The lure of the bullet station and immediate passage to Boston was strong, but the lure of a bed and a shower was stronger. When Talia passed a homey, old-fashioned hotel before she reached the station, she couldn’t stop herself from going in and pressing the buzzer on the check-in counter. It was the middle of the night, but she hoped she would still be able to get a room.

A kindly older lady finally appeared. “What can we do for you, miss?”

“A single,” she said. “Do you have one?”

“Yes, my dear, only sixty credits for a single. Interested?”

Talia found herself nodding before she even thought about it.

“Fine. I’ll need your creditchit and your identicard.”

Talia passed them over, thinking that was the second time she had used the fake identicard. She only had two more times. But she was so dirty and weary that she would risk facing a million Psi Cops to be clean and rested. Tomorrow would be time enough to get to Boston, she told herself, time enough to confront Emily Crane, clear her name, and get her life back.

She dragged herself to the room and ripped off the dirty clothes and the wig. Talia felt like throwing the entire outfit away, but she doubted if she would get very far naked. In the shower, she let the lukewarm water run over her hair and body, and she watched a river of sand snake from her feet to the drain. She was too weary to even adjust the water to make it warmer, although she had the strength to rub some shampoo in her hair.

When she staggered out of the shower, she collapsed into the droopy bed with beads of water still clinging to her back. She fell immediately into a sleep that was so deep it was beyond dreams.

Garibaldi, however, was having a dream. A nightmare, to be exact. In this dream, people were tying his hands behind his back, tying his feet together, and stuffing a gag in his mouth. He wanted to wake up, but he couldn’t open his eyes. It wasn’t until he began to squirm against his bindings that the dream turned really ugly. Someone slapped him across the mouth, knocking him to the floor, and his eyes bugged open. Unfortunately, the dream didn’t end—he was still bound and gagged.

He was also still in Trishman’s white living room, only the older man was not in sight. Instead, there were two brawny young men, well dressed in suits. One of them was standing over Garibaldi, glowering at him. Ah, yes, he thought, that was the guy he had punched in the stomach. Well, why was he upset? He wasn’t the one bound and gagged, lying on the floor with a drugged-out hangover.

The man looked like he wanted to slap him again, when a woman’s voice intruded. “Don’t even think about it.”

Garibaldi craned his neck as best he could to see who had entered from the bedroom. Lo and behold, it was Emily Crane! Only she wasn’t dressed in her usual frumpy outfit but in a sleek gray jumpsuit, with her hair pulled back severely. He tried to ask her how her trip to Mars had been, but everything he said came out a mumble.

“Get him back on the couch,” ordered the woman. The two goons complied and lifted him back into a semicomfortable position.

“Mr. Garibaldi,” she said, “if you promise not to cry out, I will remove the gag.”

He nodded. Crying out wasn’t really his style, but he was looking forward to kicking the crap out of these guys at the first opportunity. She snapped her fingers, and the gag came off.

“That was a quick trip to Mars,” he croaked.

“Don’t blame Ronald for lying,” she said, sitting beside him on the couch. “Or for calling us. We only have another twenty-four hours before we can put our plan into effect, and then we stage a bloodless coup of Psi Corps. Don’t you want that—to get rid of Bester and his ilk?”

“Sister, right now, your ilk doesn’t seem much better.” One of the goons moved forward with his fists balled, and Garibaldi winced, awaiting the blow.

But Emily Crane waved the man off and looked back at Garibaldi. “Do you see why we have to keep you quiet for twenty-four hours, until the bill is passed and signed? Your detective work was quite good, but we can’t let years of planning go down the drain to save one telepath.”

She smiled pleasantly. “I’m hopeful you’ll come around to our way of thinking. In twenty-four hours, after you see all that we’ve accomplished, you might want to forget about your investigation. The public is happy with Martian terrorists as the bombers—why can’t you be?”

Garibaldi wasn’t going to argue with the lady, because the alternative to agreeing with them was probably winding up as fish food in the harbor. “What are you going to do with me?” be asked.

Emily Crane got up, strode to the picture window, and looked out at the sleeping city. “Maybe we should move Mr. Garibaldi while it’s still dark outside. If something happened to him here, it would reflect badly on Trishman. Gag him, untie his feet, and keep a PPG in his back.”

The thugs untied the rope around Garibaldi’s ankles and hauled him to his feet. They shoved the foul-tasting rag back into his mouth, but he was willing to give up his voice in exchange for having his legs free. His hands were still tied behind his back, but he could kick, he could run! He saw one of the goons pull a PPG out of his jacket pocket, and he felt the metal in his back. Maybe he wouldn’t kick or run right now, thought Garibaldi.

Emily Crane opened the door and checked the corridor to make sure it was clear, then she motioned for them to follow her. Garibaldi stumbled out, sandwiched between the two thugs, one of whom had a PPG in his back. The only reason they were letting him walk, he decided, was to keep from having to carry his dead body. Nevertheless, he couldn’t think of any way to get away from them, and he behaved himself all the way down the elevator and the escalator.

In the street, he told himself, maybe someone would see this obvious kidnapping and call the cops. But there was no one in the street in these dead hours just before dawn, nothing but a silent row of electric-powered vehicles. If he ran, thought Garibaldi, he was trying to decide how many meters he would get before the guy with the PPG drilled him. He figured three.

Suddenly, a strange voice seemed to speak in his head. It told him to duck! Garibaldi had nothing to lose, so he pretended to trip. He stumbled to the pavement a split second before a PPG blast ripped the head off the man behind him. The other goon was drawing his weapon when three blasts from entirely different directions turned his midsection a fiery orange. The two pieces of him fell to the ground.

Emily Crane ran for it, and her short height let her elude the first shots directed at her. Then two black-suited Psi Cops jumped out of the bushes directly in front of her. As she stumbled away from them, begging forgiveness, they executed her.

Strong arms picked Garibaldi off the pavement and guided him to a black shuttlecraft that awaited them in an adjacent parking lot. They tossed him in like a bag of potatoes, the hatch slammed shut, and the thrusters blasted the craft off the ground and into the black night.

“Hold still,” said a familiar voice, and Garibaldi felt hands untying the ropes at his back. Once his hands were free, he ripped off the gag and rolled over to greet his saviors.

The first thing he saw was the relieved and smiling face of Harriman Gray. Behind him, swathed in bandages and holding a cane, sat Mr. Bester. The only other person in the shuttlecraft was the pilot, and she was concentrating on getting them through the skyscrapers of Boston.

“It would be polite to say ‘thank you,’” suggested Bester.

“Yes, thank you,” croaked Garibaldi. “You … you wasted them. Damn it, Emily Crane was the only one who could clear Talia Winters!”

“Rogue telepaths,” said Bester. “All perfectly legal, although I doubt if we’ll claim credit. Actually, you owe your life to Mr. Gray here. He got worried about you last night and contacted my office. When I spoke with him, he told me all about Emily Crane and the Mix. We just managed to get a tail on her before she came over here with her friends. We’ve been hoping you would come out soon.”

Garibaldi touched his partner’s arm. “Thanks, Gray.”

The young telepath looked a bit sheepish. “I wasn’t planning to tell Mr. Bester last night, but I got worried about you.”

The security chief looked out the cockpit window at the vanishing lights of the city. “Did you warn me to duck?” he asked.

Gray nodded, and Garibaldi cleared his throat, thinking about what would have happened to him if he hadn’t ducked. He lifted his hand, and it was still shaking.

“We’ll leave the bodies there,” said Bester contentedly. “I always say, if you can’t talk to the person you want, leave a message.”

Garibaldi rubbed his dry lips and looked back out the window. He shouldn’t be an ingrate, because they had probably saved his life, but he felt rotten about the cold-blooded executions. That could be Talia lying down there in the street, he reminded himself.

“The person you want is Malten,” he said hoarsely.

“It certainly is,” agreed Bester. “I want to thank you two, you’ve done a wonderful job on this case. Beyond my expectations. You led us right to the rattlers’ nest.”

Garibaldi remained single-minded. “Then you’ll let Talia Winters go now, right?”

Mr. Bester frowned. “That is a concern. To let her go would be to admit we made a mistake, and we don’t like to air our dirty linen in public. Plus, we want to keep the Mix healthy and in place, with a few more controls and minus Malten. The Free Phobos group will never be heard from again, so what is the harm in letting them keep the blame?”

“Talia Winters!” barked Garibaldi. “Read my lips. She’s not guilty, and you know it.”

Bester swallowed and looked past him. “I’ve arranged for your passage back to Babylon 5, and Mr. Gray’s passage to Berlin. There will be commendations for both of you in my report.”

“Mr. Bester!” snapped Gray. “That is patently unfair! You know very well she is innocent.”

The Psi Cop shook his head in amazement. “Don’t you know how many agencies are after her now? I couldn’t call them off even if I wanted to! If she turns herself in—to the right people—she might stand a chance.”

“Then I’m going to keep after her,” vowed Garibaldi. 

“It is no longer your concern!” Bester seethed. He winced in pain as he shifted in his seat.