"The Subaru Telescope, the one Ajmal admires from the last century. He wants to develop a whole new generation of telescopes for use on moons, including this one," he said in a low voice, grinning.

"Wasn't that operational at the beginning of this century?" Peter asked, lowering his tone.

"It first saw light in January 1999."

Stepping into the main office, Peter saw that the walls were adorned by programmable screens, operated from the rectangle of small ergonomic workstations facing them. Under the screens were cabinets of a type in which crystals storing huge quant.i.ties of data were carefully filed along with additional compact devices that he did not recognize but took for astronomical data-recorders. On the far wall, across from the entrance was a wide window of dark gla.s.s; beneath it was an elaborate control panel with storage cabinets below. A clearly marked airlock facility undoubtedly gave access to the telescope chamber. A locker to the right of that was plainly labeled "EMU."

Only one station was occupied. Captain Opitz and Dr. Pienarr looked up when Peter and the major paused on the threshold.

"Ah, Major, Mr. Reidinger," the blond Opitz said, quickly skirting the desk, while the astronomer moved more slowly to greet his guests. "Let me give you the safety spiel all visitors get." Mockingly she changed her voice to a fruity low contralto. "Emergency masks are situated at intervals," and she pointed to Peter's right and the one nearest him, "and there are two airlocks, right and left," and she indicated them. "Don't try the one on the far wall. That's the observatory. No air in there." She had very blue eyes, like Amariyah's, Peter thought, which the slate-gray fatigues seemed to emphasize, rather than dull. Her uniform fitted her mature form very well.

On the other hand, Dr. Pienarr looked as if he had grabbed the first coverall to hand that morning, evidently from under a pile of heavier objects that had left creases in it. There were coffee stains down the front and on the right cuff. He was balding, with wisps of dark hair across his skull and a thicker ma.s.s over each ear in need of tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. But his hazel eyes were bright and his smile easy, one hand extended.

"I am so very glad to have you in our facility, Mr. Reidinger. Oops, hand-shaking's bad manners with psychics, I'm told," and he shoved his right hand into a pocket.

"Not at all, Dr. Pienarr," Peter said, holding his out. He was pleased with every chance he had to show a new digital dexterity.

"Oh, I say, thanks muchly." Pienarr's grip was firm and quick. "Afternoon, Vin. Thought you'd be the guide here. Got those spectroscopy images you wanted. I think," and he patted the various pockets of his coverall.

"Here," Simona Opitz said, handing him a thick white envelope.

"Oh, yes, thanks, See," and the exchange was made with thanks from Cyberal. The captain gave a little smile and executed an about-face, walking briskly to an arc of the workstations on the lower level, where she began to slot crystal data cubes into a reader.

"Now," and Pienarr rubbed his hands together, "what would you like to see? We have several projects at the moment. We always do. The SPOT . . ."

"The what?" Peter asked politely, not recognizing the acronym.

"SPOT," Pienarr repeated as if to an inattentive student, "the Solar Polar Ozone-finding Telescope."

"I didn't realize that it was operational," Peter said, retreating from that gaffe. The major hadn't mentioned that in his rundown of the observatory's connections.

"Oh, yes, five years now." Pienarr's manner was as if he expected criticism. "Well, with all the zodiacal dust, we had to do something to avoid the extinction that bollixed clear shots of some of the more interesting nebulae. Hubble did well enough in its day with detail down to less than one hundred milliarcseconds across. YEAST improved on that, of course, but SPOT frees us from the interplanetary dust within our own system. But importantly, it checks ozone layers of any likely planet for free oxygen in the atmosphere. It's a well-trained telescope."

Peter struggled to translate the acronyms from his earlier Teacher astronomy studies. He saw Cyberal's lips twitch.

"SPOT's a Sirius one, you see," Cyberal murmured close to Peter's ear, and then turned back to Pienarr with a carefully attentive expression.

Peter cleared his throat hastily to stifle a groan over the pun.

"Oh, yes," said Pienarr, "we spent over a year investigating the Dog Star."

Peter determinedly recalled scanning the technical arguments about where to place the newest generation of s.p.a.ce telescopes after YEAST-just beyond the heliopause or in an orbit around the sun, highly inclined to the plane of the ecliptic where all the planets lie. The Solar had won since it was easier to achieve a polar orbit by sending the ferrying s.p.a.cecraft to Jupiter and using Jupiter's gravitational pull as a slingshot.

"We have several hours on SPOT today for our latest project," Dr. Pienarr said smugly, and pointed to the workstation to which Simona had returned. "Simona is reducing our last spectrophotopolarimetric data of a likely star system within the constellation Aquila." Columns of figures now came up on the wall screen facing Simona Opitz. "Likely in that the G-type primary might have satellites so we'll also check ozone layers for free oxygen. We need a completely sampled coronographic image of the system. Now Farside Number One is looking for s.p.a.ce ice," and he gestured to another workstation on the upper level.

"s.p.a.ce ice?"

"Yes, you know, frozen water, even possibly the water that was once used by a higher life-form than that which we found on Mars. One would have to purify such ice but even if it is only good for irrigation, it's a very valuable commodity." Dr. Pienarr gave Peter a telling glance for his surprise at such basic husbandry in s.p.a.ce. "Well, that's what Farside Number One is doing, you probably pa.s.sed it to starboard," he c.o.c.ked his head inquiringly.

"We did," Peter admitted, and diplomatically said nothing else.

"Farside Number Two is doing a survey of the M-type asteroids of the Patroclus group," Ajmal said, very pleased. "s.p.a.ce Authority has been nagging us for details so they can begin mining operations. Certainly would increase resources."

"Won't that cause problems?" Vin Cyberal asked.

"Not unless they had to be moved," Ajmal said.

Moved, Peter echoed in his thoughts. "You could move an asteroid?"

"Are you asking if you could, telekinetically?" Ajmal asked, his eyes twinkling.

Peter laughed not only as an answer to the astronomer, but also to relieve his startled reaction to the very idea. Not that he thought he was likely to do so. Could he?

"Technically," Pienarr continued, and Cyberal grinned at Peter, "I suppose that could be done with the newest rockets SA has developed. Attach 'em, blast it out of its current orbit. G.o.d knows there're enough asteroids.

"That's another problem we monitor-generally on FST Number Three" and Ajmal waved toward the workstation diametrically opposite them. "Then, on that scope," and he gestured almost contemptuously to the rear wall, and the window that looked onto the Schmidt-Ca.s.segrain, "we constantly track NEOs and the PHAs. There were several close ones in the late twentieth century-1989CF, 1997XF 11, and most particularly 1999 AN 10. Do you know what NEOs are?" His eyes fixed on Peter as a teacher's will on a student suspected of ignorance.

"Yes, I do," Peter replied easily. "Wasn't it First Base that identified the very close crossing of the 1998HH 49 in 2028?"

"Yes, it was. The Station was just operational," and a look of regret crossed Ajmal's round mobile face, "but I was not onstation then. Indeed I hadn't even decided on astronomy as a career in 'twenty-eight." He sighed. "Well, that PHA was unusual even for its whimsical type. I'm sure you understand that many small bodies cross Earth's...o...b..t without incident. We certainly are extremely careful not to cry 'wolf' to the s.p.a.ceForce. Any PHA is well doc.u.mented and ephemerals constantly projected so there's plenty of warning and no last-minute panic about Doomsday or Armageddon or Nemesis." He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in despair of such dramatics. "October, it was, the sixteenth, and although HH49 should have pa.s.sed within 560,000 miles of Earth, its...o...b..t was perturbed by the pa.s.sage of the Comet Enzuka in 2027 so action had to be taken and the PHA was rather neatly disintegrated. Of course, with a united world government, the suspicions and paranoia of the late twentieth century simply can't recur."

Peter sensed that Dr. Pienarr was about to exercise one of his favorite hobbyhorses and interposed his request.

"If it's possible, I really would like to see what you're looking at now in the Patroclus group," Peter said, eagerly.

Ajmal stepped agilely up to the nearest workstation, gesturing for them to follow him. "What we've been focusing on isn't as spectacular as . . ."

"Oh, don't change it just for me," Peter exclaimed, but Ajmal had already typed in an altering set of commands.

"Nonsense. Even I know you're not the usual visitor. I'll just bring up one of the more impressive ones in the Patroclus group. I've saved the coordinates of the search pattern so it'll be no trouble at all to track back. Ah, here we are," and with a grand flourish of one hand, he indicated the monitor that lit up with images.

Peter was awed to have such a sharp focus on the distant object whose orbit was following Jupiter. Seeing was required for believing, as it hung in s.p.a.ce, moving just perceptibly against its backdrop of asteroids and stars, Jupiter not visible in this frame.

"t.i.thonus," Ajmal announced, tucking his hands under his biceps as he viewed the spectacle. Unnecessarily, the doctor repeated the information running along the bottom of the screen activated by his workstation. "Number 6998 in IAU, inclination 1.7, eccentricity 0.068, with a 28 km diameter. That'd be a handy one to move, at least, if you're really considering that, Vin," and Ajmal gave Cyberal a sly look. "Just fire the rockets in whichever direction you want to break it free from the L-5 point and inject it into a new orbit."

Peter could even make out what looked like "dust" on the uneven surface of t.i.thonus. In his previous expeditions to observatories, the emphasis had been on the main planets of this solar system or observations from the faint object spectrographs of systems that were then the subjects of intense colonial interest.

"You seem fascinated, Pete," Cyberal said in the sort of voice one used to break into intense concentration.

"Oh, sorry. Yes, I am fascinated. Thank you, Dr. Pienarr."

"Oh, not the t.i.tle, please." Ajmal gave a testy wave of his hand. "Does get to you, though." His attention had returned to the image.

"I wouldn't mind your going back to the M-asteroid. I would rather not interrupt your work any more than I have to," Peter began politely. Then he pointed to the window and control panels of the telescope. "May I have a look?"

"But, of course, my dear boy, of course. Though," and Ajmal's tone became almost derogatory, "it's of a much earlier generation than the ones we now work with." After a pause, he added, "It was built in situ."

Peter glided over. The wide part.i.tion window seemed to be one of those that would turn opaque at a touch. Yes, there was a toggle clearly marked "window" on the control board. Accustomed to the usual dome protection, he was at first surprised to see the huge barrel-at least twelve meters long-just sitting out in the open. But there were no elements to guard against, only the full rays of the sun. Another control was marked "deflector shield" and he would have looked further but suddenly there was noise coming from the foyer.

Over Cyberal's shoulder, because the major stepped in front of him, Peter saw Corporal Hinojosa backing in a step ahead of several white-coated figures. Peter swallowed, getting a flashback of a scene during Barchenka's Mutiny.

"It's all right," he told Vin when he felt the public minds of the newcomers and knew they were harmless. Hinojosa's door-keeping was helpful, not deterrent.

"Just my staff, Vin," Ajmal was saying, startled by the sudden defense posture of the major. "Their shift is starting." He turned to Peter as four men and a woman filed in. "We keep very odd hours here, you see. Now, since she's making such a glorious transit, let me show you Callisto. As you may not know, once Mars Station is up and running, she's being considered for an advance base."

"She is?" Peter echoed, surprised. "Really? Isn't she covered with craters? Isn't there supposed to be a salty ocean sloshing beneath all the ice? Wouldn't that make her ineligible for a permanent installation?"

Ajmal Pienarr beamed as if Peter were a precocious student. Vin Cyberal cleared his throat in discreet warning and Ajmal shook his head.

"I thought this young man had total clearance," he said almost testily.

"On First Base, but not necessarily to all of s.p.a.ce Authority's future plans," the major said.

Peter forbore to find out more from a closer 'path at Ajmal's very open mind but his interest was certainly piqued.

"The Moon yesterday, Mars tomorrow, and why not the universe next week , " Peter said expansively, to show he had taken no offense.

"Yes, yes, and here's Callisto. Splendid, isn't she?" Ajmal said, stepping back a pace and folding his arms on his chest, to better admire the sight on the wall screen.

As fascinating as the asteroid had been, Peter was amazed at the size of Callisto, a brownish orange marble in a sky dominated by Jupiter's formidable bulk to the left. He knew the moon had the oldest surface of the Jovian satellites since it hadn't been constantly recycled by volcanic activity, like lo, so the moon hadn't had the chance to cover her crater scars. She had sustained mult.i.tudes of "hits," to judge by the interlocking impact craters that riddled the surface she turned resolutely outward.

"Valhalla?" Peter asked, pointing to the largest of these features.

"Correct," was Ajmal's response, nodding once again with pleasure at Peter's correct identification.

"Aj, we need to alter the tracking on Number One now," Simona Opitz said from her station, one of the white-coated men standing by her. "Or did Mr. Reidinger want to see the s.p.a.ce ice?" She turned a very friendly but firm smile on Cyberal. "Have you remembered to ask where you want him to 'port objects in here yet? After all, that's why you're here. We can't monopolize his time, you know."

Which Peter had no trouble interpreting to mean "monopolize our time." Well, he could appreciate that now he'd seen the staff arrive; they seemed to be waiting for their day's a.s.signments.

"You were very good to give me so much of your time, Ajmal," Peter said affably, glancing back at the astronomer who was actually pouting. "Where would it be safe to 'port in here? I certainly wouldn't want to . . ."

"Over there." Ajmal gestured negligently toward the window part.i.tion and the control panel, exasperated by the captain, who merely smiled back. "We don't use that area as much."

Peter took good note of the angle of the part.i.tion window, the edge of the control panel, the storage cabinet beneath it, looking very much like the comer of many other facilities. Then he saw the discoloration on the wall from the top of the window to the floor that resembled the southern tip of South America and Cape Horn. That and the windowsill would make it an easily identifiable site for him to "see." Since deciding on such a place was the real reason he'd been brought to the observatory, his business here was over. Saying all that was polite to Ajmal and then Simona, Peter left the observatory with Cyberal.

"d.a.m.ned managing female," Cyberal said without rancor when they were in the corridor and the corporal was once more their advance scout. The astronomy office was on the north end of Akahiro Block. "Ajmal loves to talk, or had you noticed?"

Peter nodded with a little chuckle. "But all of that," he began as they retraced their steps, "the mining and Callisto-they depend on getting the Mars Base started, don't they?"

"It is started, you know," Vin Cyberal replied in a low voice. "It's keeping it going that's the problem. It needs more personnel, supplies, materiel, instrumentation, and air. Water's been found." He shrugged at the immensity of the task involved. "But we don't know if it's enough. That's why the search for s.p.a.ce ice."

"Well, humans walked on the Moon mid-twentieth century and they can now live comfortably and independently on it, why not on Mars before this century is out?"

I should have asked to "see" the Mars Base while I had the chance, Peter railed at himself. For that matter, there were plenty of coordinates he could use now that Airy was the Greenwich line of Mars and there were sufficient high-resolution images to paper the walls of the old Pentagon Building.

Back on Padrugoi, Ca.s.s Cutler had disguised herself as yet another innocuous cleaner, complete with a service trundle cart full of janitorial supplies. She had trudged the corridors of the lower levels, hunting for Flimflam. She had found him late on the first day, innocently asleep in his proper quarters. The contact was enough to refresh her sense of him, but she didn't like what he was dreaming and balked at probing deep enough to wake him up and get him moving about so she could see what he was doing and where he went.

The janitorial staff was composed mainly of offenders sentenced off-Earth: offies in the current slang. They wore double wristbands, which technically limited them to the lower levels of Padrugoi. Janitorial squads were brought above the permitted level by guards, especially when the open public areas had to be cleaned up after special a.s.semblies or brawls among freighter crews. They were searched before and after the work period. Ca.s.s observed to herself that brawls could be started. So it wouldn't be hard to leave something behind where only the intended recipient could find it. There might indeed be a flourishing black market on Padrugoi in spite of all the precautions. No anomalies had been brought to official notice since Barchenka's time. She didn't know if this was a reflection on Admiral Coetzer's more enlightened regime or not.

Until the sabotage of Limo-34 Limo-34. Only that that had been arranged to be a s.p.a.ce accident and no one, or no evidence, should have remained to explain the destruction. Had Flimflam, if indeed he was responsible, slipped out of a work party on the boat bay and sabotaged the s.p.a.ceship? Not by himself. had been arranged to be a s.p.a.ce accident and no one, or no evidence, should have remained to explain the destruction. Had Flimflam, if indeed he was responsible, slipped out of a work party on the boat bay and sabotaged the s.p.a.ceship? Not by himself.

The next shift started in two hours so she cleaned the dormitory hall. Ironic that the area janitorial staff lived in needed cleaning. She was accustomed, from work in the Linears, to filth, but those buildings were much older than Padrugoi. Finally men and women emerged from their sleeping quarters, to eat before going to work. No one noticed her but then, part of her value was that she could blend nicely into any sort of background. Five men exited Flimflam's room but he did not. The prospect of cleaning for another eight hours in this section of Padrugoi had no appeal whatsoever; even if the hallway hadn't been so clean since oxygen had first filtered into it.

She decided she'd better get some sleep. If she had to do any chasing of Flimflam, she'd need to be rested. Crowd control was easy compared to surveillance. She slipped into a nearby almost empty female accommodation, ignoring the pong in the room and the thinness of the mattress. She tried to set her mind to wake her up if she felt Flimflam's mind moving away from her. But she discounted the depth of her fatigue.

She was awakened by another cleaner who indignantly demanded why she thought she had the right to take someone else's bunk. Meekly, Ca.s.s left with her trundle-cart and cast about her for Flimflam's mental signature. It was well into afternoon before she sussed him suddenly at a distance; he might have come off an elevator. She couldn't 'path too far away without a partner but it was him, coming her way. She whipped out a damp rag and began to scrub.

She could feel his mind seething as he neared, so chaotic with doubts that she automatically tried to broadcast rea.s.surances. And stopped. The day she helped Flimflam would be a cold one in h.e.l.l. Out of the corner of her eye, she was surprised to note that he was wearing tailored fatigues and the insignia of a lieutenant junior grade in Communications. He pa.s.sed her without so much as a glance, fretting over the lack of news. What news? she wondered. He was twitching inside and out, jiggling one hand as he strode, outwardly confident and wearing the sort of expression that would turn aside any casual inquiries. He inserted a metal strip into the slot of a door halfway down the corridor and went inside.

"Well, well, well, and well," Ca.s.s murmured, laying her hand on the plasteel wall. He was doing something. The moment his activities inside stopped, she bent over, and her hind end was all he'd see of her. She did not make the mistake of working too industriously since the cleaners she observed never used much energy on the job.

Flimflam, his mind disquiet with a variety of anxieties about the rewards of failure, which he still vehemently denied as he examined acceptable excuses, strode past her. He was no longer clad in tailored clothes. Trouser legs of regular issue flapped about his ankles, showing regular-issue ship shoes rather than the polished leather half boots that an officer usually wore.

Well, he always was a quick change artist, she mused. She let him get out of sight and then, trundling the cart to the door he had used, she got out the special strip Commander Ottey had warily entrusted to her-it allowed entry to any room up to CIC-and got in with a quiet snick.

One look inside and she hauled the cart in as well, closing the door behind her. Staring about her, she whistled in surprise. In her haste to get in, she hadn't noticed the label on the door but whatever that said, it lied. Flimflam had converted it to his use. Part of it was his changing room for a variety of uniforms and collar tabs, no rank higher than lieutenant commander, but every type of authorized apparel from fatigues to dress tunic hung from a rail. The other part was supplies. Drawers and shelves contained sundry items from instant sustenance packets to gourmet freeze-dried foods, bottles of wine and hard liquor, drawers packed with circuit boards and tools, manuals (two marked TOP SECRET), including one for MPUs, and odd-shaped vacuum packs, identified only by serial codes. Hanging on a nail were a half-dozen wrist IDs. How had he removed his distinctive double wristband so that he could use these? The fact that Flimflam possessed spares of anything was disturbing. She jammed the bands into her thigh pocket, patting them flat. Having had a good look around, she turned back to the door, looking for any surveillance device Flimflam might have planted. There was none, but there was a sketch of sorts on the back of the door, marked with squares, rectangles, and circles, running vertically in a weird design. She stared at it, trying to comprehend its significance.

"How dense can you get, Cutler," she said, slapping her forehead as it suddenly occurred to her that this was a rough diagram of the Station's levels. She found her current location, a square, the shape of this room.

Keeping the layout of Padrugoi in mind, she worked out two more square repositories like this, one in the Mall, another in the noncommissioned officers' quarters. She fussed over the circles, which were so oddly placed, gave up on them, and tried to suss out the rectangles. The largest one ought to be on the boat bay. That made a lot of sense. If Flimflam had been responsible for the sabotage of Limo-34 Limo-34, and she suspected he had had a lot to do with it, he'd've had to have all his supplies for that job in one place, as well as additional help, to do it in the time available. What were the circles? Okay, Cutler, what is circular on a s.p.a.ce station? Glancing about the room, wracking her brains, her eye caught the ventilation grille in the ceiling.

"Yes, stupid," she murmured. "Now did General Johnny give him that idea when he secreted his troops in the conduits around the Inauguration site before the Mutiny?"

There were nine circles on the rough map, ranging up and down Padrugoi's long stem. In her mind's eye, she slid a map of Padrugoi over the sketch and memorized the positions. She could hunt for the conduit and ventilation sites later. She should check the boat bay site next. But first for that evidence the boss always needed. She took out the print-recorder and ran it over every surface. It would record all fingerprints, including her own, but would provide undeniable evidence of who frequented this room. Flimflam couldn't have done the sabotage on his own. He had to have had accomplices. Maybe never allowed in this room but surely when he did that rush job on Limo-34?

Boat bay next! She removed a change of clothing, and rank, from her trundle-cart so that she could reach her destination without too many questions on the way.

Opening the door and checking to he sure the hall was vacant, she emerged as a CPO from Transport, and pushed the cart out. She closed the door, noting that it was labeled 7299A, and wheeled the cart almost to the next intersection, where she left it and walked smartly away.

The boat bay was occupied when she got there: a maintenance team was working on another Limo but too busy under the eyes of a CPO to notice her entry. Moving as if she were on an urgent errand, she strode to her target door and, slipping in the special key, was relieved when it opened. She entered, letting the door close on her as she palmed on lights. She whistled softly. Unlike 7299A, this room was a mess and was filled with an acrid smell. The grille had been removed from the ceiling ventilator; that was interesting. Improvised steps in the form of empty plastic frames suggested that someone or ones had left via that route. More important to her search, however, were the circuit boards and crystals. Careful not to smear any fingerprints on what surface there was, she peered at the yellow printing on the boards.

"Hmm. For MPUs, huh. Like they use in Limos. Very interesting." She ran the print-recorder across everything.

Tools were also scattered about an empty container, clearly marked EPOXY Type 34-AS-9, fast-acting. A large red label under that legend warned about using it without safety gloves and mask. She saw the cuff of one safety glove and several masks discarded in a corner. fast-acting. A large red label under that legend warned about using it without safety gloves and mask. She saw the cuff of one safety glove and several masks discarded in a corner.

Let's see now, six, seven days? There might still be residual traces on skin and clothing that a sensor could pick up. Some of those grunts don't bother washing, she reminded herself.

She took out the print-recorder and slowly scanned the rest of the printable surfaces available, of which there were quite a few. She had a st.i.tch in her back when she finished the circuit. Hopping up the steps, she flicked the recorder around the aperture. Prints might be smudged but enough could be made of them to confirm that this had been used as an egress for those owning the prints. Then she hoisted herself up into the ventilation shaft, ducking her head as she perched on the edge. Light from other openings in both directions allowed her to see to intersections.

Hmm, Flimflam'd need to pick skinny grunts. He's not, even in tailor mades. She spread her hand, which she knew measured twenty centimeters from little finger to thumb, a reliable gauge, and decided the opening was just wide enough for a man not too broad in the shoulder. He'd've had to scrunch in his shoulders a bit. Wonder if he'll have old bruises or sc.r.a.pes on his arms, she mused. At least there was reason for the boss to do a thorough examination of him. She considered if continuing would be profitable. "Maybe, but I'd get dirty and tired and someone else can do this sort of work," she muttered. "I'd better get back to the boss. I've found Flimflam and I've found evidence that should stand up in a trial."

She lowered herself back through the opening, holding on to the edge to kick the crude steps out of the way before she dropped to the floor. Dusting off her hands and uniform, she exited the room whistling merrily and didn't bother to notice if the maintenance crew had seen her.

On her way back to the commissioner's temporary office on the CIC level of Padrugoi, she realized one of the things that might be causing Flimflam anxiety: Limo-34 had landed safely at First Base, though the news had not been bruited about. So all his efforts to sabotage the flight had been in vain. Couldn't happen to a nicer sucker! She wondered who would be on his back because he'd failed. That was someone else's problem. She was here because she could recognize Flimflam's mind. The LEO Commissioner was loaning the admiral appropriate, parapsychic staff in this investigation. Not that she could, or would, probe that scuzball but she certainly could locate him and she had. She found the correct lift, inserted the metal slip of her pa.s.s, and continued on her way. As a crowd-control empath with a limited 'path range, she'd have to report in person. Besides, she wanted to see the expression on Boris Roznine's face. She also needed to get to a schematic of Padrugoi so she could identify the locations of Flimflam's other depots. She rapped on the office door.

Ah, Ca.s.s, said Boris in his unmistakably deep mental voice. Come in. Come in.

She did, pausing in surprise at the disarray in the cabin. Roznine's office in Jerhattan was always tidy but here he was surrounded by pencil files of all colors, hard copy, and two monitors displaying graphs and curves, as well as a tray with half-eaten sandwiches. Boris looked tired; even his fingers wavered a little over his notepad.