at a picnic hunting for crumbs. It fit, all right. Unfortunately. "Wonderful. What do you propose we do about it?"

"You'd better stay aboard the ship until they leave. Can you get this Daviee person to tell them you're not there?"

"Probably," Forsythe growled. "There's just one slight flaw in that plan: the Gazelle's about to leave for Angelma.s.s. I doubt they'd be interested in having us along while they go angel hunting. No, you're going to have to do something from there. And you're going to have to do it in the next three minutes."

Beside Ronyon, Hanan Daviee cleared his throat. "High Senator?" he murmured, raising a tentative hand.

Forsythe focused on him. "What?"

"If you'd rather not leave right now, you'd be welcome to join us," he said. "We have enough room aboard for both of you."

Forsythe stared at him, the automatic polite refusal catching midway up his throat. It was, on the face of it, a ridiculous suggestion.

But on the other hand, why not? The other High Senators talked a great deal about angels being the future of the Empyrean, but to the best of his knowledge not a single one of them had ever personally gone on an angel hunt. It was no more or less than basic research for a man in his position.

More to the immediate point, it would save him the trouble of facing a group of reporters and questions he didn't really want to answer right now. "Very well, Mr. Daviee," he said. "I accept your offer. Zar? Cancel the panic. I'm going to take a run out to Angelma.s.s with the Gazelle."

There was another silence from the phone, a longer one this time. "You're not serious, sir," Pirbazari said at last, his voice sounding sandbagged.

"Perfectly serious," Forsythe said. "Why not?"

"Why not? This isn't exactly your standard fact-finding trip, High Senator. We're talking about Angelma.s.s here. EM radiation, deadly particle fluxes, violent magnetic fields-"

"We're also talking about a huntership, Zar," Forsythe reminded him. "They're designed for that environment."

"You also haven't been checked out on huntership fundamentals, sir," Pirbazari said stiffly. "That's a basic safety rule. I'm sorry, but I cannot in any way endorse this course of action."

"Noted," Forsythe said. "Continue your work; I'll check in with you whenever I get back."

He closed down the phone and replaced it in its pocket. "Well," he said, nodding to Hanan. "Request permission to stay aboard, Captain. Or whatever the appropriate phrase is."

"Oh, we're not that formal here, High Senator," Hanan said, his face reddening a bit. "If you'll permit me to show you and your aide to your rooms-"

"Why don't I do that?" Kosta put in. "Then you can concentrate on getting the ship ready."

"That would be more convenient-if the High Senator doesn't mind, that is," Hanan added quickly, looking at Forsythe.

It was, for Forsythe, a familiar pattern: common man meets Important Personage and instantly starts walking on eggs. Fortunately, it was familiar enough for him to know how to handle it. "What the High Senator would like most," he told Hanan, putting a note of mild reproof in his voice, "is for you to relax. I don't want any special treatment or deference or to interfere with your work in any way. All right?"

"Ah... yes, sir," Hanan said. "I'll try."

"Good," Forsythe nodded. "It might help for you to pretend I'm just someone who's interested in angel hunting and came along to see what the business was like."

Hanan smiled wanly. "First thing I'd do is try to talk you out of it. Far too much work involved. Thank you, High Senator." His eyes flicked to Kosta. "We'll put them in cabins one and two. Get Chandris to help you change the bunks." With a nod, he turned and hurried down the corridor.

Forsythe felt a quiet chill run through him. Chandris. As in Chandris Lalasha, as in the Xirrus's stowaway. He'd predicted to Pirbazari that she and Kosta were working together; now, it seemed, that prediction had been borne out.

She was aboard... and he was going to be spending several days cooped up on this ship with them.

He shook away the momentary twinge of uncertainty. These were con artists, after all. Con artists were almost never violent.

Ronyon was looking at him, uncertainties of his own puckering his face. We're going to be staying aboard the ship for a few days, Forsythe signed to him. This is Mr. Kosta-he's going to take us to our rooms. The other man who was here is named Mr. Daviee.

Ronyon nodded, and Forsythe turned to Kosta. "Whenever you're ready."

"Right," Kosta said, his eyes lingering on Ronyon for just a second too long.

Which meant he very much wanted to ask, but wasn't sure of how to do so. "Ronyon is deaf," Forsythe said, saving him the trouble. "Also somewhat r.e.t.a.r.ded. If you need to say anything to him that can't be communicated by simple gestures, you'll have to do it through me." Which wasn't entirely true, of course. But there was no need for Kosta to know that.

"I understand," Kosta said. "Uh... if you'll follow me, the cabins are back this way."

They retraced their steps back to the now-sealed hatchway and continued a short way past it to one of several identical cross corridors. The first door along it opened into a small but cozily furnished cabin. "This is normally Ornina's room," Kosta said as he ushered them in. "Hanan's is across the corridor. Let me call Chandris and find out where fresh bedding is kept."

"All right," Forsythe said as Kosta stepped around him and went to the bedside intercom. He wasn't really happy with the idea of throwing Hanan and his sister out of their rooms; but this too was a reaction he'd run into before, and he knew that they'd feel far more uncomfortable if he insisted on taking less than the best accommodations they had to offer.

Kosta finished his conversation and looked up. "She'll be along in a few minutes," he told Forsythe. "You can wait here, or else I can take you to the control cabin and introduce you to Ornina."

"Let's do the control cabin," Forsythe decided. "After that, perhaps you'd be good enough to pull up the specs for this ship and let me start learning my way around."

"Certainly," Kosta said. "This way, please."

They had again pa.s.sed the hatchway and turned inward toward the center of the ship when, turning a corner, they came face to face with a young woman, a stack of linens in her arms. "There you are," Kosta said, turning back to Forsythe. "These are our guests: High Senator Forsythe and-ah-"

"His name is Ronyon," Forsythe supplied, giving the girl a quick onceover. In her mid to late teens, he estimated, attractive enough in an immature sort of way, her posture exuding confidence and control. Clearly, she belonged here on the Gazelle; and for a brief moment he wondered if he'd jumped to the wrong conclusion about who she was.

And then he took another, longer look at her face, with that neutral-polite expression, and those coldly calculating eyes. It was the measuring look of a professional politician... or a highly competent con artist.

No, there'd been no mistake. "And you, I take it," he added, "must be Chandris."

"Yes," the woman said, her gaze flicking once to Ronyon. "The Gazelle is honored by your presence. May I ask what brings a High Senator aboard our humble ship?"

"Circ.u.mstances, plus an interest in Mr. Kosta's work," Forsythe told her. "I'll try not to get in your way."

"I'm sure there'll be no problems," she said coolly. Her eyes dropped to the pendant around his neck, perhaps to rea.s.sure herself that he really was who he claimed to be. "If you'll excuse me, there are still several things that need my attention before we hit the launch strip."

"Of course," Forsythe nodded, stepping to the side of the corridor to let her pa.s.s. "If that's the bedding for our rooms, though, you can just give it to Ronyon. There's no need for you to take it there personally."

"All right." Stepping to Ronyon, she offered him the bedding.

The big man looked questioningly at Forsythe. Take it back to our rooms, Forsythe signed to him. You remember the way?

Sure, Ronyon signed, accepting the bundle and tucking it under one arm. Should I wait there then? he signed one-handed.

Might as well. I'll come back for you in a little while.

Chandris was still standing close to Ronyon, an odd look on her face. "He's deaf," Forsythe

explained. "If you need to talk to him, you'll have to do so through me."

"I see," she said. "I'd better get back to work, then. Are you sure Ronyon can find his way back to your cabin alone?"

"He's got a good sense of direction," Forsythe a.s.sured her."Ah," she nodded. "Well, I'm going back that direction anyway.""All right." Forsythe caught Ronyon's eye. This is Chandris, he signed. She'll walk with you back to the rooms.

Ronyon nodded, and together he and Chandris headed down the corridor. "And now, as I recall," Forsythe said, turning back to Kosta, "we were heading for the control cabin."

Kosta was staring down the corridor at the departing twosome. "Right," he said, bringing his attention back to Forsythe with obvious effort. "If you'll follow me, sir...?"

And as they walked, Forsythe permitted himself a brief grimace. Kosta and Chandris were up to something, all right. He could read it in their reactions to him as readily as he could read Ronyon's signing. All he had to do was to figure out exactly what it was.

And hope like fury that whatever it was wouldn't interfere with his plans to stop the flow of angels.

CHAPTER 25.

Outside, the tow car took up the slack; and with a jerk, the Gazelle started rolling. Ronyon, still carrying the bedding, was caught off-guard by the sudden motion and staggered slightly, b.u.mping into the corridor wall.

It was the opportunity Chandris had been waiting for. In an instant she was at his side, steadying his arm and pressing against him.

A couple of seconds were all she got before he was back on balance again and she had to pull away. But a couple of seconds were all she needed. Her senses had not, in fact, played her false during that conversation a minute ago with Kosta and High Senator Forsythe.

Ronyon was carrying an angel.

An angel. She repeated the word silently to herself, her thoughts spinning with old plans and fresh possibilities. An angel. Not the Daviees' spare, which she'd promised herself not to take, but a government angel. One of thousands. One that would probably never be missed.

All it would take, Hanan had told her, would be some highly specialized neural surgery and six months of intensive treatment... and two million ruya to pay for all of it.

I'm reformed, she reminded herself. But the words sounded hollow and meaningless. And anyway, she'd never said she was reformed. The only reason she hadn't stolen anything lately was that she hadn't happened across anything worth the effort.

Until now.

They reached Hanan's cabin and Ronyon went inside, smiling cheerfully at Chandris as he set the bundle of bedding on the desk. "You want me to do the beds?" Chandris asked before remembering he couldn't hear her. But even as she tried to think of how best to act out the question, Ronyon shook his head and tapped his own chest. Turning to the bunk, he began to strip it.

So he could read lips. Interesting that Forsythe had neglected to mention that fact. In fact, he'd strongly implied exactly the opposite, that Ronyon could only communicate through sign language.

For a long moment she stood in the doorway, gazing at Ronyon's broad back while he worked, the old juices starting to flow again as she considered how to make the approach. Picking his pocket would be the simplest if she knew where he was carrying it. But she didn't; and anyway, out here in the middle of nowhere she wouldn't exactly have the option of chop-hopping if he noticed the loss. The best way would be for him to give it to her, for whatever reason she could concoct. A man of his obvious limitations should be easy to score.

Ronyon finished the cot and turned back, seemingly surprised to see her still there. But he smiled again as he collected the other set of bedding. She smiled back, moving out of the doorway to let him pa.s.s. The smile faded as he crossed the corridor and went into Hanan's room. An easy score... except for one minor detail.

The track in this case was deaf.

Chandris bit at her lip, a swirl of uncertainty like she hadn't felt in years swishing through her stomach. She'd never scored a deaf person before; and up to now she'd never properly appreciated just how much of her talent was tied up in her voice. Her tone, her vocabulary, the texture of her phrasings-those were what made the tracks see someone who wasn't really there. Even more than basic disguise and body language, it was what had given her her edge through the years.

Only here, that edge was gone.

Across the room, the intercom pinged. "Chandris?" Ornina's voice called. "Where are you?"

She stepped to the desk and tapped the switch. "I'm in your room," she said. "Helping Ronyon get the bed changed."

"Ron-? Oh, right-the High Senator's aide," Ornina said. "I hadn't caught his name. I wanted to let you know we're almost to the launch strip."

Chandris grimaced. "I'll be right up."

The intercom clicked off. For a moment Chandris just stood there, staring some more at Ronyon's back and trying furiously to come up with a scheme she could run within the next sixty seconds. If she let this chance slip away...

She took a deep breath. Relax, she told herself firmly. Don't push it. There'll be time enough later.

She touched Ronyon on the shoulder. "I have to go to the control cabin," she said when he turned around, being careful to enunciate her words clearly. "Do you want to go with me so that you know the way?"

He looked down at the half-made bed, forehead wrinkled in thought, and shook his head. His hands began to trace out a pattern in the air in front of him- "I don't understand that language," Chandris said, reaching out to gently stop his hands. "Maybe later you can teach me. Are you going to stay here?"

He nodded. "All right," Chandris said. "I'll see you later."

The roar of the Gazelle's drive faded into a dull rumble, weight fading away with it. Kosta set his teeth carefully together, focused on the back of Hanan's head directly across from his jumpseat, and concentrated on not being sick.

"We're on course now for the Seraph catapult, High Senator," Hanan said, half turning. "It'll take about an hour to get there. I've started the Gazelle spinning-we should have enough for at least a little gravity in a couple of minutes."

"Thank you," Forsythe said. Kosta risked a look that direction, saw no trace of freefall sickness in the High Senator's face. As usual, Kosta seemed to be the only one having trouble. "How much of a wait will there be at the catapult?"

"Ideally, there shouldn't be any wait at all," Hanan said. "Turnaround is usually pretty much as we

get there."

"Even with three launch dishes feeding one catapult?" Forsythe countered. "That sounds like a situation begging for a logjam."

"You're right, it does," Hanan agreed. "Oddly enough, though, that doesn't usually happen. For one thing, there's no problem with coordinate-setting; the catapult and Central's net are binary linked. As long as they're both functioning, you can't go anywhere else. Same thing coming home, too."

"What about ma.s.s settings?"

"The readings are taken by the launch dish," Hanan explained. "They're then transmitted directly to