The Icarus Hunt

CHAPTER 2

THE SKY TO sunward was gaudy with splashes of pink and yellow when I arrivedat the spaceport at five the next morning. A crowd of spacers, humans and aliensboth, was already milling around the gates, most of them impatient to get totheir ships and head out on the next leg of their journeys. A few of the moreimpatient were making the standard disparaging comments about Ihmis customs; the Ihmis door wardens standing watch by the gates as usual ignored them.

There were no Patth in the waiting group, of course. Over the past few yearsthere had been enough of what the diplomats call "unpleasant incidents" aroundspaceports for most port authorities to assign Patth ships their own gates, service facilities, and waiting areas. Port authorities hate dealing with thepaperwork associated with assault and murder, and planetary governments areeven less interested in earning the sort of sanctions the Patth routinely dish outfor any affront to their people, real or imagined.

Which, come to think about it, made the three Patth I'd seen mixing with thecommon folk at the taverno last night something of an anomaly. Either they'dbeen young and brash, old and confident of local protection, or simply verythirsty. Distantly, I wondered if they'd run into any accidents on their wayhome.

At 5:31 the edge of the sun appeared over the horizon; and at that moment thegates unlocked and swung open. I joined the mass of beings flowing through, checking my collar once to make sure the tag Cameron had given me was stillthere. I hadn't spotted Cameron himself in the crowd, which either meant he was waiting at a different gate or that whoever had been searching hisarchaeological dig last night had already picked him up. Either way, I stillplanned to check out the Icarus, if only to see which species was standingguardover it.

A heavy, aromatic hand fell on my shoulder. "Captain Jordan McKell?"

I turned. Two of the Ihmis wardens had come unglued from their posts and werestanding behind me, impressive and intimidating in their ceremonial helmets.

"I'm McKell," I confirmed cautiously.

"Come with us, please," the Ihmisit with his hand still on my shoulder said.

"Port Director Aymi-Mastr would like to speak to you."

"Sure," I said as casually as I could manage with a suddenly pounding heart asthey gestured to the side and we worked our way across the pedestrian streamtoward the Meima Port Authority building just inside the fence twenty metersaway. Our papers were in order, our cargo cleared, our fees paid. Had someonefinally backtracked one of Brother John's cargoes to the Stormy Banks? If so, we were going to have some very awkward explaining to do.

I'd never been in this particular Port Authority before, but I'd logged enoughhours in Ihmis hotels and tavernos to have a pretty good idea what to expect.

And I was mostly right. The friendly lighting, extremely casual furniture, andsmiling faces were hallmarks of the Ihmis style, all designed to put visitorsat their ease.

From what I'd heard, all those same friendly touches remained cheerfully inplace right up to the point when they strapped you to the rack and startedcranking.

"Ah—Captain McKell," a deep voice called as I was led across the bustling mainroom to a large and cluttered desk in the corner. Director Aymi-Mastr wastypical of the species, with bulging, froglike eyes, four short insectoidantennae coming up from just above those eyes, and costal ridges around thesides of the face and neck. A female, of course; with Ihmisits the females were generally the ones with the organizational skills necessary to run a zoo likethis. "Good of you to drop by. Please sit down."

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

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

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

It was a picture of Arno Cameron.

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

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

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

Particularly given that we heard from a witness not fifteen minutes ago whoclaims you were talking to him last night in a Vyssiluyan taverno."

A family of Kalixiri ferrets with very cold feet began running up and down myspine. "I hate to impugn the integrity of your witness," I said flatly, tossingthe photo back onto the desk. "But he's wrong."

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

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

"Sit down, Captain," Aymi-Mastr said sternly. "Are you telling me you weren'tout last night?"

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

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

I shrugged. "Sure, I hit some of them. What else is there for a spacer to doaround here? But I didn't talk to anyone."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Five years in the EarthGuard Auxiliary," Aymi-Mastr went on. "Apparently areasonably promising career that went steeply downhill during the last ofthose years. Court-martialed and summarily drummed out for severe insubordination."

"He was an idiot," I muttered. "Everyone else knew it, too. I was just theonlyone who had the guts to tell him that to his face."

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

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

She flipped over another two pages—highlights of the court-martial, no doubt—

and again paused. "After that was a four-year stint with the Earth CustomsService.

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

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

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

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

"Then there were six months with the small firm of Rolvaag Brothers Shipping," she continued, flipping more pages. "This time you actually struck someone.

The younger Mr. Rolvaag, I see—"

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

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

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

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

"This guy killed someone?"

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

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

"The director of an archaeological dig out in the Great Wasteland," Aymi-Mastrsaid, setting my file aside and steepling her fingers again. "There was amassive explosion out there early yesterday morning—you didn't hear aboutthat?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just like that," Aymi-Mastr said, sounding midway between embarrassed anddisgusted. "My superiors just informed me they've heard from our mysteriousinformant again. It seems the charge has now changed: that you were seeninstead in the company of the notorious armed robber Belgai Romss. He attacked astoragedepot over in Tropstick three days ago."

I frowned. What the hell sort of game were they playing? "And, what, you wantme to take a look at his photo now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snatched the coin, grunted the proper Bunkrel wheeze of acceptance andforgiveness, and immediately changed course toward the hospitality building.

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

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

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

As I'd expected, the room was empty, the entire staff out serving the rush ofopening-hour customers. I crossed to the service door on the far side, shuckingoff my jacket and again turning it inside out. There was no ID slot on this side, but I could wedge the Icarus tag between the zipper and covering flapwhere the scanners could read it. Unlocking the door, I stepped out into thespaceport proper again and got onto the nearest of the guidelighted slidewaysmeandering between the various landing pads. We would see now just how alertthe Ihmisits were, and how badly they wanted to follow me.

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

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

I'd been riding along the slideways in what seemed like circles for aboutfifteen minutes, and was starting to quietly curse the entire Ihmis species, when the yellow guidelights running ahead of me finally turned the pink thatindicated I was there. Taking one last surreptitious look around, I hopped offmy current slideway, circled the stern of a Trinkian freighter, and cameface-to-face with the Icarus.

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

The bow section was built along standard lines, with the necessary splay- fingerhyperspace cutter array melding into the equally standard sensor/capacitornose-cone arrangement. But from that point on, anything resembling normalstarship design went straight out the window. Behind the bow the ship swelledabruptly into a large sphere, a good forty meters across, covered with thesame dark gray hull plates as the nose cone. The usual assortment of maneuveringvents were scattered around its surface, connecting aft to the ship's mainthrusters via a series of conduits running through the narrow space betweenthe inner and outer hulls.

Behind the large sphere was a smaller, twenty-meter-diameter sphere squashedupinto the aft section of the larger one, with a saddle-surface cowling coveringthe intersection between them. Behind the second sphere, looking almost likeit had been slapped on as an afterthought, was a full-size engine section thatlooked like it had come off a Kronks ore scutter, and one of the moredisreputable ones at that. Hugging the surface of the small sphere here on theship's port side, running from the aft part of the large sphere to the forwardpart of the engine section, was a hard-shell wraparound space tunnel. Near thecenter of the wraparound was the entryway, currently sealed, with a pair offloodlights stuck to the wraparound just above the top two corners. Acollapsible stairway extended the ten meters from the red-rimmed hatch down tothe ground, with an entry-code keypad on the handrail near the bottom. There was a landing skid/cushion arrangement propping up the engine section somewhat, but the bulge of the larger sphere still forced the bow cone to point up into thesky at about a ten-degree angle.

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

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

I turned. A medium-sized man in his early thirties with wavy blue-streakedhair and a muscular build had come up beside me, gazing up at the Icarus with amixture of amusement and disbelief. "Succinctly put," I agreed, lowering mybagto the ground. "With one of the chimps having first spilled his coffee on theinstructions."

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

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

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

"Boscor Mechanics Guild."

"Good outfit," I said, shaking his hand. He had a good solid grip, the sortyou'd expect of a starship mechanic. "Been waiting long?"

"No, just a couple of minutes," he said. "Kind of surprised to be the firstone here, actually. From the way Borodin talked last night, I figured he'd be inas soon as the gates opened. But the entry's locked, and no one answered when Ibuzzed."

I stepped over to the base of the stairway and touched the OPEN command on thekeypad. There was a soft beep, but nothing happened. "You check to see ifthere were any other ways inside?" I asked, looking up at the ship again.

"Not yet," Jones said. "I went around that Trink's bow first to see if I couldsee Borodin coming, but there's no sign of him that direction. You want me tocircle the ship and see what's on the other side?"

"No, I'll do it," I said. "You wait here in case he shows up."

I headed aft along the side, circling the rest of the small sphere, thenwalkingalongside the engine section. Seen up close, some of the hull plates didindeed look like they'd been fastened on by Jones's semi-trained chimps. But for allthe cosmetic sloppiness, they seemed solid enough. I rounded the thrusternozzles—which looked more professionally installed than the hull plates—andcontinued forward along the starboard side.

I was halfway to the smaller sphere when a pair of indentations in the enginesection caught my eye. Thirty centimeters apart, they were about a centimeterwide each, and an exploring finger showed they were about two centimeters deepand five more down, running to an apparent point. Basically like the latchgrooves for a snap-fit lifeline, except that I'd never seen two of them setthis close together before. Peering up along the side of the hull, squinting in theglare of the rising sun, I could see what looked like four more pairs of theslots rising in a vertical line to the top of the engine section.

I mulled at it for a moment, but I couldn't come up with any good reason tohave a group of latch grooves here. Still, considering how unorthodox the rest ofthe Icarus's design was, I wasn't inclined to waste too much brainpower on thequestion right now. The ship's specs should be in the computer; once we wereoff the ground, I could look them up and see what they were for.

On impulse, I pulled out the now useless guidance tag and tore it in half.

Loosely wadding up the pieces, I carefully stuck one into each of the lowertwo latch grooves, making sure they were out of view. The thin plastic wouldn'tblock or impede any connector that might be put into the slot, but the act ofinsertion would squash the plastic down to the bottom of the groove, leavingproof that something had been there.

I finished the rest of my inspection tour without finding anything else ofparticular interest. The wraparound tunnel/airlock we'd seen on the port sidehad no match on the starboard, as I'd thought it might, and there were noother entrances into the ship that I could see. By the time I returned to thestairway, there were four others and their luggage waiting with Jones: twomen, a Craean male, and—surprisingly enough, at least to me—a young woman.

"Ah—there you are," Jones called as I came around the curve of the smallersphere to join them. "Gentlefolk, this is our pilot and navigator, CaptainJordan McKell."

"Pleased to meet you," I said, giving them a quick once-over as I joined thegroup. "I sure hope one of you knows what's going on here."

"What do you mean, what's going on?" one of the newcomers demanded in ascratchyvoice. He was in his early twenties, thin to the point of being scrawny, withpale blond hair and an air of nervousness that hung off his shoulders like arain cloak. "You're the pilot, aren't you? I thought you pilots always kneweverything."

"Ah—you've been reading our propaganda sheets," I said approvingly. "Verygood."

He frowned. "Propaganda sheets?"

"A joke," I said, sorry I'd even tried it. Apparently, humor wasn't his strongpoint. "I was hired off the street, just like all the rest of you were."

I sent a casual glance around the group as I spoke, watching for a reaction.

But if any of them had had a different sort of invitation to this party, he waskeeping it to himself. "I'm sure we'll all have our questions answered as soonas our employer arrives," I added.

"If he shows up," the other man murmured. He was tall, probably around thirtyyears old, with prematurely gray hair and quietly probing eyes. Hismusculature was somewhat leaner than Jones's, but just as impressive in its own way.

"He'll be here," I said, trying to put more confidence into my tone than Ifelt.

Having a murder charge hanging over Cameron's head was going to severely cramphis mobility. "While we're waiting, how about you starting off theintroductions?"

"Sure," the gray-haired man said. "I'm Almont Nicabar—call me Revs. Engine certification, though I'm cleared to handle mechanics, too."

"Really," Jones said, sounding interested. "Where'd you journeyman on yourmechanics training?"

"I didn't go through an actual program," Nicabar said. "Mostly I just pickedit up while I was in the service."

"No kidding," Jones said. Apparently our mechanic was the terminally sociabletype. "Which branch?"

"Look, can't we save the social-club chat till later?" the nervous kidgrowled, his head bobbing restlessly as he checked out every spacer that came intosightalong the walkways.

"I'm open to other suggestions," I said mildly. "Unfortunately, as long as theentryway's locked—"

"So why don't we open it?" he cut me off impatiently, peering up at thewraparound. "A cheeseball hatch like that—I could pop it in half a minute."

"Not a good idea," Jones warned. "You can break the airlock seal that way."

"And that would leave our hull/EVA specialist with nothing to do," I said, turning to the Craea. "And you are, sir?"

"I am Chort," the alien said, his voice carrying the typical whistly overtonesof his species, a vaguely ethereal sound most other beings either foundfascinating or else drove them completely up a wall. "How did you know I wasthe spacewalker?"

"You're far too modest," I told him, bowing respectfully. "The reputation ofthe Crooea among spacewalkers far precedes you. We are honored to have you withus."

Chort returned the bow, his feathery blue-green scales shimmering where theycaught the sunlight. Like most of his species, he was short and slender, withpure white eyes, a short Mohawk-style feathery crest topping his head, and atoothed bird's bill for a mouth. His age was impossible to read, but Itentatively put it somewhere between fifteen and eighty. "You're far toogenerous," he replied.

"Not at all," I assured him, putting all the sincere flattery into my voicethat I figured I could get away with. The entire Craean species loved zero gee, whether working in it or playing in it, with the lithe bodies and compactmusculature that were perfect for climbing around outside ships. On top ofthat, they seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to the depressingly regularhull problems created by hyperspace pressure, plus the ability to evaluate thecondition of a plate through touch alone.

All of which meant they were highly in demand for hull/EVA positions aboardstarships, to the point where ship owners frequently tried to cajole, bribe, or otherwise steal them away from rivals in port. I wasn't sure how Cameron hadmanaged to get him to sign on with us, but a little ego-massage here and therewouldn't hurt our chances of keeping him here.

Unfortunately, our nervous type either didn't understand such subtleties orjustdidn't care. "Oh, give it a rest," he growled. "He saw your luggage, Chort—youcan tell there's a vac suit in there."

The blue-green scales edged with the pale red of surprise. "Oh," Chort said.

"Of course. There's certainly that, too."

"Don't mind him," I told the Craea, controlling my annoyance with a supremeeffort. "He's our certified diplomacy expert."

Jones chuckled, and the kid scowled. "I am not," he insisted. "I'melectronics."

"Do you have a name?" Nicabar asked. "Or are we going to have to call youTwitchy for the rest of the trip?"

"Har, har," he said, glowering at Nicabar. "I'm Shawn. Geoff Shawn."

"Which just leaves you," I said, turning to the woman. She was slim, withblack hair and hazel eyes, probably no older than her mid-twenties, with the sort oflightly tanned skin of someone who played a lot outdoors. Like Shawn, sheseemed more interested in the passing pedestrian traffic than she was in our littleget-acquainted session. "Do you cover both the computer and medicalspecialties?"

"Just computers," she said briefly, her eyes flicking to me once in quickevaluation, then turning away again. "My name's Tera."

"Tera what?" Jones asked.

"Just Tera," she repeated, giving him a coolly evaluating look.

"Yes, but—"

"Just Tera," I cut Jones off, warning him with my eyes to drop it. She mightjust be the shy type; but there were also several religious sects I knew ofwho made it a policy to never give their full names to outsiders. Either way, pressing her about it would be pointless and only add more friction to a crewthat, by the looks of things, was already rapidly reaching its quota.

"Means we're missing our medic," Nicabar put in, smoothly stepping in andfilling the conversational awkwardness. "I wonder where he is."

"Maybe he's having a drink with Borodin," Shawn said acidly. "Look, this isstupid. Are you sure that entryway's sealed?"

"You're welcome to try it yourself," I told him, waving at the keypad andwishing I knew what our next move should be. I certainly didn't want to leaveCameron behind, particularly not with a murder charge outstanding against him.

But if the Ihmisits had already picked him up, there wasn't much point in ourhanging around, either. Maybe I should give Ixil a call over at the StormyBanks and have him do a quiet search.

From above me came the ka-thunk of released seals and the hissing ofhydraulics, and I spun around to see the entryway door swinging ponderously open. "Whatdid you do?" I demanded, looking at Shawn.

"What do you mean, what did I do?" he shot back. "I pushed the damn OPENbutton, that's what I did. It was unlocked the whole time, you morons."

"Borodin must have had it on a time lock," Jones said, frowning. "I wonderwhy."

"Maybe he's not coming," Tera suggested. "Maybe he never intended to in thefirst place."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere without the advance he promised," Shawn saidflatly.

"Besides which, we don't know exactly where we're supposed to go," I remindedthem, stepping past him and peering up the stairway. It canted to the right ata slight angle, one more example of slightly shoddy workmanship to add to mygrowing list. I could see a glowing ceiling light over the hatch inside the wraparound, but nothing else was visible from this angle.

"He told me we were going to Earth," Chort offered.

"Right, but Earth's a big place," I reminded him. "With lots of differentparking spaces. Still, we might as well go in." I picked up my bag and startedtoward the stairway—

"Hang on a second, Jordan," Jones cut me off. "Someone's coming."

I turned around. From around the stern of one of the nearby ships a large, bulkyman was jogging toward us like a trotting hippo, a pair of travel bagsbouncingin his grip. "Hold on!" he called. "Don't leave yet. I'm here."

"And who are you?" I called back.

"Hayden Everett," he said, coasting to a stop beside Tera and taking a deepbreath. "Medic certificate. Whew! Had some trouble at the gate—didn't think Iwas going to make it."

"Don't worry, you're not the last," Jones said. "Our employer hasn't shown upyet, either."

"Really?" Everett said, frowning. He had short black hair and blue eyes, andthe slightly squashed features I usually associated with professional high-contactsports types. Up close, I could see now that, unlike Jones and Nicabar, mostof his impressive body mass ran to fat, though there were indications there'dbeen a fair amount of muscle there once upon a time. He was also crowding fifty, considerably older than the rest of our group, with an impressive network ofwrinkles around his eyes and mouth.

I could also see that despite the implication that he'd jogged along theslideways all the way from the gate, there was no sheen of sweat on his face, nor was he even breathing all that hard. Despite his age and surface fat, hiscardiovascular system was apparently in pretty decent shape.

"Really," Jones assured him. "So what do we do now, McKell?"

"Like I said, we go inside," I told him, starting up the steps. "Revs, you getto the engine room and start your preflight; I'll find the bridge and getthingsstarted from that end. The rest of you, bring your luggage and find yourstations."

Given the Icarus's iconoclastic design I knew that that last order was goingto be a challenge. To my mild surprise, someone had anticipated me. Thewraparoundtunnel curved around the smaller sphere to a pressure door at the surface ofthe larger sphere—apparently, the whole wraparound served as the ship's airlock—

and attached to the wall of the corridor on the far side of the pressure door wasa basic layout of the ship.

"Well, that's handy," Tera commented as the six of us crowded around it, Nicabar having already disappeared in the other direction along the wraparound to theengine room. "Where's the computer room?—oh, there it is. Odd placement."

There was a murmur of general agreement. The interior layout was fully as oddas the exterior design, with the three levels of the sphere laid out in possiblythe most arbitrary fashion I'd ever seen. The bridge was in its standardplace, nestled just behind the nose cone on the mid deck; but the computer room, instead of being connected to the bridge as usual, was at the opposite end ofthe sphere, pressed up against the wall of the smaller sphere on the starboardside of the centerline, directly behind the wall we were currently looking at.

The machine shop, electronics shop, and EVA prep area were slapped together onthe port side, where vibrations and electronic noise from one would inevitablyslop over into the other, with the sick bay and galley/dayroom across thecorridor from them just forward of the computer room.

The top deck consisted of six cracker-box-sized sleeping cabins and an onlyslightly larger head, plus two main storage rooms; the lower deck was two moresleeping cabins, another head, the main bulk of the ship's stores, and theair- and water-scrubbing and reclamation equipment. There were other, smallerstoragecabinets scattered around everywhere, apparently wherever and however thedesigner's mood had struck. The three decks were linked together by a pair ofladders, one just behind the bridge, the other aft near the wraparound.

I also noticed that while the wraparound and engine section were drawn with acertain minimal detail, the smaller sphere was drawn as a solid silhouette, labeled simply CARGO, with no access panels or hatches shown. When Cameron hadsaid the cargo was sealed, he'd meant it.

"This has got to be the dumbest ship I've ever been on," Shawn declared inobvious disgust. "Who built this thing, anyway?"

"It'll be listed on the schematics," I told him. "Tera, that'll be your firstjob after you get the computer up and running: Pull up the plans so we can seewhat exactly we've got to work with. Everyone else, go get settled. I'll be onthe bridge if you need me."

I headed up the corridor—literally up it; the Icarus's floors were sloped atthe same ten-degree angle as the ship itself—and touched the release pad set intothe center of the door.

Considering all the extra space the Icarus had over the Stormy Banks, I mighthave expected the bridge to be correspondingly larger, too. It wasn't. Ifanything, it was a little smaller. But whatever other corners Cameron and hiscronies had cut with this ship, at least they hadn't scrimped on vitalequipment. The piloting setup, to my right as I stood in the doorway, consisted of a full Wurlitz command console wrapped around a military-style full-activerestraint chair, a half-dozen Valerian monitor displays to link me to the restof the ship, and a rather impressive Hompson RealiTeev main display alreadyactivated and showing the view out the bow of the ship. To my left, the otherhalf of the room was dominated by a Gorsham plotting table connected to aKemberly nav database records system.

And sitting in the center of the plotting table were an envelope and a largemetal cash box.

I stepped over to the table and crouched down, giving the box a long, carefullook. There were no wires that I could see; no discolorations, no passivetriggers, nothing that struck me as an obvious booby trap. Holding my breath, picked it up and eased it open a crack.

Nothing snapped, flashed, hissed, or blew up in my face. Perhaps I was gettingparanoid in my old age. Exhaling quietly, I opened it the rest of the way.

Inside was money. Crisp one-hundred-commark bills. Lots of them.

I looked at the cash for another moment, then set the box back on the plottingtable and opened the envelope. Inside were a set of cards, the originals ofthe registration and clearance papers Cameron had showed me in the taverno last night, plus a single sheet of paper with a hand-printed message on it: To the captain: Due to circumstances beyond my control, I will not be able to accompany youand the Icarus after all. I must therefore trust in your honor to take the shipand its cargo to Earth without me.

When you reach Earth orbit, please contact Stann Avery at the vid numberlisted at the bottom of the page. He will give you specific delivery instructions foryour cargo and arrange your final payment. The settlement will include asubstantial bonus for you and the others of the crew, over and above whatwe've already agreed to, provided the ship and cargo are delivered intact.

In the meantime, the initial payments for all of you are in the box, as wellas the money for fuel and docking fees you'll need along the way.

Again, my apologies for any inconvenience this sudden change of plan may causeyou. I would not be exaggerating when I say that delivering the Icarus and itscargo safely will be the most significant accomplishment any of you will everdo in your lives. It may in fact be the most significant deed any human beingwill perform during the remainder of this century.

Good luck, and do not fail me. The future of the human race could well liewithin your hands.

It was signed "Alexander Borodin."

My first thought was that Cameron really needed to cut back on thosemelodramas and star-thrillers he was watching in the evenings after work. My second wasthat this was one hell of a hot potato for him to have dropped into my lap onno notice whatsoever.

"McKell?" a female voice called from behind me.

I turned to see Tera making her way uphill into the bridge. "Yes, what is it?"

"I wanted to check out the bridge," she said, glancing around the room. "I waskind of hoping the main computer might be stashed in here."

I frowned. "What are you talking about? Isn't it back in the computer room?"

"Yes, I guess it is," she said with a grimace. "I was hoping that piece ofjunkwas the backup."

Those cold ferret feet started their wind sprints up my back again. Thecomputerwas very literally the nerve center of the entire ship. "Just how bad a pieceof junk is it?" I asked carefully.

"Noah had a better one on the ark," she said flatly. "It's an old Worthram T66"

No decision-assist capabilities, no vocal interface, no nanosecond monitoring.

Programming like I haven't seen since high school, no autonomic functions or emergency command capabilities—shall I go on?"

"No, I get the picture," I said heavily. Compared to normal starship operation, we were starting out half-blind, half-deaf, and slightly muddled—rather like a stroke victim, actually. No wonder Cameron had decided to jump ship. "Can you handle it?"

She lifted her hands. "Like I said, it's an echo from a distant past, but I should be able to work it okay. It may take me a while to remember all the tricks." She nodded toward the letter in my hand. "What's that?"

"A note from the camp counselor," I told her, handing it over. "You were right; it seems we're going on this hike by ourselves."

She read it, her frown turning to a scowl as she did so. "Well, this is awkward, I must say," she said, handing it back. "He must have left this last night, before the spaceport closed."

"Unless he managed to get in and out this morning," I suggested.

"Well, if he did, he must have been really traveling," she growled. "I know I got here about as fast as I could. So what do we do now?"

"We take the Icarus to Earth, of course," I told her. "That's what we agreed to.

Unless you have a date or something."

"Don't be cute," she growled. "What about our advance pay? He promised me a thousand commarks up front."

"It's all here," I assured her, patting the cash box. "As soon as I get the preflight started I'll go pass it out and let the rest know about the change in plans."

Her eyes lingered momentarily on the box, then shifted back to me. "You think they'll all stay?"

"I don't see why not," I said. "As far as I'm concerned, as long as I get paid, a job's a job. I'm not expecting any of the others to feel differently."

"Does that mean you're officially taking command of the ship and crew?"

I shrugged. "That's how the Mercantile Code lays it out. Command succession goes owner, employer, master, pilot. I'm the pilot."

"Yes, I know," she said. "I was just making sure. For the record."

"For the record, I hereby assume command of the Icarus," I said in my most official voice. "Satisfied?"

"Ecstatic," she said with just a trace of sarcasm.

"Good," I said. "Go on back to your station and start beating that T-66 into submission. I'll be along in a few minutes with your money."

She glanced at the cash box one last time, then nodded and left the bridge.

I set the box and papers on my lap and got to work on the preflight, trying to ignore the hard knot that had settled into my stomach. Cameron's note might have been overly dramatic, but it merely confirmed what I'd suspected ever since he'd invited himself over to my taverno table and offered me a job.

Somewhere out in the Meima wasteland, that archaeological team had stumbled onto something. Something big; something—if Cameron's rhetoric was even halfway to be believed—of serious importance.

And that same something was sitting forty meters behind me, sealed up inside the Icarus's cargo hold.

I just wished I knew what the hell it was.