That said comforting volumes about Reaux’s straight dealings with him.

He’d reached the end of what he himself was willing to say. They had a geologic cataclysm in progress down on the planet, a Project tap had possibly fallen into the hands of whoever had hit Gide, Kekellen was upset, and the Earth ship was sitting out there watching it all, blaming Reaux, and writing reports that were going to racket all the way to Earth and Apex.

Bloody hell.

THE LITTLE CONFERENCE ROOM, Reaux having disposed his own security outside, was at the end of the emergency corridor, a special corridor isolated from the run-of-the-mill traffic of a sectional hospital—some kid who’d fallen off a third tier balcony while climbing in the flower gardens, a man who’d developed gastric distress at a restaurant: those patients didn’t get near this section.

The hospital, citing its own regulations, had objected to admitting Mr. Gide because he had a penetrating wound of unknown origin. They’d delayed half an hour admitting him, until Dortland prevailed. Then they’d hurried him into the isolation ward, ironically treating the Earth ambassador as a contamination case—the sort of case they’d have preferred to shunt down to the 5th level emergency room at the Institute. Outsider hospitals had special resources to deal with bleeding wounds and clean out illicits if they were in question.

Terrifying. A cut was all it took to endanger a life, or ruin one: a sore, a cut, even a drink of water, a risk stupid kids continually brushed up against, if they went down on 5th, where he had it on good authority his own foolish daughter was at this very moment. Suspicion, motive, and an open wound combined to get even a man of Gide’s importance surrounded in plastic containment, every swab and piece of bandage contained and sent off to a lab for analysis. Gide was bleeding and he was not from Concord, and that meant, no matter his status, that the medical system handled him as a contagion, with a biosquad swabbing down the apartment and the area of the incident, not letting even investigators in until more was cleaned up than was going to help any investigation—but for the station’s safety, that had to be the priority. The hospital authorities were trying in vain to find the elusive Mr. Stafford, who might also have been contaminated and now he had to pry Biohazard off Stafford’s trail, far harder than calling back the police chase.

But he tried. He made the call to Ernst, to let Ernst argue with the police and Biohazard alike.

Then he explained to the supervising nurse that he intended, was absolutely determined, to visit Mr. Gide.

Regulations insisted Gide’s doctors and nurses wear full suits. Regulations made his visitor, even the governor of Concord, sign a waiver before they let him and two of his bodyguard suit up in ridiculous-looking clear plastic affairs with flimsy filter masks. Jewel Sanduski stayed at the entry station: to bring her in would leave a record of her presence and who had brought her, not to mention that she would tacitly convey everything they said straight to Brazis, and Reaux shuddered to think of the fallout if news of her presence got to the ship. She had heard and likely relayed all the conversation he’d had with the nurses about Gide’s condition. What else she might hear, waiting back near the nurses’ station, he had no idea, but with the ship on its own agenda, Brazis warning him of threats against his life, and Stafford having gone God knew where, he wanted a pipeline to Brazis, one that couldn’t be recorded by any snoopery, and she remained that conduit.

With his two bodyguards trailing, he cycled through the airlock barrier of the isolation ward and walked, rustling with plastic, down to number 10. Suited attendants were on watch there, unadvised, and they had to get permission to open that door.

Until the lab reports came back, the physician of record had said, Gide was stuck here. Gide had been belligerent about being put in isolation. Consequently the doctors had tranked him, reportedly with enough juice to fell a dockworker. It was not, the doctor assured him, going to be a productive interview. No, they could not just give him a restorative, not until the lab work came back, not until they had done a thorough health workup. But yes, if the governor insisted, on his own responsibility, he could go in and try to talk to Mr. Gide.

The attendants opened the door. It was the sphinx-face Reaux saw lying against the pillows, the sphinx, but human now, with white hair standing up in two odd-angled spikes, a pasty-pale complexion that held a faint blotchiness. Though tranked, Gide regarded him, slit-eyed.

“Mr. Ambassador?”

A blink. “Get me the hell out of this room.”

“As soon as the external wound heals over, Mr. Ambassador. A few cracked ribs and a shallow shrapnel wound—it’s only the possibility of contamination they’re worried about. There’s a rule about bleeding wounds…”

“Only the contamination! As if spit and piss couldn’t carry a contamination.” Another blink. Several more. Tranked or not, Gide was waking up, and angry. “Where’s Stafford?”

“We don’t know at the moment.”

“I’m not surprised.” Gide moved, thin-lipped with pain, actually moved in a coordinated way, and jammed the pillow double beneath his head, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“Stafford may be another casualty.”

“Dead?”

“A possibility. I can only apologize—”

“Apologize! I’m banned,do you understand?” Rage got past the sedation, justified rage. “I’m banned for life, thanks to your so-called security! My God!”

“I can only express regret…”

“I can never see my family again! I can never so much as approach Earth!”

“For them, emigration is a—”

“Emigration! The hell! The hell,sir! I’m not bringing my family out to this hellhole! God knows what damned thing they sent inside my containment with that shell!”

“I’m terribly sorry. But I can assure, for what it’s worth, there’s nothing lethal on Concord. Nothing of that sort.”

“You’re a damned fool.”

The man was distraught—small wonder; and drugged, and apt to say things he wouldn’t, but Reaux found it more and more difficult to keep his equanimity.

“Have you been in contact with your ship at all, since, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Only to be apologized to. A message relayed from the doctor. They can’t take me back. Is that news?”

“Well, if it’s any comfort at all, every governor and every trade representative out here understands your distress. I was voluntary, of course, but no few enter the system accidentally, in your situation. Hardly with an explosive shell being the agent, but—”

“Fool, I say!”

His own patience was running thinner by the second. He thought of Kathy, and the risks she was running—voluntarily, down on 5th level—and this man lay here whining because he was damned to live on Concord in luxury, a future thorn in his side, no doubt politicking against him, only because his injury had happened on his watch, on his station, on his doorstep.

Depend on it, if his suspicion was right and this man was from the Treaty Board, this was not only a full-blown diplomatic disaster, this man could be a long-term resident problem, right on his station, and he could only make matters worse by antagonizing the man while he was half-aware.

“I can assure you we’re actively tracking Mr. Stafford and tracing the weapon we found outside the apartment. The attack came through the open door. Was Mr. Stafford just arriving, or just leaving?”

“Leaving.” Out of breath, Gide recovered angry rationality. Eyes rolled, an attempt to gather resources. “He took exception to a body scan and opened the door. At that point, the world blew up. Next I was aware, I was on my side and that damned Outsider had his hands on me.” A breath and a shudder. “Then your police came blundering in, exposing themselves to whatever might be there—if they’re not in quarantine, why do they have me here? And Stafford is loose in the station, and you can’t find him. But I’m in quarantine!”