There were, in fact, only a limited number of reasons I could think of why he might be that interested in me. Unfortunately, most of those reasons involved the Modhri.
"Maybe he just recognized me from somewhere," I said, picking the least threatening of the possibilities. "I was in that same business, after all."
"I don't know," Bayta said slowly. "He seemed interested in Mr. Smith, too."
"Maybe Mr. Smith's completely legal secret artwork transaction isn't as secret as he thinks," I said. "Either way, our best bet is to keep a low profile the rest of the way to Bellis and hope all of them forget about us."
"It's only twenty-five hours to Bellis," Bayta pointed out.
"Then they'll have to forget real fast."
We finished our meal in silence against the steady clacking of the train's wheels on the tracks beneath us as we traveled along at a steady hundred kilometers an hour. Or a light-year per minute, however one preferred to think about it. When we were finished, we headed back to our double compartment.
We reached the car to find Smith's door was closed. I half expected him to jump out into the corridor as we passed and try his sales pitch on me again, but the door stayed shut. Either he'd gone to bed, or else he'd given up on me. Either suited me fine.
I ushered Bayta into her compartment and then continued on to my own. I hung my jacket on the clothes rack for a quick cleaning, then settled down on the bed with my reader and the complete guidebook to Bellis I'd picked up at Terra Station before Bayta and I had left. As Humans we were going to look out of place enough among all those chipmunk-faced Bellidos. There was no point in looking like tourists, too.
I'd been reading for an hour, and was just thinking about taking a quick shower and getting ready for bed, when a piercing scream from the corridor knifed through the wall.
TWO :
I was at the door in two seconds flat, slapping at the release even as a small, sane part of my mind warned that this was not a smart thing to do. There were probably at least a couple of Modhran walkers aboard, and uncorking a pitiful scream was a time-honored way of enticing a victim into a trap.
But the sane part of my mind wasn't winning many arguments these days, and it didn't win this one, either. Reminding myself that the Spiders were very good about keeping weapons off their Quadrails. I stepped out into the corridor.
Standing a couple of paces inside the car's rear vestibule was the lady politician who'd passed us in the dining car earlier. Her mouth was open, her lungs filling for a reprise of her scream, her hands scrabbling at the corridor walls as if trying to find something to hold on to.
Her wide eyes were staring down at Mr. Smith's battered body, sprawled on the corridor floor barely two meters from my door.
"What happened?" I demanded as I dropped to one knee beside Smith. He was still wearing the traveling suit I'd seen him in earlier, now badly rumpled. The front of his jacket was rising and falling feverishly with short, shallow breaths.
"I don't know," the woman managed. "I was—I think he fell—" Abruptly she turned and disappeared back into the vestibule.
I sent a brief hope skyward that she could hold on to her dinner long enough to reach the restroom at the front of the first-class car behind us, then put her out of my mind. Gingerly, I opened Smith's jacket, trying to remember my Westali first-aid training. His shirt, I saw, was peppered with small bloodstains, a ghastly contrast to the diamond fastening studs.
The door to Bayta's compartment slid open, and I glanced up to see her gazing out at us, her eyes wide. "Whistle up a conductor and have him find a doctor," I ordered. "Then get the LifeGuard."
"The conductors have been alerted," she said as she stepped gingerly past me and over Smith's body and hurried toward the bright orange box set into the corridor wall near the front of the car.
"Make it a trauma specialist if they have a choice." I called, hoping at least one of the Spiders was close enough for Bayta's telepathic link with them to work. Carefully, I unfastened the diamond studs and opened Smith's shirt.
One look at the bruise pattern and oozing blood was all I needed. The lady with the excellent lungs might think he'd gotten this way tripping over his own feet, but I knew a professional beating when I saw one.
And then, to my surprise, his eyes fluttered open. "Who—?" he rasped, bits of blood flecking his lips as he spoke.
"It's all right." I soothed, the small sane part of my mind noting the banal stupidity of that comment. Traveling through interstellar space, hours away from a real medical facility, he was probably a goner. "It's Compton. Who did this to you?"
"Know what's …really funny?" he asked, his swollen eyes fighting to focus on my face.
I grimaced. Why did so many badly injured people get stuck on inessentials? "The Marx Brothers," I said. "Who did this to you?"
"He hates you," Smith gasped. "Funny thing is, that was …even better than Lo …Losutu's rec …recommenda …"
"Recommendation," I finished for him. wondering which of the collection of people who hated me he was referring to. Not that it mattered. "I'm glad my reputation is so solid. Now who did this?"
He shook his head weakly. "Never saw …" Abruptly, his right hand jerked upward and clutched at my sleeve. "Lynx," he croaked.
Lynx? "His name's Lynx?" I asked.
His face spasmed with pain. "Nemuti Lynx," he said. "He wanted …third Lynx. Daniel—Daniel Mice—" He broke off, his face spasming again.
"Okay," I said. The Nemuti part, at least, I understood. The Nemuti FarReach was one of the Twelve Empires, with territory stretching across a few thousand light-years near the galaxy's central core area. The Lynx part I didn't have a clue on. "Did Daniel Mice do this?"
He closed his eyes, and with one final heave his chest went still.
I swore under my breath as his hand dropped limply away from my sleeve. "Bayta!" I snapped as I rolled Smith onto his back and started to check his windpipe for blockages.
And suddenly the Quadrail became a cheap kaleidoscope as I was grabbed by the front of my shirt, hauled to my feet, and thrown violently backward down the corridor.
I slammed to the floor at Bayta's feet, hitting hard enough to see stars. Bayta gave a little gasp as I grabbed a piece of floor and pushed myself upright again. Blinking to clear my vision, I looked back down the corridor.
Trouble was definitely on its way, striding toward me in the form of the biggest Halka I'd ever seen, two meters of short brown fur, back-jointed legs, and muscle. His flat bulldog lace was simmering with righteous anger, his nostrils making little purling sounds, his short claws extending whitely from their fingertip sheaths. Behind him, the Intelligence man I'd seen in the dining car was hurrying toward Smith's body, the lady politician trailing shakily behind him.
"Easy," I said, taking a step back and holding out my hands toward the approaching Halka. "We're just trying to help."
The Halka kept coming. "What you do to this Human?" he demanded.
"We didn't do anything," I said, taking another step back and hoping I could talk some sense into him before Bayta and I ran out of corridor. "We're trying to get the LifeGuard."
"Then get on with it." the Intelligence man called, his unexpected British accent carrying an extra edge of authority as he knelt beside the body. "Make sure it's set for Human. You—sir—out of his way, please."
The big Halka rumbled something, but obediently stepped to the side of the corridor. Taking the orange box from Bayta. I punched the button marked "Human" and hurried back down the corridor.
The Intelligence man had gotten Smith's head in position by the time I arrived. Up close, I could see that he was in his mid-twenties, a few years younger than my own thirty-two, with light brown hair and the smooth, unweathered skin of someone who preferred the indoor life. His pale blue eyes brushed over me like radar painting a target as I knelt down beside him. "Get the arm cuff on," he ordered as he unlimbered the breather mask and oxygen tank. He took a quick look to make sure the mask had configured to Human facial shape, then fastened it over Smith's face.