As it stood right now, though, this ship had four weapons, all personal weapons of no real use in space, and none of them was assembled and charged.

And with the last of the gates looming ahead, they were only a few hours out from those who sent those images that so troubled Maslovic, someone who, like herself, was without the fear of death and whose entire self was devoted to the mission, and not to some intermediaries in this obvious vast interstellar plot.

She saw the wormgate ahead, quite suddenly, but it was no surprise. Directly on the flight path, just where and when it should be, here it was, out then, with only a slight adjustment, back in for one last, very short ride.

It had been decided from the start that she would not communicate with those inside if she could help it, only observe, but they were now at the point where there was no more purpose to the silent treatment, meant to simply not remind the girls and whoever was behind them that someone else was aboard and watching. Now it was moot; they were almost there.

"Please awaken our passengers, Sergeant," her voice came from the lounge public address speaker, sounding crisp and professional. "There are clean, loose whites in the locker aft, and whatever else they might wish to wear on exit. They certainly can not exit looking like that, nor, I suspect, would they want to."

Maslovic sat up straight, almost at attention, and nodded at the speaker. It was conditioning; in this circumstance and until they actually landed, the lieutenant was the captain.

Murphy simply looked startled. It had been long enough since he'd seen the pilot that he'd forgotten that the whole thing wasn't automated.

"You can clean up and get some fresh clothing as well, Captain Murphy," Maslovic told him. "We have time yet." He glanced at his watch, which now read 2:44:06. Murphy did the same, and chuckled.

"Three pregnant lassies, one toilet, one shower, and under maybe four, five hours tops from right now and some of that time strapped in. You're dreamin', man!" He paused for a moment, then added, "I'll skip the prettifyin', if you don't mind. Bad for me reputation anyway. In fact, I think I'll spend this last comfy time enjoyin' what I can of that pretty good stout, and maybe a couple of scones or sweet rolls to settle me stomach. Tonight it's a celebration! I'm free of them and all of you starched machines, and it's payday to boot!"

"Suit yourself," Maslovic responded, getting up and making his way aft to the beds. Somehow he suspected that the old captain wasn't nearly as free and clear of this business as he might have hoped.

Murphy was a bit worried about that, too, but he was equally certain that he felt neither kinship with nor obligation to the military folks, now or at any forseeable time in his future. If this was any sort of menace, they were probably the least equipped to handle it with their rigid codes and genetic specializations. Pirates, con artists, and maybe a physicist or two, they might at least make a go of it. He'd grown to like Maslovic, at least a little, and respect his mind and almost con artist-like manner, but, deep down, Murphy knew that the marine was essentially an act, a performance, trained and programmed and superimposed on a hard and cold body and mind. All that surface charm and friendly company could shut down in a moment and the same fellow would shoot him and never think a moment on it beyond that, and blow away his mother, too, if he had one. Of course, his mother had been a machine, so in that sense he and the rest of his kind were the spitting images of their parents.

Not that Murphy didn't have the con man's personable manner and coldness of heart as well, but at least, he told himself, he'd earned that in the school of hard knocks.

The sergeant came back in and nodded. "Well, you were right. They can't even wash their long hair in three hours. Each!"

"Aye. Told you so. Of course, it would help if they had some hair dryers. Guess that wouldn't be likely in a ship built for a bunch of baldies, though. Well, they'll make do. This is, after all, where they, or them what's behind them, want 'em to be, so there's not likely to be a lot of patience with the folks on the ground if they decide to take a few hours before clearin' the authorities."

"You're probably right there," the sergeant agreed. "I wonder who the hell is picking them up?"

"Well, they was to be dropped off to members of the Knights of Saint Phineas on Barnum's World. That's all I was told. The others I delivered now and then, they was all a bit different, or at least seemed a wee bit more normal, so they just went off while I did me paperwork and that was that."

"You trusted them?"

Murphy shrugged. "What could I do? Besides, I didn't do much except transport 'em, and all but these girls I had to bring in kinda on the quiet, if you know what I mean, so there wasn't much I could do but trust the others. The money was always there, though, in the accounts, ready to spend, and the notation of credit equivalent to the amount was posted with the bank down there. Why not? If they stiffed me, I didn't exactly have to come back the next time, you know. It's not like there's a hundred ships dock regular at Tara Hibernius."

"I see what you mean. Well, there's no sneaking these young women in, I don't think. Not now. And that means either somebody meets them or they have to use their voodoo on the authorities down there. Either way, I figure they aren't going back on this shuttle!"

"No papers. Be interestin' to see if they are expected, won't it? Uh, that is, interestin' for you."

Maslovic smiled. "Yes, for us, I guess." Like Murphy wasn't dying to know who or what was behind this, particularly now that he'd seen the power in back of it and the possible real money and valuables they had at their beck and call. "The Knights of Saint Phineas, you said. Know anything more about them?"

"Nope. It's been eons since I been anywhere near a church, let alone catechism school, and I'll be blamed if I ever heard of a Saint Phineas, although, I admit, that blamed church's got ten saints for every day that is, was, or ever will be."

"Fascinating. Not one of the major ones, then."

"Definitely not. I dunno. Maybe they ain't so well known down there, if you know what I mean. I don't know if I should ask about 'em, strictly out of concern for the lasses, you understand, or keep me trap shut. Sounds like some old crusader stuff, or order of soldiers for God, like the Knights of Malta back in ancient times, but I don't think these folks would be them kinda soldiers, and not for God, neither."

"Well, not your old god, anyway," the sergeant said. Maybe for some dark gods lurking in the shadows of a cave upon some bleak and distant world, though, he added to himself.

The full ship's intercom came alive, and Lieutenant Chung's voice announced, "Five minutes to gate emergence. Depending on traffic control, no more than twenty or thirty minutes insystem until at least orbit."

"Put the traffic control low on the speaker when you emerge, Lieutenant," Maslovic requested. "And if we can get a visual of the planet and resolution to ground as applicable, I'd appreciate it."

"I will do it if I can, Sergeant," the pilot told him.

Murphy shrugged. "It's generally an easy in and out. Mostly freight modules in orbit, a few tugs but mostly storage containers, and service bays for two freighters. Port Bainbridge is the single ground spaceport, but it's pretty decent size for the fairly low traffic it does. When they export, though, it's usually very large and often fragile consignments, so they need the equivalent of a much larger planet. There's towns with specialists all over the world, including a large number of underwater domes, but the only one that can be called a 'city' is Port Bainbridge, population under half a million, and that's where we'll come down. Almost entirely import-export and inland supply. That's all they do. A lot of the world is self-sufficient, or so they say. I never been more than a few kilometers beyond the spaceport meself. Why bother? Go out into the bush and wind up gettin' eaten or worse, or spend time in a station feelin' like you're infested with creepy crawlies. Nope. Not me cup of tea."