"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," I warned him acidly.

Maybea little too acidly; but time was getting tight. And besides, I really didn'twant to go out there, either.

There were apparently no more questions that anyone wanted answers to. "That'ssettled, then," I said into the chilly silence. "Revs, call and get someoneout here to fuel up the ship—hopefully, we can get the tanks properly topped offthis time. Don't forget that we're the Sleeping Beauty now. Everett, keep aneyeon Shawn. Keep him quiet until I get back."

Everett's lips compressed again. "I'll do what I can."

"What about Mechanic Ixil?" Chort asked. "Is he all right?"

"He's resting in his cabin," I told them, deliberately bending the truth abit.

If our saboteur didn't already know about Kalixiri healing comas, I had nointention of enlightening him. "Don't worry, he'll come out when he's ready.

I'll be back in two hours."

They were still standing together in the wraparound as I headed down the ramp, looking for all the world like hapless waifs watching the last bus leaving forthe orphanage. I hoped they wouldn't still be standing there like that whenthe fuelers came by to start filling the tanks. It would look a little odd.

The slideways here were similar to the ones on Dorscind's World, only bettermaintained, as well as being equipped with transparent half-cylinder shieldsoverhead to ward off the elements. At the moment the protection wasn'tnecessary, but judging by the dark clouds beginning to gather on the horizonit likely would be soon.

The port itself was neat, efficient, and as clean as a port could be, not agreat surprise with the Patth directly running three-quarters of it and havinga strong say in the operation of the rest. The civilian area just outside the port, though, wasn't under even their nominal control and was likely to bejustas dark, sinister, and vice-ridden as any other spaceport environs in theSpiral. There I would find the dealers in happyjam and other forms of misery, at least one of whom—I hoped—would have borandis in stock.

The problem, of course, was finding the right needle in the correct haystack.

Under normal circumstances that would take a great deal of time, time neitherShawn nor I nor the Icarus had to spare at the moment. I had to cut throughthe danger and tedium of the search process and go straight to the source.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I had the source's phone number.

The screen lit up to show the same broken-nosed thug who had answered BrotherJohn's line the last time I'd called. "Yeah?"

"It's Jordan McKell," I said. "I need some information."

The scowl lines around his eyes deepened as he frowned at me. "McKell?"

"Yes; McKell," I said, striving mightily for patience. I'd already lost twentyminutes of my promised two hours, ten in getting to the StarrComm building andten more waiting for a free booth, and I wasn't interested in playing Greekchorus to one of Brother John's housethugs. "I'm disguised, all right? I needsome information—"

"Hang on," he interrupted me. "Just hang on."

The screen went black. I glared at my watch, suddenly very tired of BrotherJohn and his vicious yet stupid people. The next one on the line would probably bethat moon-faced thug in the butler's outfit, who by now had probably figuredout what badinage was and would waste more of my time trying to come up with some.

The screen cleared; but to my surprise it wasn't the butler. "Hello, Jordan,"

Brother John said. The voice was as smooth as ever, but the usual cherubicsmile was nowhere to be seen. "Do you have any idea what kind of stir you've beencreating out at that end of the Spiral?"

"Have I, sir?" I asked.

The chill visibly surrounding him abruptly dropped into the subzero range.

"Don't play innocent with me, McKell," he snarled, his veneer of civilitycracking like a cheap packing crate. "A ship from Meima, they're all saying—arogue freighter the Patth are panting like sick dogs to get their callousedlittle hands on. Are you going to sit there and tell me that's not you?"

"Yes, sir, it's me," I said hastily. It was impossible to grovel properly in aStarrComm booth, but insofar as vocal groveling was possible I was grovelingfor all I was worth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I just didn't realizehow much of a stir we were actually causing."

The temperature stayed where it was. "I don't like commotions, McKell," hewarned. "I don't like them at all. Commotions draw attention, and I don't likeattention. You don't like attention, either."

"I know, sir," I agreed humbly. "Believe me, I'm trying as hard as I can togetout of the spotlight."

"Trying how?" he demanded. "It's not your ship or your problem—just walk awayfrom it. Where are you? I'll have you picked up."

He had a point, all right. Half of one, anyway. It wasn't my ship; but it wasmyproblem. "I can't do that, sir," I said, bracing myself for another burst ofhis anger. "I accepted a contract to fly the ship out. A poor but honest independentshipper can't just break contracts that way. Not and continue to look like apoor but honest shipper."

"Who would know?" he countered. His voice was still hard and cold, but atleast he hadn't started screaming at me. Maybe I'd gotten him to start thinking itthrough.

"Too many people," I told him. "A lot of people—some of them spaceportofficials—have seen my ID in connection with it. People who might startwondering how an independent shipper could afford to break a contract thatway.

People who might start wondering if that independent shipper had anothersource of operating funds." I shrugged, a brief twitching of my shoulders. "And iftheydid, I wouldn't be very effective as an employee anymore."

For a long minute he just stared at me, breathing heavily, his faceunreadable.

I gazed back, visually groveling now, wondering uneasily if I'd pushed my handtoo far with that last one. Cutting me loose from our agreement would lose himmost of the five hundred thousand in debt I still owed him, but theAntoniewicz organization probably blew that much a month just on paper clips. If, on theother hand, he decided that I had become too much of a liability to be trustedon my own, I would be summarily snuffed out like an atmosphere-test candle.

And it would be the height of irony if it turned out I was the one who hadtalked him into doing it.

"You keep trying to force these decisions on me, Jordan," he said at last. Hisvoice was still cold, but I thought I could detect a slight thawing of thechill factor. "These faits accomplis. There are to be no more of them."

"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm really not trying to do that. It's just that thingskeep happening too fast, and I keep having to improvise."

"No more of them, Jordan," he repeated in the same tone. "I make myselfclear?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "Perfectly."

"Good. Now, why did you call?"

I took a careful breath. "I need to find a dealer, sir."

He blinked at that, the blink turning into an even deeper frown. "A dealer?" he repeated, the chill factor diving into arctic territory again. For all themisery he caused with his happyjam, Brother John was almost puritanical whenit came to his own people using the stuff.

"One who carries borandis," I said hastily. "One of my crew is ill with Cole'sdisease, and borandis is the treatment for it. It's also called jackalspit."

"Yes, I know." For a few more seconds those soulless eyes gazed into mine, hisface still unreadable but almost certainly wondering if I was telling thetruth or simply spinning a line. I held my breath, trying to look as simple andhonest as I possibly could.

And then, to my relief, he shrugged. "Why not? Where are you?"

I got my lungs working again. "Potosi," I said. "Kacclint Spaceport."