had made no official objection to ending her job and handing over unedited, unanalyzed data; or maybe, she thought, with an inward frown, it was someone’s—Mikelis’s?—oblique apology for the situation. She put the thought aside as unimportant, and flipped the voucher numbers to the captain’s agents back in the Loop. An hour later, the receipt numbers and confirmation were flashing on her screen, and the transport chits were in her diskprinter’s basket. Heikki allowed herself a sigh of relief—she had been worried, irrationally, she knew, but undefinably uneasy—and locked the disks into her travel safe.

That left them with nothing to do but to wait for the cargo ship to land. Lo-Moth, through FitzGilbert, encouraged them to remain at the corporate hostel. Heikki hesitated, but could think of no reason to shift their quarters: the hostel was the most up-to-date transient housing on-planet, and there was no point in subjecting anyone else to her own prejudices. That decision made, she was more than a little annoyed when Nkosi announced blithely that he had made arrangements to fly out to the South-Shallow Islands with Alexieva.

“May one ask just what you expect to do there?” she asked, and blushed at the big man’s grin. “Oh, never mind.”

“As you wish, Heikki.” Nkosi’s expression sobered. “Besides, Alex has promised me the chance to brush up on my wavetop flying. It has been a while since I have had the opportunity, and I want to keep in practice.”

I bet, Heikki thought, but bit back any further direct comment. “Have fun,” she said instead, and thought Nkosi looked at least momentarily abashed.

Djuro, too, had found business elsewhere, renewing contact with an old acquaintance now an engineer on the transport Carnegie. Left more or less to herself, Heikki passed the time by running the raw data from the wreck through her own analysis programs. As she had expected, the results were inconclusive: the machines she had brought with her, the ones that would leave no record in Lo-Moth’s systems, were simply not powerful enough to give her any kind of definite answer, and she was still prohibited from tying in to Lo-Moth’s mainframes. When she had finished the last frustrating datarun, she sat for a long moment, staring at the empty workscreen. There were ways to get into the system—there were always ways—and maybe even to get the answers she wanted without risking being accused of a breach of contract, at the very least ways of getting what she wanted and getting off-planet before the intrusion was discovered…. It was a stupid idea, stupid and dangerous, she told herself firmly. Whatever was going on was part of Lo-Moth’s internal politics, and not worth risking Heikki/Santerese’s license over. Once she was back in the Loop, and once Malachy had analyzed the legal situation, then she could finish the job. She leaned over the workboard, typing in sequences that brought the mall menus onto the main screen, and spent an hour browsing through Lowlands’ only bookstore. She took a certain perverse pleasure in sending the hostel’s messenger service to pick up the freshly printed copies.

The suite’s tiny kitchen had been restocked every day since their arrival, but, after a moment’s hesitation, she turned away from the bright packages and used the main room console to order fresh-cooked food from the concierge. She felt vaguely guilty, less for the expense than for the indolence, but put that sternly aside. There was wine as well, in the wall bar; she decanted a smallish jug, and took it over to the suite’s main window, dragging the most comfortable chair with her. The books and the food arrived together on an autotable, which positioned itself beside the chair and then shut down, only a single red light on its tiny control box still lit to show its dormant state. Heikki unwrapped the package of quick-print texts, smiling a little at the sharp pleasant scent of the new ink, and settled herself into the long chair. Santerese would laugh at her, she knew with a sharp pang of homesickness, tease her both for the adolescent indulgence, food and wine and books, and for the books themselves. She preferred—Santerese said needed—the carefully structured disorder of the classic mystery, the ultimately passionless passions, especially the stories set in the Loop and its maze of obligation and subtly conflicting rules. And analysis destroyed her pleasure, though she would never be free of the awareness: she put those thoughts aside, and settled down to read.

When she looked up again, the novel finished and the rules restored, the afternoon’s storm was rising beyond the window, the thick blue-purple clouds making the yellow grass seem even brighter. As she watched, lightning slashed across the bank of clouds, a distinct and delicate tracery, but she was either too distant or the hostel was too well insulated for her to hear the thunder. She had seen storms before, and bigger ones; even so, she stared in fascination as the clouds swept up toward the zenith and the light changed, imagining in that shift of colors the sudden cooling of the air that was the breath of the storm. The lightning was closer now, and thunder was audible, low rumblings not quite absorbed by the hostel’s thickened walls. The first gusts of rain rattled against the window. Heikki blinked, but kept watching, until the sheets of water obscured everything except the hostel’s lawn.

The storm ended as quickly as it had risen. Djuro arrived with the returned sunlight, drenched and out of temper, and vanished into his bedroom. Heikki hid her grin, and disappeared into her own room with the rest of her books.

The concierge’s beeping dragged her awake far too early the next morning. She swore, and groped for her remote, fumbling with its buttons until she had triggered first the room lights and then the little speaker next to her bed.

“Yes, what is it?” She didn’t bother reminding the machine that she had requested it to hold her calls: only something important—or someone with the right codes—could override that particular program.

“A call for you, Dam’ Heikki, from Dam’ FitzGilbert.” The machine-voice held only its programmed politeness. “She apologizes for disturbing you, but she says it’s urgent.”

Heikki shook herself, trying to banish the lingering sleep. “Please tell Dam’ FitzGilbert I’ll take her call in five minutes—on the workroom main line.” She didn’t know if the last instructions were necessary, but it couldn’t hurt.

“Very good, Dam’ Heikki,” the concierge answered. “I’ll convey your message.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said, sourly, and swung herself out of bed. There was no time for a shower; she pulled on loose trousers and shift, and made a beeline instead for the miniature kitchen. The coffee was premixed; she touched buttons, and a few moments later took a filled mug from the rack beneath the spigot.

“Heikki?” Djuro’s querulous voice came from the door of his room. “What’s going on?”

Heikki turned carefully, balancing the too-full mug. “A call from FitzGilbert. I don’t know what about yet.”

“God damn—” Djuro broke off as though they were still on the Loop. “Is Jock in yet?”

Heikki frowned at him. “No,” she answered slowly, and then hesitation sharpened into suspicion. “Why, what didn’t he tell me?”

“Nothing, that I know of,” Djuro answered. “I thought—hell, I don’t quite know what, accident, maybe, or something like that.”

“I don’t think so,” Heikki said, with only slightly more confidence than she actually felt. “FitzGilbert wouldn’t be calling; that’s the planetary police’s job.”

Djuro nodded, rubbing his eyes, then ran a hand over his bald head. “You’re right, of course. I’m just not awake.”

“Get yourself some coffee,” Heikki said, “then perhaps you should listen in on this.”

The buzzer sounded from the workroom before Djuro could answer. Heikki gave him a last abstracted smile, and turned away, her hand already busy on the remote, setting the acceptance sequence she would trigger as soon as she was in range. The wall lit, a window opening to present an image perhaps a little larger than life-size. It was like looking directly into FitzGilbert’s office, and Heikki rubbed her chin thoughtfully, wondering just what sort of an image she herself presented.

FitzGilbert, discouragingly, looked as touchily ill-tempered as she always did, despite the early hour. “There’s been a problem with one of your people,” she began abruptly, and Heikki’s stomach lurched.

“Nkosi?”

“No.” FitzGilbert frowned, more puzzled now than irritated, snapped her fingers twice as though the noise would trigger her memory. “The other pilot—Sebasten-Januarias.”

“Not exactly ‘mine,’” Heikki said, automatically, and then frowned at her own cowardice. “I hired him here, on-planet. What’s the problem?”

“He straggled in out of the wayback this morning,” FitzGilbert answered. “Claims somebody tried to kill him.”

At her back, Heikki heard Djuro’s soft hiss, mingled surprise and anger, and said with a coldness she did not feel, “But what does this have to do with me? My job’s over, remember?”

FitzGilbert’s frown deepened again. “Ser Slade would like to see you. At once.”

Heikki’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?” The anger in her voice had been real, instinctive; she matched it deliberately. “It’s just past the fifth hour, Dam’ FitzGilbert—not an hour at which I am accustomed to doing business. Jan—Sebasten-Januarias has been paid off, his employment with me is over. I repeat, what the hell does this have to do with me?”

FitzGilbert grimaced. “Sebasten-Januarias was shot down—surface-to-air missile, a seeker—while taking a routine private-mail flight for a friend. Ser Slade would like to discuss the possibility that this may be connected with the attack on our latac.”

Put that way, Heikki thought, the inquiry was not that unreasonable. “I can be at the headquarters complex in one hour,” she said, and FitzGilbert lifted a hand.

“We can send a ho-crawl—”

“Thanks, I have my own transport,” Heikki said.

“As you wish.” FitzGilbert looked down at a shadowscreen, out of sight beneath the camera’s sightline. “I’ll have someone waiting to escort you.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said. “In an hour, then.” She broke the connection without waiting for an answer.

“Damn,” Djuro said softly. “I wonder if the kid’s all right?”

Heikki made a face, embarrassed by her own negligence. “He walked out, she said. That’s something.” She took a deep breath, putting aside guilt as something less than useless. “Raise Jock—I think it’s still middle night over the South-Shallow, that may help— and tell him what’s happened. They’re to get back here at once, taking all precautions.”

“You think this Slade may be right?” Djuro asked, but he was already moving toward the communications console,

“I don’t want to take the chance,” Heikki answered. “Once you’re sure he’s on his way back, I want you to get over to the airfield, and find out what’s going on, see what people are saying about this.”

Djuro nodded. “Do you want me to try to track down Jan?”

“Yes,” Heikki began, and then shook her head. “No, on second thought, better not. If it is because of the latac, the less contact he’s had with us, the better. Just find out what the gossip is. And get Jock home.”

Djuro gave her a lopsided smile. “I’ll do that, boss.”

“Thanks,” Heikki said, and headed back to her room to dress.

This time, she didn’t bother with the clothes a ‘pointer would consider appropriate. The securitron on duty at the main gate glanced uneasily at her hastily-tied turban and unstylish shift, but the mention of her name brought him instantly to attention.

“Oh, Dam’ Heikki. Ser Neilenn will be out to escort you at once.”

“Thank you,” Heikki said, and resigned herself to wait. To her surprise, however, Neilenn appeared within a few minutes: clearly, he’d been waiting somewhere close at hand.

“Dam’ Heikki,” Neilenn said, and bobbed a sort of greeting. “I’m so sorry to have to disturb you so early….” His words trailed off unhappily, though Heikki could not tell precisely why.

She said, “It doesn’t matter. I assume Slade is waiting?”

Neilenn bobbed his head again, and there was a note almost of relief in his voice. “Yes, Dam’ Heikki. If you’ll come with me, Timon will take care of your vehicle.”

So they don’t want my ‘cat inside the security perimeter, Heikki thought. I wonder why? She said nothing, however, and followed Neilenn across the hard-metalled road to the waiting runabout. The little man lifted the passenger hatch politely, and Heikki swung herself into the low-slung seat. To her surprise, Neilenn settled himself behind the controls and touched the throttle gingerly. The runabout eased forward, and Neilenn gave her an apologetic glance.

“I’m afraid my driver isn’t on duty yet.”

Heikki made what she hoped was a sympathetic noise, her mind racing. She did not for an instant believe that Neilenn lacked the authority to wake up someone as junior as a driver, no matter how early—or late—it was. No, she thought, he’s been ordered not to use a driver— but why? To keep my meeting Slade a secret? That was the only explanation that presented itself, but it didn’t make much sense. She shook her head, and put the question aside for later, concentrating instead on the meeting at hand.

Neilenn brought the runabout to a halt beside one of the smaller towers, under a sunscreening canopy that hid the entrance from any observers in the neighboring buildings. Slade was waiting for her inside, in a second-floor room that overlooked the outer perimeter. The thin, sunblocking curtain was drawn back from the main window, letting in the light of the rising sun; the same sunlight gleamed from the roof of a crystal shed a thousand meters away, a blindingly bright rectangle well outside the circle of terrestrial green that marked the headquarters perimeter. Slade was staring at the shed, eyes narrowed against the light but his face otherwise expressionless. Heikki had one fleeting glimpse of that stillness, and then the man was turning toward her, his face taking on an expression of welcome. He was still wearing the Precincter button, clipped to the low side of his collar.

“Dam’ Heikki, it was good of you to see me on such short notice. And so early in the day, too.”

So my protest was relayed, Heikki thought, murmuring a politely meaningless response. Well, too bad. “I was concerned to hear about Sebasten-Januarias’s accident,” she said. Better to make the first move directly, she thought, or he’ll spend an hour dancing around whatever it is he wants.

“If one can call it an accident,” Slade murmured, a slight smile quirking his lips.

Touché, Heikki thought. “A seeker missile doesn’t usually fall into that category, I grant you,” she said aloud, “but I don’t know what else to call it.”

“I’ll be frank with you,” Slade began, and Heikki mentally braced herself for trickery. “All we know is the police report that Ser—Sebasten-Januarias?—filed this morning when the patrol picked him up. He claims his craft—I forget the type, some heavier-than-air model—was fired on from the ground as he crossed the Asilas below the massif; he took evasive action and was able to avoid the main explosion, though it damaged the ship. He made a crash landing, and walked back toward the nearest farming station, where he called for help. The police picked him up there this morning, as I said.”

It was plausible enough, Heikki thought. The most common aircraft on Iadara were wood-framed douplewings, propelled by a light, cool running Maximum Morris powerplant—not an easy target for the usual small-brained seeker missiles to follow. And the douplewings were extremely forgiving in a crash—that was why they continued in use on Iadara and dozens of other Precinct worlds. The light frame would collapse and crumple on impact, but much of the force of a crash would be absorbed in the process. You could walk away from a smash-up that would kill you in any other craft. She became aware, tardily, that Slade was watching her curiously, and managed a shrugging smile. “I don’t quite know what you want of me. I can see that you might be concerned that this has something to do with your crash, sure, but I can’t for the life of me see what.” Abruptly, she wished she had used some other metaphor.

Slade frowned. “The wrecked latac. Were there any signs, for example, that it had been hit by a seeker?”

Heikki suppressed a surge of malicious pleasure, and answered, “I really couldn’t say, Ser Slade. After all, we only made the one visual examination, and that under less than ideal conditions. If we’d been able to finish the analysis, of course…. But I’m sure your own technicians will have the answers for you in a week or two.”

“What’s your guess, as a professional?” Slade’s voice was untroubled, not in the least annoyed by her jibe, and Heikki hesitated, newly wary.

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” she said, after a moment. “Certainly, if I wanted to bring down a latac, a seeker’s cheap and relatively efficient—the bigger powerplant makes a latac a lot better target than a douplewing’s, for one thing. And there was nothing at the wreck site that would suggest otherwise. But it could also have been an on-board explosive, or even engine sabotage.” Slade opened his mouth to say more, and Heikki spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Ser, I simply can’t give you a better guess.”

Slade sighed. “Fair enough, Dam’ Heikki. As you say, our people will bring in their assessment soon enough.” He paused, staring out the window at the distant crystal shed. Heikki watched him uneasily, not quite believing in his sudden abstraction.

“I suppose,” he said, after a long moment, “this could be some—purely personal matter of the pilot’s.”

“It doesn’t seem likely,” Heikki said in spite of herself, and instantly wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

Slade looked curiously at her. “Why do you say that, Dam’ Heikki?”

Because nobody except a corporate stooge settles a private argument with a missile, Heikki thought. She said, slowly, not quite sure why she was playing for time, “Certainly he never said or did anything that would lead me to believe he had that sort of enemy.”

“But not that he had no enemies?” Slade nodded, almost approvingly.

That wasn’t what I meant, Heikki thought, and you know it. But I can see it would be very convenient for you to explain it that way, at least until you can figure out what happened to your latac. And right now, I don’t see any reason not to give you what you want. She said, “All I know about Jan is his professional reputation—which is excellent. I don’t know anything about his private life.”

“So you would not rule that out? As an explanation, I mean.”

“I couldn’t, no,” Heikki answered. She was quite certain that Slade had noticed the changed verb, but the troubleshooter gave no overt sign of it.

“Mm.” Slade turned away again, back toward the window. The light was fading as the sun rose into a thin haze of cloud, the shed roof no longer flaming against the dull green of the distant hill. “There is one other question, which I must apologize in advance for asking. Is there any possibility that this account is a fabrication, that Ser Sebasten-Januarias is using this to cover up, say, navigational or general error on his part?”

That’s going a little too far, Heikki thought. I’m willing to go along with you if you want to declare there’s no connection with the latac crash—no harm to me either way—but I’m not about to see the kid’s reputation destroyed. “No possibility at all. He’s too good to have to lie like that.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Slade said. He did not sound particularly relieved, merely thoughtful, and Heikki hid a frown of her own. I have a nasty feeling, she thought, that I’ve just defined all too precisely just how far I’m willing to compromise. It was not a pleasant thought.

“Well, it was a possibility that had to be mentioned,” Slade said, with sudden affability. “I’m glad you think it can be discounted. And since you don’t think this is necessarily connected with our crash….” He let his voice trail off. When Heikki did not respond to the invitation, he smiled and continued, “I don’t think we need be concerned unless further evidence turns up.”

It was virtually an order, and Heikki could not quite hide her frown. “As you say,” she answered, but knew the other heard the insincerity in her voice.

Slade touched the shadowscreen that lay discarded on his desk, and a few moments later Neilenn tapped discreetly at the door.

“Ser Slade?”

“Would you see Dam’ Heikki back to her ‘cat, please, Jens?” Slade smiled. “Thank you for being willing to see me on such short notice, Dam’ Heikki.”

Despite her best intentions, Heikki choked on the formula of polite response. “Not at all,” she managed at last, and saw Slade’s smile waver. It was only for a fraction of a second, but she winced inwardly. Slade had never been less than an enemy, of that she felt sure, but now she had pushed him into something more than mere passive opposition. Damn all ‘pointers, she thought, momentarily all Iadaran, and then common sense reasserted herself. She had obliquely insulted him, true, but she had also obliquely agreed to back him in his desire to keep the planetary police from connecting the attack on Sebasten-Januarias with the downed latac. Even if she’d annoyed him, he needed her for that—and that should be enough to hold him, she thought, at least until we can get back to the Loop. Still, she was frowning as she followed Neilenn back to his runabout, and the sense of unease did not leave her as she restarted the fastcat and eased it slowly out of the compound, moving against the stream of traffic arriving for the day shifts.

Her uneasiness did not abate as she brought the ‘cat into the underground workbay. There was no point in it, she knew—she could not change what she had already done—but she could not help wishing she knew more about what had happened, and why Slade cared. Well, maybe Sten’s picked up something, she thought, and levered herself up out of the ‘cat. The underground level was relatively crowded, she saw with some relief, perhaps half a dozen vehicles of various types drawn into the bays, each one attended by a driver or two in loose-fitting coveralls badged with company logos at throat and shoulder. One or two looked up as she made her way toward the connecting archway, but no one seemed to be paying any particular attention to her arrival. As she reached the arch itself, however, she was joined by a stocky, good-looking woman whose dark-blue coveralls bore a silver crescent at the neck. Heikki gave her a polite smile, and was remotely pleased when the woman smiled back.

“Dam’ Heikki?”

Heikki hesitated, and knew by the look in the other woman’s eyes that it was too late to deny the identification. “That’s right,” she said, and wished she were carrying the blaster that was locked in her personal safe. Her hand crept toward the slit of her shift, and the knife sheathed at her thigh.

“Jan asked me to give you this.” The woman lifted her arm fractionally, moving from the elbow, palm turned toward the floor. Heikki held out her own hand, and felt a thin packet, about the size of a minidisk but lighter, slip into her own palm.

“Thanks,” Heikki began, but the other woman had already lengthened her step, was striding away toward the lobby. Heikki’s eyebrows rose, but she suppressed the temptation to examine whatever it was she had been given, slipping it instead into the inner pocket of her belt. By the time she reached the lobby, the other woman had vanished. Heikki sighed, and made her way back to the suite,

Djuro was gone, as she had more than half expected he would be, only a light flashing on the message cube in the center of the main room. Heikki picked up the remote she had left by the door, and triggered the message, sighing to herself.

“I contacted Jock and Alexieva,” Djuro’s voice began, without preliminary. “They are returning as soon as it’s light, taking all precautions. Jock estimates they’ll be on the ground in Lowlands by the fourteenth hour. I’m heading down to the field myself, you can reach me through the beeper if you need me.”

Heikki nodded as though Djuro could see her, and switched off the machine. Jock was coming in, and Sten was linked to her by the standard emergency channels: now that they were accounted for, she could turn her attention to the message Sebasten-Januarias had sent. If, of course, he did send it, she thought suddenly, and paused with her hand just touching the tight little packet. She shook herself, dismissing the thought as too fantastic even under the circumstances, and pulled out the message. It was not a disk, as she had expected, but a much-folded square of paper. She unfolded it, and frowned over the labored handwriting. Need to talk to you, she deciphered after a moment’s study. Will be at Uncle Chan’s till midnight. The signature was even less legible than the message itself, but at last she recognized Jan and the interlaced S and J.

She leaned back in her chair, chewing at her under-lip. Sebasten-Januarias had to be worried, to send a written message rather than a disk or use the existing communal lines—unless, of course, it was a forgery. She shook her head slowly, unable to decide. She had never seen Sebasten-Januarias’s handwriting, except for his signature on their contract. She pushed herself to her feet then, and went into the workroom, reaching for the disk file. She rifled through them until she found the one she wanted, and fed it into the reader. Her desk screen lit, and she touched keys to summon up the file she needed. Sebasten-Januarias’s rather baroque signature filled the display window. She studied it, glancing from it to the written message and back again, then, still frowning, dismissed the file. They looked close enough to her, but she was no expert, and knew it. She stood for a moment longer, staring at the empty screen, then turned away abruptly. She was tired of waiting, of calculating and of caution.

“I’m going,” she said aloud, and turned to unlock the safe before she could change her mind. The machine beeped softly to itself, and then released the lock. She slipped her blaster into its boottop holster, and laid Sebasten-Januarias’s message in its place. Then she relocked the safe, and returned to the main room.

“Sten,” she said, and touched the record button on the message cube. “Sten, if I’m not back by the fifteenth hour, take a look in the safe.” She released the button and swept from the suite before she could change her mind.

Like anyone who’d spent any time on Iadara, she knew Uncle Chan’s Bar. It stood in the heart of FirstTown, a low, windowless, pink building just off the main through road. It was the meeting place as much as anything that had made her decide to believe the message, she realized, as she swung the ‘cat back out of its bay. Not even Lo-Moth could expect to get away with murder in Uncle Chan’s. Always assuming, a small, rational voice reminded her sourly, that Lo-Moth—or someone—does want to attack you, and that they’ll wait until you get to Uncle’s.

Traffic was light through the city—most of the day workers were already on the job, and it was too early for the leisured classes to be out of bed. Even so, it took her the better part of two hours to reach FirstTown, and another dozen minutes to find a safe place to leave the fastcat. At last she found a lot where the guard looked as though she wouldn’t sell the vehicles for spare parts, and slid the ‘cat into a space between two ho-crawls. She gave the guard the fee in local scrip—credit was non-existent in a place like this—and started down the main street toward Uncle Chan’s.

Purely by chance, she had chosen clothes that blended in with the prevailing Firster styles. No one seemed to be paying any particular attention to her; she relaxed a little, but kept a wary eye on the passers-by. She did not turn off the main street until she was sure no one was following her.

The pink-walled building looked as blank and foreboding as it ever had in her youth, and Heikki had consciously to remind herself that she was now of age, a legal patron of the bar. She was smiling rather wryly as she pushed through the door, and stood blinking in the sudden red light. The main room was not particularly crowded. Most of the private cubicles stood empty, curtains laced back, and the central tables were equally unoccupied. There were perhaps a dozen people still sitting at the wide bar, hunched over glasses and falqs: workers from the night shift, Heikki guessed, finishing a last drink before heading home to bed. There was no sign of Sebasten-Januarias. She frowned, and started for the bar, when a voice said, “Heikki?”

It was Sebasten-Januarias, and Heikki turned to see him standing in the arch of the nearest cubicle, the curtain held back with one hand. There was a bandage around his other hand, and a shiny patch of synthiskin on his forehead. Heikki winced in sympathy, and turned to join him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, and at the young man’s nod slipped past him into the cubicle.

“More or less,” Sebasten-Januarias answered, and let the heavy curtain fall behind him. He seated himself on the banquette opposite, favoring his bandaged hand. “So you heard what happened?”

“Part of it, at any rate,” Heikki said. “Tell me anyway.”

Sebasten-Januarias managed a wry grin, though the synthiskin crinkled painfully. “There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. A friend of mine came down sick, he has a mail run out to a couple of the mid-size farms, and he asked me to take the flight for him. I owe him a favor, so I said I would, and when I was on the last leg—the longest one, up to the edge of the massif—someone fired a seeker at me.” He shrugged. “I caught it on the scanners in time, looped out and away, so it wasn’t a direct hit. It knocked out most of the systems, though, and the main powerplant—I think a chunk of the casing holed it—and I had a hell of a time putting it down. I ended up in the treetops, spent the night in the bush, and walked out. The bus’s irrecoverable.”

Heikki nodded, impressed. It took a damn good pilot to survive at all, and a confident one not to brag about his brilliance afterward.

“But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” Sebasten-Januarias said. He reached for the almost-empty glass in front of him, and Heikki saw that his uninjured hand was shaking. “A couple of days ago—a couple of days before Antoan asked me to take over for him—a man came out to the Last Shift looking for me. He said he wanted to hire me to do some mapping flights—he said he was a private surveyor, working for one of the truck farms.”

Heikki nodded encouragingly. The massif, and the lands below, were still imperfectly surveyed, largely unsettled. More than one medium-scale farmer had made his fortune by clearing a secondary tract in the lower forests.

“What he really wanted was to know about the wreck, what we’d found.” Sebasten-Januarias stopped, shook his head. “I thought at first he just wanted gossip, but then he got nasty, and I lost my temper.”

“What do you mean, he got nasty?” Heikki interjected.

The other shrugged, rather painfully, and did not meet her eyes. “He started saying we hadn’t done the job right, that—well, that you’d been bought off, like FourSquare. And, like I said, I lost my temper and told him to go to hell. That’s what I think caused all this.”

Heikki’s eyes narrowed. “Just what did you say to him, Jan?” she began, and Sebasten-Januarias cut in quickly.

“I said I had half a mind to go back out there myself, before the corporate goons could start messing around with the evidence.” He made a face. “I know, it was a dumb thing to say—” He held up his bandaged hand. “—I mean, tell me how dumb!—but he made me mad.”

“And the first time you flew out of the Lowlands control perimeter, someone took a shot at you,” Heikki said slowly.

“Yeah.” Sebasten-Januarias looked embarrassed again. “I was going to take some time off, figured I owed myself a vacation.”

“Are you sure your friend—Antoan, was it—was really sick?” Heikki asked. There was a vague picture forming in her mind, the details fuzzy, but the outline unpleasantly clear.

“Yes,” Sebasten-Januarias began, but broke off. “I didn’t check. Why should I?”

Heikki didn’t bother answering, staring instead at the menu displayed beneath the table top. It was too early to be drinking, but a part of her wanted a glass of the harsh local whiskey, and the false calm it would bring.

“Antoan’s one of us,” Sebasten-Januarias said, a little too emphatically. “He wouldn’t set me up.”

“Maybe not intentionally,” Heikki said, her mind elsewhere, and Sebasten-Januarias swore softly.

“How couldn’t he intend it?”

Heikki looked up, belatedly remembering her responsibilities, and said, “He wouldn’t’ve been told why—if he did fake being sick, that is—just offered money to do it. If I were setting it up, I’d say something like I wanted to see what kind of a pilot you are, without letting you know I was interested in hiring. That would work.”

The younger man nodded grudgingly, somewhat appeased. “I guess it could happen that way.”

“More important,” Heikki said, “is what you do now.”

“I somehow didn’t think this was the end of it,” Sebasten-Januarias muttered. “I was thinking I’d hole up with my cousins, out toward Retego Bay—”

“How were you planning on getting there?” Heikki asked.

The pilot shrugged, and swore, clutching his ribs with his good hand. “Fly myself, or hitchhike. All right, it wasn’t that great an idea, but you know what Lowlands is like. Nothing’s a secret here.”

That had been true twenty years ago, Heikki thought, and some things didn’t change. The Firster community was a small one, and despite its ideology was intricately intertwined with the corporate world. People talked— you didn’t keep secrets from kin, after all—and inevitably Lo-Moth heard. It took time for information to make its way through the crooked channels, perhaps even enough time. “Be careful, Jan,” she said aloud, wishing there was more she could do. “Thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.” Sebasten-Januarias hesitated. “Look, there’s something else you need to know, about Alexieva. First, I don’t like her. I’m saying that up front so you won’t accuse me of being prejudiced. She’s hard to get along with, and I don’t like her. But she’s also very close to Lo-Moth, too close for an independent, and she gets a lot of jobs from them that maybe she oughtn’t on balance to get.”

“We were told she was the best,” Heikki said.

“She may be,” Sebasten-Januarias retorted, “but she’s also expensive, and Lo-Moth doesn’t like paying top money for anything. Not on their own planet, anyway.”

That was true enough. Heikki made a disgusted face, and looked away. I knew there was something wrong when Alexieva agreed to that contract, she thought. I knew it, and I didn’t have the sense to investigate. Damn, I should’ve listened to my instincts and not hired her in the first place. She can’t be the only surveyor on Iadara.

“She may be the only good surveyor on Iadara,” she began, and Sebasten-Januarias cut in.

“That’s just it, she isn’t. There’s Axt, and Karast, and Charlie Peng, for that matter, all just as good. Oh, she’s an incomer, and that helps—not being Firster, I mean. But she always gets the recommendations and then the big jobs from Lo-Moth.” He broke off, grimacing. “All right, maybe I’m not being fair. She is good, and there’s no reason the company shouldn’t recommend her. But she’s just too damn close to them, that’s all.”

“Ciceron gave me one name,” Heikki said, then shook herself. “Damn, I should’ve thought. Well, that explains how a weatherman got to be the Guild rep here. Lo-Moth must’ve put him in place, to look after their interests.” It made sense when she thought about it, too much sense for her to have overlooked it in the first place. Of course off-worlder contract labor would prefer to go to their own guilds to find local help, and, equally, Lo-Moth would want to be sure their temporary employees hired only reliable locals. “Christ, I’ve been stupid.” Poor Jock, she thought remotely. He wont be happy to find out his latest playmate’s a corporate hack.

“I appreciate this,” she said aloud. “Look, is there anything—?”

Sebasten-Januarias grinned. “Don’t worry about me, Heikki. I can manage.”

“I hope so,” Heikki said, and pushed herself up from the table. In the doorway, she looked back, but Sebasten-Januarias was already gone.

By the time she returned to the suite, Djuro was there ahead of her, sitting with arms folded in front of the message cube. He looked up as she came in, his light eyes angry.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Heikki waved away the question. “Later,” she said, and touched the button that would erase the message she had left. “Did you pick up any news?”

“Later, hell,” Djuro began, and Heikki sighed.

“Let it go for a minute, Sten,” she said. “What did you hear?”

The little man grimaced, and ran a hand over his bald head. “A lot of nothing. The Firsters are mad as hell, but no one seems to have any idea of what really happened. I think I must’ve heard half a dozen different stories—I don’t suppose you know what’s going on?”

Heikki gave a twisted smile. “I might.” Quickly, she outlined Sebasten-Januarias’s story, not adding her own suspicions. When she had finished, Djuro sighed again, looking up at her from under down-drawn eyebrows. “You didn’t hear all that from this—Ser Slade?” “No,” Heikki agreed. For an instant, she toyed with the idea of not saying anything more, but common sense prevailed. “I spoke to Jan, at a bar in FirstTown—that’s what the message I left you was all about. He told me what had happened.”

Djuro muttered something through clenched teeth, but not loudly enough to force her to take notice. Instead, she fished her lens out of her belt. The chronometric display showed almost noon, and she went over to the little kitchen to mix herself a stiff drink.

The message cube lit a little before the fourteenth hour, and Djuro sprang to respond, data lens in his hand as he bent over the little display. Heikki waited until he straightened before saying, “Well?”

“I asked the tower to call me when Jock landed,” Djuro answered. “He’s down and safe, and taking a jitney here.”

“A jitney?” Heikki frowned. “Is that wise, under the circumstances?”

Djuro shrugged. “It would take a lot of reprogramming, not to mention leaving tracks everywhere, to subvert a commercial jitney.”

Nkosi arrived not long after, rumpled and cheerful and smelling faintly of sea salts. Alexieva, at his heels, looked far less cheerful, and more rumpled. Heikki, who was all too well aware of the pilot’s apparently inexhaustible energy and equally insatiable curiosity, could almost find it in her heart to feel sorry for the other woman.

“So, what is all this about?” Nkosi unwound himself from his voluminous coat—a Firster coat, Heikki saw without surprise; Nkosi always managed to adopt something from each world he visited—and tossed it onto the nearest chair. “Do you really think this has to do with us, and with our job?”

“Yes,” Heikki said shortly, not wanting to go into the details just at the moment.

“Then there is a double reason for doing what I wanted,” Nkosi said, and glanced back over his shoulder at Alexieva. “We are travelling by freighter, are we not?” Heikki nodded reluctantly, already seeing where this would lead, and Nkosi continued, “Then there should be no difficulty arranging for Alex to share my cabin. Any extra fees I will pay, of course.”

Alexieva made a noise that might have been protest, but Heikki spoke more quickly. “Hold it, Jock. You’re telling me you want to bring Alexieva with you? Why?”

Nkosi frowned. “I should think that would be evident, especially now—”

“Did you plan to ask her before you found out about Jan?” Heikki went on.

Nkosi’s frown was deeper now, but he kept his temper well in check. “As a matter of fact, yes. I had hoped to ask her, that she would accept—and what business is it of yours, Heikki?”

There was a warning in his tone, and in Alexieva’s glare, but Heikki continued in spite of it. “Are you sure it was your idea, Jock?”

“What the hell are you getting at?” Nkosi’s voice was deceptively soft, and very dangerous.

Heikki took a deep breath, controlling her own anger. “Look, Jock, I’m sorry, but I’ve got every reason to think that your friend here is a whole lot closer to Lo-Moth than she let us believe, and I’m not real happy about it. And I’m not real eager to take her back to the Loop with us.”

Alexieva stirred again, but Nkosi silenced her with an outflung hand. “Do you have any proof of this, Heikki?”

“Circumstantial evidence, yeah.” Heikki lifted her head at Nkosi’s whispered curse. “And you know me, Jock. I don’t make accusations lightly.”

“No.” Nkosi’s temper faded as quickly as it had flared, and he turned back to Alexieva. “Well, Alex?”

“Well, what?” The surveyor’s anger sounded convincing. “It’s about time somebody asked me what I had to say.”

“Well, what do you have to say?” Heikki murmured, and Alexieva shot her a look of pure loathing. Then she saw Nkosi’s eyes on her, and controlled herself with an effort.

“I can see how people might say I worked for Lo-Moth,” she said slowly. “Yes, I get a lot of jobs through them, and I have friends in the company. But I don’t— spy—for them, if that’s what you’re accusing me of.”

Nkosi looked toward Heikki, not convinced, quite, but wanting to believe. Heikki said reluctantly, “What about FitzGilbert?”

Alexieva flinched at that, and they all saw it, an involuntary and betraying movement of her shoulders. Heikki saw Nkosi’s expression change, and Alexieva saw it, too. “Yes,” she said abruptly, “I’ve done some private work for Dam’ FitzGilbert, and, yes, she asked me to take this job as a favor to her. So what?”

“Why did she want you to take the job?” Heikki asked.

Alexieva looked again at Nkosi, a glance so rapid as to be unreadable, and answered promptly, “She wanted to be sure there wasn’t another debacle like Foursquare. She thinks something’s going on, and she wanted to have an independent observer—someone she could trust—along on the search.”

That makes a certain amount of sense, Heikki thought, and it fits the facts. And for some reason, I think I believe her. She glanced at Djuro, lifting one eyebrow in question, and the little man nodded slowly. Nkosi was nodding, too.

“If this is true—and I do think it is, Heikki—Alex is still in danger here. I think she should come with us.”

“I would like that,” Alexieva said, low-voiced.

“What about your business?” Heikki asked.

“I have partners.” Alexieva looked up, her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “And what the hell good is a business, if you’re too dead to run it?”

Nkosi grinned, his usual good humor reasserting itself. “You have a point.”

“All right,” Heikki said. “I’ll see if the captain will take another passenger—Jock, you and Alexieva can work out the payment however you like.”

“Thank you,” Alexieva said.

Nkosi nodded. “I appreciate this, Heikki.”

“I hope so,” Heikki answered, but managed a smile to take the sting out of the words. Nkosi laughed, and vanished into his own room, Alexieva following. The door closed behind them, and Heikki shook her head, the smile fading.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” she said, to no one in particular, and looked at Djuro. “What do you think, Sten?”

“About what Jan said?” Djuro asked, and shrugged when Heikki nodded. “I don’t know. He could be jealous, you know.”

“Of Alexieva?” Heikki couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

“Sure. Jock’s a fine-looking man.” Djuro’s voice softened slightly. “And you don’t see things like that even when they’re right under your nose, Heikki.”

Heikki smiled rather wryly, but had to admit the truth of that. “Maybe so. All right, put it down to jealousy, and we’ll take her back to the Loop—but she can keep her distance once we’re there.”