“Did you have a nice morning?” Miles asked Ekaterin brightly as they picked their way over the mess on the floor.

She eyed him in some bemusement. “Yes, lovely. Quaddie hydroponics are extraordinary.” Her voice went dry as she glanced around the battle zone. “And you?”

“Delightful. Well, not if we hadn't ducked. But if I can't figure out how to use this to break our deadlock, I should turn in my Auditor's chain.” He stifled a fox's smile, contemplating Greenlaw's back.

“The things one learns on a honeymoon. Now I know how to coax you out of your glum moods. Just hire someone to shoot at you.”

“Peps me right up,” he agreed. “I figured out years ago that I was addicted to adrenaline. I also figured out that it was going to be toxic, eventually, if I didn't taper off.”

“Indeed.” She inhaled. The slight trembling in the hand tucked in the crook of his elbow was lessening, and its clamp on his biceps was growing less circulation-stopping. Her face was back to being deceptively serene.

Greenlaw led them through the office corridor behind the reception area to a cluttered workroom. Its small central vid table had been swept clean of ringed cups, flaccid drink bulbs, and plastic flimsies, now piled haphazardly on a credenza shoved to one wall. Miles saw Ekaterin into a station chair and sat next to her. Greenlaw positioned her floater at chair-height opposite. Roic and one of the quaddie guards jockeyed for position at the door, frowning at each other.

Miles reminded himself to be indignant and not ecstatic. “Well.” He let a distinct note of sarcasm creep into his voice. “That was a remarkable addition to my morning's speaking schedule.”

Greenlaw began, “Lord Auditor, you have my apologies—”

“Your apologies are all very well, Madam Sealer, but I would happily trade them for your cooperation. Assuming you are not behind this incident,” he overrode her indignant splutter, continuing smoothly, “and I don't see why you should be, despite the suggestive circumstances. Random violence does not seem to me to be in the usual quaddie style.”

“It certainly is not!”

“Well, if it's not random, then it must be connected. The central mystery of this entire imbroglio remains the neglected disappearance of Lieutenant Solian.”

“It was not neglected—”

“I disagree. The answer to it might—should!—have been put together days ago, except that Tab A seems to be on one side of an artificial divide from Slot B. If pursuing my quaddie assailant is the Union's task”—he paused and raised his eyebrows; she nodded grimly—”then pursuing Solian is surely mine. It's the one string I have in hand, and I intend to follow it up. And if the two investigations don't meet in the middle somewhere, I'll eat my Auditor's seal.”

She blinked, seeming a little surprised by this turn of discourse. “Possibly . . .”

“Good. Then I want complete and unimpeded access for me, my assistant Armsman Roic, and anyone else I may designate to any and all areas and records pertinent to this search. Starting with the Idris , and starting immediately!”

“We cannot give downsiders license to roam at will over Station secure areas that—”

“Madam Sealer. You are here to promote and protect Union interests, as I am to promote and protect Barrayaran interests. But if there is anything at all about this mess that's good for either Quaddiespace or the Imperium, it's not apparent to me! Is it to you?”

“No, but—”

“Then you agree, the sooner we dig to the center of it, the better.”

She tented her upper hands, regarding him through narrowed eyes. Before she could marshal further objections, Bel entered, having apparently escaped Venn and the media at last. Nicol bobbed along beside in her floater.

Greenlaw brightened, and seized on the one auspicious point for the quaddies in the chaos of the morning. “Portmaster Thorne. Welcome. I understand the Union owes you a debt of thanks for your courage and quick thinking.”

Bel glanced at Miles—a trifle dryly, Miles thought—and favored her with a self-deprecating half salute. “All in a day's work, ma'am.”

At one time, that would have been a statement of plain fact, Miles couldn't help reflecting.

Greenlaw shook her head. “I trust not on Graf Station, Portmaster!”

“Well, I certainly thank Portmaster Thorne!” said Ekaterin warmly.

Nicol's hand crept into Bel's, and she shot a look up from under her dark eyelashes for which a red-blooded soldier of any gender would gladly have traded medals, campaign ribbons, and combat bonuses all three, high command's boring speeches thrown in gratis. Bel began to look slightly more reconciled to being designated Heroic Person of the Hour.

“To be sure,” Miles agreed. “To say that I'm pleased with the portmaster's liaison services is a profound understatement. I would take it as a personal favor if the herm might continue in this assignment for the duration of my stay.”

Greenlaw caught Bel's eye, then nodded at Miles. “Certainly, Lord Auditor.” Relieved, Miles gathered, to have something to hand to him that cost her no new concessions. A small smile moved her lips, a rare event. “Furthermore, I shall grant you and your designated assistants access to Graf Station records and secured areas—under the portmaster's direct supervision.”

Miles pretended to consider this compromise, frowning artistically. “This places a substantial demand on Portmaster Thorne's time and attention.”

Bel put in demurely, “I'll gladly accept the assignment, Madam Sealer, provided Boss Watts authorizes both all my overtime hours, and another supervisor to take over my routine duties.”

“Not a problem, Portmaster. I'll direct Watts to add his increased departmental costs to the Komarran fleet's docking bill.” Greenlaw delivered this promise with a glint of grim satisfaction.

Added to Bel's ImpSec stipend, this would put the herm on triple time, Miles estimated. Old Dendarii accounting tricks, hah. Well, Miles would see that the Imperium got its money's worth. “Very well,” he conceded, endeavoring to appear stung. “Then I wish to proceed aboard the Idris immediately.”

Ekaterin didn't crack a smile, but a faint light of appreciation glimmered in her eye.

And what if she had accepted his invitation to accompany him this morning? And had walked up those stairs next to him—his assailant's erratic aim would not have passed over her head. Picturing the probable results put an unpleasant knot in his stomach, and his lingering adrenaline high tasted suddenly very sour.

“Lady Vorkosigan,”—Miles swallowed—”I am going to arrange for Lady Vorkosigan to stay aboard the Prince Xav until Graf Station Security apprehends the would-be killer and this mystery is resolved.” He added in an apologetic murmur aside to her, “Sorry . . .”

She returned him a brief nod of understanding. “It's all right.” Not happy, to be sure, but she possessed too much good Vor sense to argue about security issues.

He continued, “I therefore request special clearance for a Barrayaran personnel shuttle to dock and take her out.” Or the Kestrel ? No, he dared not lose access to his independent transport, bolthole, and secure communications station.

Greenlaw twitched. “Excuse me, Lord Vorkosigan, but that's how the last Barrayaran assault arrived stationside. We do not care to host another such influx.” She glanced at Ekaterin and took a breath. “However, I appreciate your concern. I would be glad to offer one of our pods and pilots to Lady Vorkosigan as a courtesy transport.”

Miles replied, “Madam Sealer, an unknown quaddie just tried to kill me. I'll grant I don't really think it was your secret policy, but the key word here is unknown . We don't yet know that it wasn't some quaddie—or group of quaddies—still in a position of trust. There are several experiments I'd be willing to run to find out, but this isn't one of them.”