Blitzkrieg snorted and looked at the notepad again. “Are they allowed to do that?”

“I think the treaty lets them, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. She inspected her left hand. “Captain Jester would certainly know. I think he had a lot to do with the terms of the treaty,” she added.

“Damn thing looks suspicious as hell to me,” said Blitzkrieg. “Some kind of spy apparatus, I’d wager…”

Sparrowhawk looked up with an expression of feigned innocence. “Spy apparatus? Do you really think they’d be snooping on the Alliance?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past the scaly little bastards,” growled the general, peering at the image on Spar-rowhawk’s notepad. “Knew we couldn’t trust ‘em right from the first.”

“Well, whatever this apparatus is, they’ve got it set up right out by the perimeter,“ said Sparrowhawk. ”They aren’t even guarding it. You could probably just walk right up and inspect it.“

Blitzkrieg sipped his drink in silence, nodding slowly. After a moment he said, “Walk right up. Walk right up. You know, Major, I think I’m going to do exactly that.” He stood up and strode forcefully out the door.

Sparrowhawk waited until she’d heard the outside door close behind him, then let out a long sigh of relief. “Well, that ought to keep him out of my hair for a while longer.”

In the view screen, Old Earth was now close enough to show detail from space. It looked much like any developed world: a garland of lights across the nightside, hazed by the no-longer-pristine planetary atmosphere. The shapes of the continents were familiar from hundreds of tri-vee dramas, the stock establishing shot for what usually turned out to be the inspiring tale of an idealistic youngster struggling against the ancient, rigidly stratified society where every tiny gesture was an irrevocable status marker, and where raw talent came in a distant third to graft and nepotism. Having come from a family where he was a lifelong beneficiary of graft and nepotism, Phule had never been able to take such stories very seriously.

So Phule looked at the panorama with jaded eyes; he’d set foot on too many different worlds in the last few weeks, each at first promising and each at last a disappointment. Just as on Cut ‘N’ Shoot, Rot’n‘art, and Hix’s World, he was best advised to put aside his preconceptions and take Old Earth for what it was.

On the other hand, maybe Old Earth would be different. If you could believe the tourist brochures and guidebooks, it was the original home world from which the human race had spread out into the galaxy. But even if that was true, Phule didn’t see how it made any difference to his search.

All he wanted here was to catch up with Beeker, the right-hand man he’d taken for granted until events had proved just how indispensable he was. And when he’d found the butler, and gotten his Port-a-Brain, he’d gladly shake the dust of the home world of humanity from his shoes and return to Omega Company.

The speaker crackled, and a pleasant (if somewhat bored) female voice said, “All passengers for Old Earth please report to the shuttle boarding area. There will be three landing shuttles; the first will depart at eight-twenty-five, Galactic Standard Time, and will accept passengers from cabins eleven through forty-five…”

That would be the landing group he was in, Phule realized. He shouldered his duffel bag and headed toward the shuttle boarding area, which was just abaft the last row of first-class cabins.

He was three-quarters of the way to his destination when a stateroom door just to his left flew open just as he went past, and the occupant barged directly into him. They both went sprawling, and Phule looked up to see a pair of green eyes framed by bright red hair looking down at him. The eyes went wide with surprise, and a lush voice said, “Oh-I’m so sorry! I was on my way to the shuttles…”

“Well, so was I,” said Phule, indulgently. The pretty green-eyed young woman who’d bumped into him was pleasantly padded, and her oversize suitcase had fallen clear of him. So he hadn’t taken any damage, except perhaps to his dignity-which was not one of his particularly vulnerable areas. “Why don’t we both just head on down to the boarding area while we’re still on time. Could I help you with that bag?”

“Why, thank you, Captain,” she said, smiling. “My name’s Samantha Beliveau, by the way-but you can call me Sam. Everybody does.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” said Phule. “Now, we should hurry up if we’re going to make it to the shuttle. There’ll be plenty of time on board to talk.“

“Oh, I’d like that,” said Sam. Phule smiled. At least the trip down to Old Earth promised not to be boring…

Just visible from the landing area were the port facilities of Old Earth. As on most advanced worlds, the traveler’s first taste of the world was a meeting with humorless uniformed officials whose job was to intercept smugglers, terrorists, low-wage workers, and other interplanetary criminal types. Phule stood nonchalantly in line, waiting for the inspectors to begin processing passengers. He had been through customs on a hundred worlds and knew the routine by heart.

On nine out of ten worlds, the officials were unlikely to bother a Legion officer in uniform. Despite coming from the least prestigious branch of the Alliance armed services, Phule could usually count on being waved right through, or at the very most being asked to show his passport.

Today, he was glad to see, the line seemed to be moving steadily through the gates. The shipboard lunch menu hadn’t appealed to him, and as a result he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Once through customs, he fully intended to find the best restaurant in the vicinity and enjoy a leisurely meal, with a glass or two of Old Earth’s legendary vintages. His luggage could wait…

Finally, he came to the head of the line, waited a moment for one of the agents to become available, and stepped up to the desk. “Good afternoon,” he said, smiling pleasantly. It never hurt to be polite when dealing with bureaucrats, he’d found.

The agent was a human male of average height, with dark hair and a bushy moustache. On the lapel of his decidedly dowdy uniform was a regulation plastic name tag that read agt. g. c. fox. To Phule’s surprise, the agent snatched his passport as if he suspected it of being contraband. “State your reason for coming to Old Earth,” he said, sharply. His tone suggested that describing the afternoon as “good” was the height of impertinence.

“I’m here on personal business,” said Phule, keeping his face neutral.

Fox alternately stared at the passport and tapped a small keyboard attached to the computer screen on his desktop. After an uncomfortably long interval, he snapped his gaze back to Phule. “Planet of residence,” he barked. “Zenobia,” said Phule. “I’m stationed there with…”

“Just answer the questions I ask,” said Fox. “Zenobia…” He tapped a key, looked at his screen, then glared at Phule. “There’s no listing for a planet Zenobia in my database.”

“They’re independent allies,” said Phule. “I’m stationed there with…”

“You already said that,” Fox scolded. He looked back at his screen, taking his time. Abruptly he pointed at Phule and barked, “Are you importing any prohibited organic substances?”

“Of course not,” said Phule, standing up straighten “I am an officer of the Space Legion!”

Agent Fox snorted. Then Phule noticed, a short distance away, a stern-faced man in the same blue uniform as Fox, watching him. The man’s name tag read supervisor l. hawkridge. Suddenly aware of Phule’s gaze, the man gave a stiff nod toward Fox, then moved on to survey another part of the entry concourse.

“As if that made any difference,” said Fox, visibly relaxing as the supervisor walked away. “With what the Legion pays, a little income on the side looks pretty good to most officers.” The customs agent looked at Phule’s passport again, then leaned forward on his desk and lowered his voice. “Sure you’re not importing anything prohibited? There’s people I know that might be interested.”