"Possibly," I said. "I'd like him checked out anyway. And finally Tera, lastname unknown. She may be a member of one of those religious sects who don'tgivetheir full names to strangers, but I haven't yet seen her do anythingparticularly religious."

"The practice of one's beliefs is not always blatant and obvious," UncleArthur reminded me. "A quiet look into her cabin for religious paraphernalia at somepoint might be enlightening."

"I intend to take a quiet look into all their cabins when I get the chance," Iassured him. "Now: descriptions..."

I ran through everyone's physical description as quickly as I could, knowingthat it was all being recorded. "How fast can you get this to me?" I askedwhen I was finished.

"It will take a few hours," he said. "Where are you now?"

"Potosi, but I have no intention of staying here any longer than I have to," Itold him. "I don't know where we'll be heading next. Someplace quiet andpeaceful and anonymous would be a nice change of pace."

"You may have to settle for anonymous," he said, his eyes shifting to the sideand his shoulders shifting with the subtle movements of someone typing on akeyboard. "Is there anything else?"

"Actually, yes," I said. "We also seem to have a new group of players in thegame." I described the incident with the Lumpy Brothers on Xathru, and thecoronal-discharge weapons they'd been carrying. "Have you heard of either thisspecies or the weapons?" I asked when I finished.

"A qualified yes to both," he said, his eyes still busy off camera. "You mayrecall hearing rumors about a failed covert operation a few years ago in whichan elite EarthGuard task force tried to steal data on the Talariac Drive.

Weapons very similar to those you describe were used against them, by guardswho also match your description."

I sighed. "Which makes the Lumpy Clan some kind of Patth client race."

"Very likely," he agreed. "Don't sound so surprised. Certainly their firstefforts to find the Icarus would be made quietly, through their own people andagents. It was only after that failed that they began to approach first theSpiral's criminals and now legitimate governments."

I thought about the three Patth Cameron and I had seen in that Meima taverno.

So that was why they'd ventured out of their usual restricted hideouts. "Still, it strikes me that they gave up on the quiet approach rather quickly," I pointedout. "Could my smoking the Lumpy Brothers really have rattled them thatbadly?"

"I doubt it," he said soberly. "More likely it was a matter of new informationas to what exactly the prize was they were chasing."

And that knowledge had instantly pushed them into an open and increasinglypublic hunt. Terrific. "This place you're finding for us better be realanonymous," I told him.

"I believe I can make it so," he said. "Can you make Morsh Pon from there inone jump?"

I felt my eyes narrow. "Assuming we can get off Potosi, yes," I saidcautiously, wondering if he was really going where I thought he was on this.

He was. "Good," he said briskly. "The Blue District on Morsh Pon, then, at theBaker's Dozen taverno. I'll have the information delivered to you there."

"Ah... yes, sir," I said. Morsh Pon was an Ulko colony world, and theUlkomaals, like the Najik, had a reputation for great talent at creating wealth. Unlikethe Najik, however, the Ulkomaals relied heavily on the hospitality industry tomake their money, specifically hospitality toward the less virtuous members ofcivilized society at large. Morsh Pon was a quiet refuge for smugglers andother criminal types, far worse than even Dorscind's World, with the Blue Districtthe worst area on the planet.

Which under normal circumstances, given my connection with Brother John andthe Antoniewicz organization, would have made it an ideal place to go to ground.

Unfortunately, the current circumstances were far from normal. "I trust youremember, sir," I said diplomatically, "that the Patth have invited the entireSpiral underworld out for a drink?"

"I remember quite well," he said calmly. "It will be taken care of. Now, Isuspect time is growing short. You'd best get moving."

It was, clearly, a dismissal. I didn't particularly feel like being dismissedyet—there were still several aspects of this whole arrangement I felt likearguing some more. But when Uncle Arthur said good-bye, he meant good-bye.

Besides, he was right; time was indeed growing short. "Yes, sir," I said, suppressing a sigh. "I'll be in touch."

"Do that," he said. The screen blanked, and he was gone.

I collected my change and left the booth. Once again, I half expected one ofBrother John's assassins to jump me in the corridor; once again, it didn'thappen. I snagged a city map from a rack by the main exit doors, located thestreet intersection called Gystr'n Corner, and headed outside.

The rain that had been threatening earlier was starting to come down now, ascattering of large fat drops that almost seemed to bounce as they hit theground. I had already decided that Gystr'n Corner was too far to walk, and nowwith the rain beginning I further decided not to wait for the public railsystem. Brother John wouldn't like that; his standard orders were for us totake public transportation whenever possible, the better to avoid officialbacktracks. But then, Brother John wasn't here getting wet. Hailing a cab, Igave the driver my destination, told him there would be an extra hundredcommarks for him if he got me there fast, and all but fell back into thespring-bare seat as he took off like an attack shuttle on wheels.

With the way I'd been spending money like water lately, first with full-vidstarconnects and now on cabs, it was just as well I'd relieved that Patthagenton Dorscind's World of all those hundred-commark bills that had been weighinghim down. Now, watching the city, startled vehicle drivers, and outragedpedestrians blurring along past my windows, it occurred to me that perhapssome extra travel-health insurance might have been a good idea, too. My map's keyestimated it to be twenty-three minutes from the StarrComm building to Gystr'nCorner. My driver made it in just over fifteen, probably a new land-speedrecord for the city, possibly for the entire planet.

Emendo Torsk was there as promised, standing in front of a short cabanalikeshelter, his squat Drilie shape almost hidden behind the complex multimusicbox he was playing with both his hands and the set of short prehensile eating tentacles ringing the base of his neck. A crowd of perhaps twenty admirerswere standing in the rain in front of him listening to the music.

I let the driver take the cab out of sight along the street and had him pullto the curb. I paid him, told him to wait, and walked back through the nowpouringrain to join the crowd. I wouldn't have guessed there were that many beings onthe whole planet who liked Drilie di-choral anthems, even when they wereproperly performed, which this one emphatically was not. But then, I doubtedanyof those in attendance were there for the music, anyway.

Fortunately, the piece Torsk had chosen was a short one, and I silentlythanked the downpour for whatever part it had played in that decision. Amid thesmattering of totally fraudulent applause he passed a large hat around forcontributions. I'd made the necessary preparations while careening about inthe cab, and as he waved the hat in front of me I dropped in a small packageconsisting of three tightly folded hundred-commark bills wrapped around apieceof paper with the word "borandis" written on it. Most of the rest of theaudience, I saw, had similar donations for him. He finished taking up hiscollection and gave out with a set of guttural barks that were probably atraditional Drilie thank-you or farewell, then disappeared through the flapinto his cabana. At that, the audience faded away, splashing away in all directionsto disappear down the streets and alleyways or into the dark and anonymousdoorways fronting on the streets.