Wait, said Lord Mark. If they needed a code-key, so must Ryoval.

Baron Ryoval has no successor. Ryoval had no second-in-command, no trained replacement. He kept all his oppressed subordinates in separate channels of communication. House Ryoval consisted of Baron Ryoval, and slaves, period. That’s why House Ryoval failed to grow. Ryoval didn’t delegate authority, ever.

Therefore, Ryoval had no place nor trusted subordinates with whom to leave his private code-keys. He had to carry them on his person. At all times.

The black-gang whimpered as Lord Mark turned around and returned to the living room. Mark ignored them. This is my job, now.

He turned Ryoval’s body over on its back, and searched it methodically from head to toe, down to the skin and farther. He missed no possibility, not even hollow teeth. He sat back uncomfortably, distended belly aching, sprained back on fire. His level of pain was rising as he re-integrated, which made it a very tentative process. It has to be here. It has to be here somewhere.

Run, run, run, the black-gang gibbered, in a remarkably unified chorus.

Shut up and let me think. He turned Ryoval’s right hand over in his own. A ring with a flat black stone gleamed in the light… .

He laughed out loud.

He swallowed the laugh fearfully, looking around. The Baron’s soundproofing held, apparently. The ring would not slide off. Stuck? Riveted to the bone? He cut off Ryoval’s right hand with the laser drill. The laser also cauterized the wrist, so it wasn’t too drippy. Nice. He limped slowly and painfully back to the bedroom closet, and stared at the little glowing square, just the size of the ring’s stone.

Which way up? Would the wrong rotation trigger an alarm?

Lord Mark pantomimed Baron Ryoval in a hurry. Slap the palm lock, turn his hand over and jam the ring into the code slot—”This way,” he whispered.

The door slid open on a personal lift tube. It extended upward some twenty meters. Its antigrav control pads glowed, green for up, red for down. Lord Mark and Killer gazed around. No obvious defenses, such as a tanglefield generator… .

A faint draft brought a scent of fresh air from above. Let’s go! screamed Gorge and Grunt and Howl.

Lord Mark stood spraddle-legged and stodgy, staring, refusing to be rushed. It has no safety ladder, he said at last.

So what?

So. What?

Killer sagged back, and muffled the rest of them, and waited respectfully.

I want a safety ladder, muttered Lord Mark querulously. He turned away, and wandered back through Ryoval’s quarters. While he was at it, he looked for clothes. There wasn’t much to choose from; this clearly was not Ryoval’s main residence. Just a private suite. The garments were all too long and not wide enough. The trousers were impossible. A soft knit shirt stretched over his raw skin, though. A loose jacket, left open, provided some more protection. A Betan-style sarong, bath-wear, wrapped his loins. A pair of slippers were sloppy on his left foot, tight on his swollen, broken right foot. He searched for cash, keys, anything else of use. But there was no handy climbing gear.

I’ll just have to make my own safety ladder. He hung the laser drill around his neck on a tie made from a couple of Ryoval’s belts, stepped into the bottom of the lift tube, and systematically began to burn holes in the plastic side.

Too slow! the black gang wailed. Howl howled inside, and even Killer screamed, Run, dammit!

Lord Mark ignored them. He turned on the “up” field, but did not let it take them. Clinging to his hot hand and foot holds, he pocked his way upward. It was not difficult to climb, buoyed in the flowing grav field, only hard to remember to keep his three points of contact. His right foot was nearly useless. The black gang gibbered in fear. Mulish and methodical, Mark ascended. Melt a hole. Wait. Move a hand, foot, hand, foot. Melt another hole. Wait… .

Three meters from the top, his head came level with a small audio pick-up, flush to the wall, and a shielded motion sensor.

I imagine it wants a code word. In Ryoval’s voice, Lord Mark remarked blandly, observing. Can’t oblige.

It doesn’t have to be what you guess, Killer said. It could be anything. Plasma arcs. Poison gas.

No. Ryoval saw me, but I saw Ryoval. It will be simple. And elegant. And you will do it to yourself. Watch.

He gripped his handhold, and extended the laser drill up past the motion sensor for the next burn.

The lift tube’s grav field switched off.

Even half-expecting it, he was nearly ripped from his perch by his own weight. Howl could not contain it all. Mark screamed silently, flooded in pain. But he clung, and did not let them fall.

The last three meters of ascent could have been called a nightmare, but he had new standards for nightmares now. It was merely tedious.

There was a tanglefield trap at the top entrance, but it faced outward. The laser drill disarmed its controls. He managed a crippled, shuffling, crabwise walk into a private underground garage. It contained the Baron’s lightflyer. The canopy opened at the touch of Ryoval’s ring.

He slid into the lightflyer, adjusted the seat and controls as best he could around his distorted and aching contours, powered it up, eased it forward. That button on the control panel—there? The garage door slid aside. Once through, he shot up, and up, and up, through the dark, the acceleration pummeling him. Nobody even fired on him. There were no lights below. A rocky winter waste. The whole little installation must be underground.

He checked the flyer’s map display, and picked his direction— East. Toward the light. That seemed right.

He kept accelerating.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The lightflyer banked. Miles craned his neck, and caught a glimpse of what was below. Or what wasn’t below. Dawn was creeping over a wintry desert. There appeared to be nothing of interest for kilometers around.

“S” funny,” said the guard who was piloting the lightflyer. “Door’s open.” He touched his comm, and transmitted some sort of code-burst. The other guard shifted uneasily, watching his comrade. Miles twisted around, trying to watch them both.

They descended. Rocks rose around them, then a concrete shaft. Ah. Concealed entrance. They came to the bottom, and moved forward into an underground garage.

“Huh,” said the other guard. “Where’s all the vehicles?”

The flyer came to rest, and the bigger guard dragged Miles out of the backseat, and unfastened his ankles, and stood him upright. He almost fell down again. The scars on his chest ached with the strain from his hands bound behind his back. He got his feet under himself, and stared around much as the guards were doing. Just a utilitarian garage, badly-lit, echoing and cavernous. And empty.

The guards marched him toward an entrance. They coded through some automatic doors, and walked to an electronic security chamber. It was up and running, humming blankly. “Vaj?” one guard called. “We’re here. Scan us.”

No answer. One of the guards went forward, looked around. Tapped a code into a wall pad. “Bring him through anyway.”

The security chamber passed him. He was still wearing the grey knits the Duronas had given him; no interesting devices woven into the fabric, it seemed, alas.

The senior guard tried an intercom. Several times. “Nobody answers.”

“What should we do?” asked his comrade.

The senior man frowned. “Strip him and take him to the boss, I guess. Those were the orders.”