Margiu watched the little group by the hatch-did the major know that behind his back the crew chief's broad hand was poised to push him out? She doubted it; he was too angry with the pilot.

"I'll complain to your commander," the major said, turning away; Margiu could see how red he'd turned, and looked down. This was not something she wanted to witness.

"So will I," the pilot said. Already the crew chief was coiling the wet line that had held the raft to the plane. He pulled the hatch shut, dogged the latch, and secured the dripping coil of rope to the cleat on the forward bulkhead. Margiu could not see the raft from her side, but she saw the propeller of the inboard engine begin to turn, and the duct flanges move. Gouts of blue smoke, then spray, as the propeller blast whipped the surface of the sea. The plane swung in a tight circle; now she could see, through the wavering streams of water on the window, the bright yellow of the life raft rocking on the swell. The engines roared, and the plane moved jerkily at first through the water; then, with a series of shuddering slams, reached takeoff velocity and lifted away from the water. As the window cleared, Margiu looked back. A tiny yellow dot, already hard to see, and behind it, a darkening line of the oncoming storm.

She could have been down there. She could have been huddling in that miserable foul-smelling life raft, struggling to learn how to survive in a storm.

"I don't think I quite like that major," the professor said. Margiu glanced at him. His amiable face had set into an expression of cold distaste. "Not someone with the right grasp of priorities."

Safer to say nothing, especially since her stomach was leaping around with the turbulence.

"Are you all right?" he asked, then answered his own question. "No, I see that you are not. Here-"

He put something chilly and wet on her cheek, the only exposed skin. "Antinausea patch. I put one on while they were still arguing. Close your eyes, and lean back-takes about thirty seconds."

Margiu counted to herself, and by twenty-seven felt that her stomach had settled. She opened her eyes. Behind, over the noise of the engines, she heard the major retching, but even the sour smell of vomit didn't make her stomach lurch. The professor leaned away from her. "Here, Major-an antinausea patch-"

The man said nothing, but the professor's hand came back empty, and he turned to wink at her.

Margiu smiled uncertainly.

"Always come prepared," the professor said. "Nausea adds to no one's ability to think and act effectively. You're better now?"

"Yes," Margiu said.

Once the plane was in level flight, the pilot spoke over the intercom.

"I realize all of you have urgent orders to the various Stack Islands bases, but we have some problems to deal with. MetSatIV is offline, and has been for several hours. We do not know what our weather will be, and there's an additional concern about security at Stack Three. They can say what they like, but with the commander dead-we're heading back to Dark Harbor."

"I'm going to see what I can do for that poor lad," the professor said, unstrapping himself.

"But the major-"

"Has no authority over me-as he so rudely pointed out, I'm a civilian. And he's not any of the military officers to whom I report-he can bluster, but that's all. Besides-" He pointed, and Margiu craned her head to look. The major was sleeping, ungracefully slumped in the seat with one hand dangling to the deck. The professor winked at her again.

"There are antinausea patches and antinausea patches," he said. "He'll be out for several hours."

The rescued corporal, though swathed in blankets at the rear of the cabin, looked miserable enough. He had not thrown up, but his face had a greenish cast. Across from him, the corpse had been wrapped in another and lashed to the deck.

"How about giving him a patch?" the professor asked the crew chief.

"Fine with me-I notice our major is sleeping peacefully-"

"Nausea is so exhausting," the professor said. "Here, now-" He put a patch on the corporal's cheek. "That should help."

"He really needs fluids and calories," the crew chief said. "If he can hold 'em down."

"In a minute or two," the professor said. "What do you make of this?"

"A mess, sir. This lad's a Meharry-may not mean much to you, but it's a family with a proud history in Fleet. Meharrys are known to be a tough bunch to tangle with, but they've always been loyal."

"So-what do you think happened?"

"I don't know, sir. The major, he said no one was to talk to him-"

"And the major's authority-"

The crew chief sucked his cheeks in. "Well, sir-he outranks me. The pilot's in command here, but

he's busy with the craft and I don't like to bother him. It's always a pain when one of the MetSats is out."

"How often does that happen?"

"MetSatIV's been buggy for the past two years or more. There's a new youngster at Blue Islands who's been keeping it up more often, but even he slips sometimes."

"Mmm . . . and how long has he been there?"

"Oh-eighteen months, perhaps."

"Is MetSatIV our communications link?"

"No, it's a general surveillance satellite. Outplanet, it's part of the passive sensor array for

the whole planet; inplanet, it's a broad-band visual and EM scanner. If it had been up, for instance, we'd have found that life raft with less trouble."

"But the life raft's beacon-"

"Oh, it has a direct signal to GPS satellites. But they're not set up for visual scans. And the beacon has to be turned on by the occupant, after which it puts up a signal every two hours minimum. You can drift a long way in two hours."

"Tell me, Chief: if there hadn't been a life raft or a flight out here, and MetSatIV was down, would anyone have spotted a landing out here?"

"Landing, sir?"

"Landing . . . like . . . oh . . . drop shuttles from a warship?"

"On Copper Mountain? Well, Big Ocean is a training area for wet drops, but a ship couldn't get that close without the other units spotting it, even if MetSat IV were offline."

"What about the drop shuttles?"

"Once they were down below the horizon-I suppose-there aren't any ground scanners out here, of course. But-what made you think of that? And what difference would it make?"

"With all due respect for the honor of the Fleet, Chief, I've never known a society of saints. If

there is a way to smuggle contraband and make a profit off it, people will do it. I can't think of

a better way to smuggle than to be able to turn off the lights when you wish."

The chief flushed, but finally grinned. "Well, sir, you're right about that. I've never been on a ship that didn't have at least one unauthorized animal, person, or substance, be it what you will."

"So my question is, what might be smuggled that would involve the commander of the prison?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Nor I. But since I was headed for Stack Islands myself, I am naturally interested. Smuggling goes

both ways-persons or materials can be introduced, or removed. The Weapons Research Facility

naturally comes to mind-"

"Sir-" That was the corporal, his face now pale but no longer waxy greenish. His voice was weak, but clear enough.

"You need water and food," said the crew chief. "And I'll need to tell the pilot you're able to talk."

"I can give him something," Margiu said. The crew chief handed her one of the self-heating soup packets, already squeezed and warming, and went forward. When its heat stripe matched the dot at the end, Margiu put the tube to the corporal's mouth.

The professor waited until he'd finished, then said, "You had something to tell us?"