Miles pointed. “That is almost certainly a forgery.”

The clustering quaddies looked genuinely shocked. Greenlaw said, “A false engineer's license? That would be unsafe .”

“If it's from the place I think, you could get a false neurosurgeon's license to go with it. Or any other job you cared to pretend to have, without going through all that tedious training and testing and certification.” Or, in this case, really have—now, there was a disturbing thought. Although on-the-job apprenticeship and self-teaching might cover some of the gaps over time . . . someone had been clever enough to modify that hot riveter, after all.

Under no circumstances could this pale, lanky mutie pass for a stout, pleasantly ugly, red-haired woman named either Grace Nevatta of Jackson's Whole—no House affiliation—or Louise Latour of Pol, depending on which set of IDs she favored. Nor for a short, head-wired, mahogany-skinned jumpship pilot named Hewlet.

“Who are all these people?” Venn muttered in aggravation.

“Why don't we just ask?” suggested Miles.

Firka—or Gupta—had finally stopped struggling and just lay in midair, nostrils flexing with his panting above the blue rectangle of tape over his mouth. The quaddie patroller finished recording his last scans and reached for a corner of the tape, then paused uncertainly. “I'm afraid this is going to hurt a bit.”

“He's probably sweated enough underneath the tape to loosen it,” Miles offered. “Take it in one quick jerk. It'll hurt less in the long run. That's what I'd want, if I were him.”

A muffled mew of disagreement from the prisoner turned into a shrill scream as the quaddie followed this plan. All right, so, the frog prince hadn't sweated as much around the mouth as Miles had guessed. It was still better to have the damned tape off than on.

But despite the noises he'd been making the prisoner did not follow up this liberation of his lips with outraged protests, swearing, complaints, or raving threats. He just kept panting. His eyes were peculiarly glassy—a look Miles recognized, of a man who'd been wound up far too tight for far too long. Bel's loyal stevedores might have roughed him up a bit, but he hadn't acquired that look in the brief time he'd been in quaddie hands.

Chief Venn held up a double handful, left and left, of IDs before the prisoner's eyes. “All right. Which one are you really? You may as well tell us the truth. We'll be cross-checking it all anyway.”

With surly reluctance, the prisoner muttered, “I'm Guppy.”

“Guppy? Russo Gupta?”

“Yeah.”

“Who are these others?”

“Absent friends.”

Miles wasn't quite sure if Venn had caught the intonation. He put in, “Dead friends?”

“Yeah, that too.” Guppy/Gupta stared away into a distance Miles calculated as light-years.

Venn looked alarmed. Miles was torn between anxiety to proceed and an intense desire to sit down and study the place and date stamps on all those IDs, real and fake, before decanting Gupta. A world of revelation lay therein, he was fairly sure. But greater urgencies drove the sequencing now.

“Where is Portmaster Thorne?” Miles asked.

“I told those thugs before. I never heard of him.”

“Thorne is the Betan herm you sprayed with knockout mist last night in a utility passage off Cross Corridor. Along with a blond quaddie woman named Garnet Five.”

The surly look deepened. “Never seen either of 'em.”

Venn turned his head and nodded to a patroller, who flitted off. A few moments later she returned through one of the chamber's other portals, ushering Garnet Five. Garnet's color looked vastly better now, Miles was relieved to note, and she had obviously managed to obtain whatever female grooming equipment she used to touch herself back up to her high-visibility norm.

“Ah!” she said cheerfully. “You caught him! Where's Bel?”

Venn inquired formally, “Is this the downsider who committed chemical assault on you and the portmaster, and released illicit volatiles into the public atmosphere last night?”

“Oh, yes,” said Garnet Five. “I couldn't possibly mistake him. I mean, look at the webs.”

Gupta clenched his lips, his fists, and his feet, but further pretense was clearly futile.

Venn lowered his voice to a quite nicely menacing official growl. “Gupta, where is Portmaster Thorne?”

“I don't know where the blighted nosy herm is! I left it in the bin right next to hers. It was all right then. I mean, it was breathing and all. They both were. I made sure. The herm's probably still sleeping it off in there.”

“No,” said Miles. “We checked all the bins in the passage. The portmaster was gone.”

“Well, I don't know where it went after that.”

“Would you be willing to repeat that assertion under fast-penta, and clear yourself of a kidnapping charge?” Venn inquired cannily, angling for a voluntary interrogation.

Gupta's rubbery face set, and his eyes shifted away. “Can't. I'm allergic to the stuff.”

“Is that so?” said Miles. “Let's just check, shall we?” He dug in his trouser pocket and drew out the strip of test patches he'd borrowed earlier from the Kestrel 's ImpSec supplies, in anticipation of just such an opportunity. Granted, he hadn't anticipated the added urgency of Bel's alarming vanishing act. He held up the strip and explained to Venn and the adjudicator, who was monitoring all this with a judicial frown, “Security-grade penta allergy skin test. If the subject has any of the six kinds of artificially induced anaphylaxes or even a mild natural allergy, the welt pops right up.” By way of reassurance to the quaddie officials, he peeled off one of the burr-like patches and slapped it on the back of his own wrist, displaying it with a heartening wriggle of his fingers. The sleight of hand was sufficient that no one except the prisoner protested when he leaned over and pressed another to Gupta's arm. Gupta let out a yowl of horror that won him only stares; he reduced it to a pitiable whimper under the bemused eyes of the onlookers.

Miles peeled off his own patch to reveal a distinct reddish prickle. “As you see, I do have a slight endogenous sensitivity.” He waited a few moments longer, to drive home the point, then reached over and peeled the patch off Gupta. The rather sickly natural—mushrooms were natural, right?—skin tone was unaffected.

Venn, getting into the rhythm of the thing like an old ImpSec hand, leaned toward Gupta and said, “That's two lies, so far, then. You can stop lying now. Or you can stop lying shortly. Either way will do.” He raised narrowed eyes to his fellow quaddie official. “Adjudicator Leutwyn, do you rule that we have sufficient cause for an involuntary chemically assisted interrogation of this transient?”

The adjudicator looked less than wholly enthusiastic, but he replied, “In light of his admitted connection to the worrisome disappearance of a valued Station employee, yes, there can be no question. I do remind you that subjecting detainees in your charge to unnecessary physical discomfort is against regs.”

Venn glanced at Gupta, hanging miserably in air. “How can he be uncomfortable? He's in free fall.”

The adjudicator pursed his lips. “Transient Gupta, aside from your restraints, are you in any special discomfort at this time? Do you require food, drink, or downsider sanitary facilities?”

Gupta jerked his wrists against their soft bonds, and shrugged. “Naw. Well, yes. My gills are getting dry. If you're not gonna let me loose, I need somebody to spray them. The stuff's in my bag.”

“This?” The female quaddie patroller held out what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary plastic sprayer, of the sort that Miles had seen Ekaterin use to mist some of her plants. She wriggled it, and it gurgled.

“What's in it?” asked Venn suspiciously.

“Water, mostly. And a bit of glycerin,” said Gupta.