"So that we could be waiting for him when he reached the Tube?" I scoffed. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Maybe he thought we'd turn around and go charging back to Ghonsilya as soon as we hit the transfer station," Morse said. "Thereby being conveniently out of position when his actual torchliner came in."
"Only we won't be doing that, I take it?" I said.
"Bloody right we won't," he said firmly. "There's only one way out of this system, and that's through the transfer station. I'm prepared to set up camp there and wait all month if I have to."
"Well, best of luck to you," I said. "You want Bayta and me to escort Ms. Auslander back to Earth?"
"I'm not going back without Daniel," Penny said firmly. Her eyes softened a little as she looked at me. "You aren't going to leave us, are you?"
And with that, all three sets of eyes were on me: Penny's pleading, Morse's unfriendly, Bayta's merely watchful. "I guess we'll see," I said. It was a lame answer, but it was the best I could come up with.
Because I knew that by the time we reached the transfer station I very likely wouldn't have any choice as to whether I stayed or not.
TWENTY :
We reached the transfer station four days later, tying up at our dock ten minutes ahead of schedule. The disembarkation listing called for our particular grouping to exit about an hour after docking, and at Morse's suggestion we spent the time in the aft observation lounge, where we'd at least have a view of something besides the station hull.
I studied Penny's face as we sat there, wondering if she was thinking about what had happened between us the last time we were in one of these aft lounges together. But it was clear that her thoughts were on Stafford, with me running a distant second.
If I was even in the running at all. Whatever that kiss had meant to me, I was starting to suspect it had meant a great deal less to her.
The transfer station was busy today. Docked a safe distance away from us was a small-capacity torchferry, presumably making its run from one of the asteroid mining regions scattered throughout this part of Ghonsilya's outer system. Farther down were a pair of the even smaller torchyachts, plus a third currently maneuvering away from the station at the low-power drive setting necessary to keep from frying everything within reach of its heavy-ion plasma exhaust. For a minor system, Ghonsilya seemed to have a lot of traffic.
Finally, the lounge's speaker called our disembarkation grouping. Gathering our luggage, we joined the line of passengers passing through the hatchways, walked down the entry corridor, and emerged in a large and crowded reception room. Fifty meters directly ahead I could see a row of customs tables with a line of passengers at each, with the doors into the main part of the transfer station just beyond them. A little ahead and to our right was a group of Tra'ho'seej I didn't recognize from our flight, possibly some of the passengers from the torchferry.
And eight people ahead of us and two lines to our left, freshly disembarked from their rented torchyacht, were Fayr and Stafford.
Stafford was in front, with five Tra'ho'seej and a Nemut between him and Fayr. He was wearing the same plain, nondescript clothing he'd had on at the Paradise, but at least he'd taken the time to get the outfit cleaned during the torchyacht trip. Fayr, in contrast, was resplendent in upper-class clothing, as befit a Bellido wearing four handguns in a matched set of double shoulder holsters.
Stafford had two carrybags rolling alongside him, plus a heavy-looking backpack. Fayr had a single carrybag—an expensive one, naturally—and a long, flat shoulder case for his Rontra 772.
I watched Penny and Morse as we settled into position in our own line, wondering if either of them would recognize Stafford. The odds were low, I knew. Only a little of the younger man's face was visible at our angle, even less with all that extra hair and beard obscuring it. Between the hair and the clothing, he looked more like a wilderness wanderer than a rich college student. Still, it was a concern, and I kept my eye on Morse and Penny in hopes of stifling any cry of recognition before it got started.
Which was probably why Stafford was nearly to his customs table before I spotted the Tra'ho oathling standing quietly among a group of armed guards in the far corner of the room.
An oathling I'd last seen in Magaraa City outside the Fraklog-Oryo Hotel.
I looked sideways at Bayta, found her looking tensely back at me. She'd obviously spotted him, too, probably before I had. Morse and Penny, in contrast, still seemed oblivious to this new threat.
But then, he wasn't a threat to either of them.
Stafford had moved up to the table and opened his backpack, revealing a strange half log, half sculpture hybrid that looked like that odd breed of rough-hewn folk art so dearly beloved by sentimental tourists. The customs agent was frowning as Stafford gestured and talked, most likely explaining it was kiln-fired clay and not real Ghonsilyan wood. The agent cut him off, peering at his sensor display, and gestured for the next bag to be put on the table. A minute later, with the procedure completed, Stafford packed up his last bag and strode off through the doors into the station. The customs agent beckoned, and the next Tra'ho in line moved up to the table.
I looked back at the oathling. His eyes were still searching the crowd, having missed Stafford completely. Now all the kid had to do was get aboard one of the shuttles and get to the Tube before the balloon went up. Fortunately, with this much traffic the shuttles were likely to be running pretty continuously.
And then, as I watched the oathling out of the corner of my eye, his drifting gaze abruptly locked on to my face.
I forced myself to stand still, waiting tensely for him to sic the guards on me. But no cry was given, no signal passed. Apparently, the Modhri had decided to play it cool.
And it suddenly occurred to me why. Back during our private parley in the art museum, I'd hinted that I had concealed weapons that the Spiders permitted me to carry aboard the Quadrail.
I'd spun the story mainly to try to obscure Fayr's role in our rescue. But the Modhri had apparently taken the conversation seriously. He was therefore waiting to make his move until after I hit the customs tables, hoping their scanners would pick up any such weaponry and deprive me of it.
Ahead, the Nemut directly in front of Fayr moved up for his turn under the microscope. "Morse?" I murmured.
"What?" he said distractedly.
"Whatever happens, make sure to get Bayta and Ms. Auslander to the Tube," I said. "Got that?"
I had his full attention now. "What are you talking about?" he demanded quietly.
"Just get them to safety," I said. I started to drift to the side.
Morse caught my arm. "Don't even think about it," he warned. "Whatever it is."
"We don't have a choice," I said. "See that oathling over there, the one with all the mobile firepower? He's looking for me."
"What, over the hotel thing?" Morse scoffed.
"No, over the fact that the Lynx I gave the art museum to auction off was a fake."
Morse's grip tightened. "A what?"
"One of Stafford's friends in the artists' colony sculpted it for me," I told him. "It was late enough in the auction schedule that the gang wouldn't have gotten hold of it and learned the truth until we were already off planet. Obviously, they lasered a message ahead."
"So how did the oathling get here before we did?"
"They probably sent him off right after Bayta and I gave the rest of you the slip," I said. "They would have wanted one of their own here as backstop in case I managed to get off Ghonsilya with the Lynx."
"Are you saying you have it with you?"
In answer, I nudged my larger carrybag with my foot.
Morse hissed softy between his teeth. "This won't be easy."