CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sten landed on Prime World with two covers: a livid scar and an Impossible Quest.

The scar was a benign parasite, surgically transplanted onto his face. Nearly two centimeters wide, zigzagging artistically from his scalp line to the corner of his eye and down to his chin, it was part of the "Great Lorenzo" dicta: The best disguise is the simplest, and one that won't blow off in a strong wind. Anyone looking at Sten would see only the horrible scar, no matter how carefully he instructed his mind to be polite.

Sten had used versions of the gimmick before, from a alk-ridden nose to partial baldness to a simple, completely shaven head. It worked—almost all the time, at least.

Sten's main concern was that when he extracted from Prime, the parasite might have decided it had found a home everlasting. Kilgour reassured him.

"Dinna fash, lad. I' thae happens, we'll score y' a wee eyepatch an' y' kin join th'

pirates."

The Impossible Quest was equally simple. Truth: At the close of the Tahn wars one David Rosemont had appeared on Prime. A flashy, loud-talking, loud-living entrepreneur, he announced his newest business-converting Imperial spacecraft, particularly the tiny, evil tacships, into luxury yachts. Regardless of the inherent absurdity of the premise, Rosemont prospered. For a minute and a half.

Prime's Fraud Squad had taken an interest in Rosemont—his company, yet to produce a single yacht that anyone could find, looked very much like a con game. And then Rosemont vanished, leaving bare bank accounts and a warehouse with three tacships inside. All of that was true.

The harried but friendly—and badly scarred—man appeared on Prime.

False: His name was Elijah Braun. Sten/Braun was credentialed as a private investigator, working for a law firm located on a faraway world between Lost and Nowhere. Rosemont had an heir, who wanted whatever estate existed. Braun knew that the man had not been declared legally dead yet, but the heir was convinced that Rosemont was a victim of foul play, rather than a con who had skated with the swag.

Braun was convinced that the heir, already rich, was drug-addled. But a case was a case.

Besides, he prattled to the official issuing him his sixty-day visa, it would give him a chance to see Prime, the center of everything and the universe's Most Glamorous World.

"You've seen too many livies, Sr. Braun. Or else you're a history buff. Prime ain't what it was, and it's getting less like it every day."

The official glanced hastily over his shoulder to make sure that his innocent statement had gone unheard. But Sten filed that glance. Unsurprisingly, the privy council's internal security was in full.

Sten noted them everywhere: street cleaners who ignored litter but noted passersby; inept waiters with big ears; clerks who never clerked but listened; block wardens; concierges who asked questions far beyond what was normal. All precautions by the privy council against a largely nonexistent threat. And they were expensive precautions—the council was spending money for all those informers, money it simply did not have.

Sten marveled once again at the odd tendency all too many beings had to want to spy on their neighbor for any reason whatsoever.

None of them thought beyond the moment of what would surely happen when—not if—the privy council fell. Sten remembered the riots on Heath near the end of the Tahn wars. Not only had the mob ripped anyone in uniform apart, but they had revenged themselves on the Tahn's amateur gestapo in the process.

Not that Sten felt sorry for them. He just wanted his cover to stay intact long enough for him to get in, find what he was looking for, and go home.

He did, however, take a precaution. The current powers did not know everything.

Mahoney had told him of a few, very secure, disused safe houses on Prime that might still exist. One at least did. Sten armed himself with a secondary set of false documents that were stashed there.

He then proceeded in his role as Braun. He found an inexpensive hotel, found the landlord of that warehouse, and taped the three hulks inside. He interviewed investors and acquaintances of the vanished Rosemont. He went to the Fraud Squad. They gave him access to their files, and a Visitor's ID.

Braun, over a period of days, professed first bewilderment and then suspicion. He was starting to believe that the heir might be right. Rosemont had not vanished.

Something had happened to the man. He did have some less-than-palatable acquaintances on the back-alley side of town. Murder, maybe. Suicide? Rosemont, Braun said, had appeared very depressed before he vanished, then turned suddenly cheerful. "He found his back door," suggested a bunco expert, but he gave Braun the names of some friends in Homicide.

Then, timidly, he asked permission to speak to the chief of Homicide. "Y're crackers, an' you're wastin' your—an' her—time. But she's got a policy. Talks to anybody, no matter how loony."

Braun said he was aware that Chief Haines was very busy, especially in these troubled times. So he had prepared a summary of his investigation, complete with a list of questions he would like to ask. He clipped a copy of his Visitor's ID to the fiche, and it went forward.

Sten felt like drakh. He was preparing to use—and possibly jeopardize—a friend and former lover.

He had often wondered about their affair. In one way, it had been the only "normal"

relationship Sten had experienced. But in another, they had been lovers by circumstance, co-investigating a conspiracy. And their affair had never really ended—Sten had gone off to fight a war, been captured, escaped, and returned to combat. Haines had been drafted into Military Intelligence, and somehow they had never reconnected. He had thought, sometimes, before the privy council made him outlaw, of dropping a line to her, just to see… see what, Sten? If there's still a there there?

Probably, he thought, Kilgour was right. Both of them were getting "morally corrupted"—and getting too moral to soldier successfully in the dirty midnight wars they had grown up in.

Don't get too moral, he prodded himself. Honest spies get trusting and dead. Join the Purity League when this is over if you wish.

He had sent the fiche in to Haines hoping to avoid heart attack city. He hoped she would figure out his intent.

It took two days before he was summoned to her office.

The temperature could have frozen a nova.

"Sr. Braun," Haines said. "I've gone through your fiche, and your questions.

Reviewed our own files. Everything my department has suggests you are on a dead end."

"I might well be," Sten said. "May I record?"

Without waiting for an answer, he put a battered taper—at least its exterior was battered—on her desk and turned it on. Then motioned to her to keep talking.

Haines frowned but continued telling Braun why thinking Rosemont's disappearance was anything other than what it appeared was a blind alley.

Sten had enough. He touched another button on the taper. "Your bug is suppressed.

It's getting fed synthesized chatter."

Haines came around the desk, almost into an embrace, then stopped herself. "I'm married now," she said very softly. "Happily." That was softer still.

Another world of might-have-been vanished.

"I'm… glad for you," Sten said.

Haines managed a smile. "I'm sorry. I must say I've thought about… things. As they were. And… sorry. At least I can try to lie as well as you do, and let's say that I think of our time together as a lovely moment in the past. Emphasis past."

"Yeah. That's best. I guess, anyway. But who wrote that dialogue? Sounds like a livie."

"Best I could manage. Right off the top. Now," Haines said, trying to be businesslike.

"I'd like to be flattered and think you're here to—more livie dialogue—relight the flame.

In spite of your being one of the Ten Most Wanted in the Empire. But I think I know better. Dammit."

She turned away for a moment. "That scar?" she asked without turning back.

"Makeup."

"Thank God." She turned back. "Now I'll get angry. I'm getting used."

"Yes."

"First I wondered if I was getting set up. Then I changed my mind."

"Thanks for that much, anyway. But I need help. You were the best contact."

"Sure. Good old Haines. We were pretty good in the sack, so let's see if she'll roll again, just for old times' sake? Let me ask you… If I wasn't involved, and you were, would you have gone so far as to pull moonlight on the mattress?"

"I know you're pissed, Lisa. But that's a little—" He broke off, letting it go.

Haines took several deep breaths. "Oh, hell. You're right. But I'm not going to make a career of apology."

And she was in his arms. For a long moment.

"It was pretty good, wasn't it?" she asked.

Sten said yes and kissed her again. Finally, she broke away.

"But I wasn't lying. Sam'l is a wonderful man. Probably, to be honest, a little bit more the kind of person I should be with. Not some rogue with a dagger in his arm and murder in his heart. So… let's try it as friends. Never tried to be friends with somebody I was in—involved with before. So maybe I can learn something."

Part of Sten wanted to cry. "Sure, Lisa. Friends."

Haines started acting like a cop again. "First, how clean are you?"

"Clean. For at least a few more weeks."

"I gathered," Haines said, tapping the fiche, "that you're running a mission. Your ex-boss have anything to do with it? I thought so. Against the council?"

Sten nodded once more.

"One question—and you'd best not be lying to me. Last time around, after we policed up everyone involved with the late Kai Hakone, there were some bodies in alleys. By Imperial Order. What I'd done is collaborate in a murder conspiracy. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it any better now.

"So if there's what I've heard you call 'wet work,' or 'personal contact' at the end of this… don't even ask me."

"No. This is for the Tribunal."

Haines goggled. "Son of a bitch," she said slowly. Of course, in spite of the privy council's blackout, she had heard the Tribunal's announcement of its intent to sit in judgment on the council. "I'm thinking. Yeah. The whole thing—your idea?"

"It was."

"Son of a bitch once more," she said. "I said I wouldn't apologize. But I do. For the last time."

She grinned. "You know… maybe in another hundred, hundred and fifty years, if you spend some time in a seminary, you might actually be permitted to join the human race.

"Okay. What do you need?"

Another misunderstanding had been corrected by Alex Kilgour before he left on his recruiting drive. Oddly enough it had minor echoes of what Sten was realizing and saying to Lisa Haines.

Kilgour had informed Sten's bodyguard that for the moment they were no longer needed on their special assignment. They were reassigned to general court security.

Cind had requested an interview with her temporary commanding officer. The first question she had asked Alex was why the change? Had they done something wrong?

"First strike, on y', soldier. Security is security. Y' dinnae need't'know. Sten's got bi'ness ae his own."

"Request reassignment, sir."

"Ae what? Pers'nal backup f'r him?"

"Something like that."

Kilgour growled. "Th' firs' an' only time Ah got in-volv'd wi' a task, m' Mantis topkick took m' back ae th' barracks. She wailed upon m' melon an' informed me Ah'd best learn't'be a professional ae m' task or go back't' sheep-shaggin'.

"She wae right.

"An' should do th' same't' you.

"But Ah'm sophisticated, noo. I c'd gie th' order—'So'jer, soldier!'—'n hae done wi' it.

"But Ah'll gie reasons. So gie your head oot ae y'r gonads or where e'er it's lurkin't, an' listen close.

"One, y'r bosses know whae they're doin't. Second, y're complete wrong f'r whae th'

boss is doin't. An' dinnae yammer ae me aboot th' longarm an' how y'been studyin't intell'gence. Ah knoo all ae thae already.

"You're wrong f'r th' run because y're too… strik-in'. You dinnae e'er, e'er, e'er want to be notable i' y'r task is snoopin't ae poopin't. An' y're a so'jer. So'jerin' is a diff'rent discipline thae spookin't.

"But thae's as may be. Last—an' best—reason, y're too clottin' young. Y'believe in things. Y'dinnae ken th' depths ae depravity i' th' spirit. Unless y' grew up bein' nattered ae by Calvinists, ae Ah did. A spook must hae one thing runnin' throo his mind ae all times: Trust nae soul, an' always, always think th' worst ae most selfish ae any an' all.

"A hard an' evil lesson. One y','t'be honest, w'd be best not learnin't.

"Gie y'self back't' th' duties assigned, noo. Ah'll wager thae'll be more'n enow blood't' come. Y'll hae chances't' distinguish y'self ae th' eyes ae y'r superiors or e'en the boss, i' thae's your fancy.

"Dismissed."

Kilgour sighed when she had left. Christ on a pogo stick, he thought. He was starting to sound like a fatherly command sergeant major. Gettin' old, Kilgour. Gettin'

old…

At first Sten thought going to Prime was nothing more than an ego-damaging, high-hazard bust. He was looking for three things: any more information on the murder-for-hire of the press lord Volmer than Haines had been able to give Mahoney; a paper trail for that first—question mark—meeting of the conspirators on Earth; and whether or not there had been another meeting before Chapelle was put in motion.

Plus, as a secondary goal, whether there was anything more on the Chapelle/Control/Sullamora link than was known, in spite of Mahoney's proclamation that it was relatively unimportant.

Thus far, he had done a very good job of getting zeroes. No, Haines had nothing more on Volmer or the "suicide" of the assassin. She frankly admitted that she had not worked the case any further—it was clearly political. These days people had been known to vanish when they started asking uncomfortable questions about politics. She added, however, that she did not think there was anything to collect, at least not until the privy council was deposed and, it was to be hoped, indicted.

Zero One.

As for anything about that meeting on Earth, Sten found a complete vacuum. As far as he could tell, there had been no contact between members of the council before they somehow, telepathically, sensed it was time to gather at Sullamora's lodge. At least that was all that was in the open archives and what governmental archives Haines had been able to gingerly pry at. Kilgour had been right—the privy council had been smart enough to destroy or classify whatever memoranda had passed between them but not smart enough to make substitutes. Interesting. Ordinarily that would have been enough for Sten, as an intelligence professional, to take action on. But as an officer of the law, he was trying hard to stay somewhere close to its limits and requirements.

Zero Two.

As for his side quest—he found a mansion that had been rented shortly before Chapelle vanished by a retired colonel general named Suvorov. From some kind of Pioneer Division or Battalion or whatever they called those military things, the estate agent told him. Suvorov was right—the estate agent remembered his dress and credit rating clearly. Solidly built, he thought. Oh yes. A scar on his neck. Don't remember which side. Might I inquire why you're asking, Sr. Braun? Proof that the father my client is looking for is not this man. Thank you for your time.

Big clottin' deal. A smooth operator who used the haunts of the rich to launch his operation. They knew that already. Name—false. Build? Who knew? The scar? Probably as phony as the one Sten was wearing.

Slightly More Than Zero Three. But not much.

The second meeting? He could find no trace of any final parley among the privy council before the assassination other than in their official chambers. He did not think they were dumb enough to plan the death of the Emperor in what they must think to be certainly bugged offices. And were they so skilled that they could set up a conspiracy that ran of itself? Nobody, including Sten, was that good. But where was the evidence?

Zero Four. So far.

Sten wanted Haines to be single, the sky-floating houseboat over the forest to still be there, two bottles of champagne, and the vid disconnected. Oh, yeah. A little general peace without paranoia or goons would go nicely.

He contented himself with one solitary short beer and an equally solitary brood.

He glimmered an idea. But it would, he thought, be in plain view. If the privy council were as paranoid as he thought them to be, he could be strolling into a trap.

One set not specifically for Sten, but for anyone with the curiosity of a not particularly bright cat.

It seemed, however, the only and last option.

From first appearances, Hawkthorne had changed very little since Sten and Alex had gone there under deep cover to hire mercenaries for what they called "The Great Talamein Beatup." It still was fairly anarchic—any planet that specialized as a hiring hall for soldiers-for-hire had to have a fairly lax government where the ultimate law was laid down by whoever had the heaviest weapons.

But the mercenaries on Hawkthorne looking for a contract were different from the psychopaths, crooks, opportunists, and would-be kingmakers before.

The Tahn War had changed everything.

Any war produced, in its aftermath, mercenaries. They came from the losing armies, from suddenly stateless soldiers, from the ranks of war criminals, from the bored who wanted to continue experiencing that one insane moment of pure life that was combat, and from those who just could not go back to the farm. Generally they were highly professional. But as peace went on, there was a deterioration in quality. Some got killed, some found their kingdom beyond the clouds, some grew up and realized that that moment of life was surrounded by death, and others drifted on to more stable situations that required only the occasional use of violence.

That had been Hawkthorne before.

The Tahn wars created a new horde of professionals. And the necessary economic cutbacks of peacetime, plus the hamwitted policies of the privy council, had made them potential mercenaries.

Admirals would sign on as ship executive officers. Guard generals would cheerfully command a battalion or even a company. Sergeant majors would wear the blank sleeve of a private without complaining—at least for the moment.

Alex could pick and choose. He did.

Sten dreamed of ten thousand "officers of the court" and hoped for five thousand.

Alex could have gotten one hundred thousand. He could afford to be generous.

Money? Nae problem. If the Tribunal failed to start the fall of the privy council, how much was left in the coffers would be completely unimportant once everyone involved bought a fast ticket out of town.

Fuel for combat ships? Kilgour had a "train" full.

He could have enlisted some with a full meal and the promise of regular rations to come.

For some, there was even a more subtle offer, made quietly and in person: If the privy council were toppled, the Imperial military would need restructuring. The corrupt, the incompetent, or those who had bloodied their hands in the purge would be removed. Some kind of military would be—had to be—retained. Alex said that frankly he had no idea what it would be. He let the thought dangle.

He stood at the ramp of Ida's flagship and looked down at his army.

From up there, one could see the threadbare uniforms or the shabby termination-of-service civvies some others wore. One could not see the gaunt, hungry faces.

From there, the lines of soldiery and their ships behind them were as rigidly in formation as any Guards unit on formal inspection.

Put 'em in propit dress, he said to himself. Gie 'em a banner to follow, an' lead 'em to a war wi' paper bullets. Thae's happiness.

Kilgour's… Killers? Cheap. Kubs? Stupid. Klique? Clack. Kilgour's Keeks? Nae. Jus'

a few of 'em were ex-intelligence. Ah. Kilgour's Kilted Kvetchers.

He gave the orders and watched proudly as "his" army, who would never know it, boarded ship for liftoff.

Frae a mo', Ah wae a gen'ral.

An' did y'a like it?

He suddenly had a vision of those soldiers at their fate. Dead slowly or quickly.

Bodies shredded beyond reconstruction. Blinded. Crippled. Insane.

Then another vision: He saw all those soldiers wearing a motley of civvies. Bankers, farmers, wives, workmen, tourists in the streets, factories, homes, and pubs of the vast estates Laird Kilgour owned but somehow never got around to asserting his total authority over, back on Edinburgh.

Better. Far better.

Answers y'r wee question, doesn't it, now, he thought. And he ordered the officer of the watch to seal ship and prepare for lift.

No one in the Cult of the Eternal Emperor knew exactly how they heard. But suddenly, in a thousand thousand meeting halls on an equal number of worlds, everyone knew.

They had been given a great honor.

One of the privy council had become a fertile ground for the True Belief. Not only a ruler, but the being most reputed to be the most intelligent.

Now he had vanished. No explanation was given by anyone. It was not as if Kyes had regularly appeared in vids of the council—But now it was if he had never existed.

The explanation was simple.

The Mighty Kyes had seen the light. As a reward, he had been taken, in corpore, to commune with the Holy Spheres, just as the Emperor had.

Kyes, they knew, would not return, any more than the handful of saints who had achieved equal reward. None of them were, after all, the Emperor himself.

This was an event. Kyes would be numbered among the Blessed.

But more importantly, the believers could sense something else: The time was coming. The Emperor would return soon.

They readied themselves. For what, they did not know. They did not even know if their services would be called for.

But—and let it be so, let us each have a chance to serve, they prayed—they were ready.

"Your pardon."

It was not an apology for intrusion, but a command. Sten looked up at the librarian.

A less likely one he had never seen. Not that librarians fell into physical archetypes.

But it was the uncommon one who had a flushed tan from a life mostly spent outside, on foot patrol. Nor did many of them have scarred and callused knuckles. And none wore hard-toed, cushion-soled boots, let alone that telltale sag and wear on the belt that came from a holstered gun.

"Yah?" Sten said.

"You're readin' about the council, right?"

"So? It 'gin th' law? Some kinda new law passed since I got up this morn?" Sten slurred.

The man did not answer. "Please could I see your ID?" Again, a command.

Sten took the ID from his pocket and passed it to the man looming over his terminal. It was not Braun's ID, but the standard, generic phony he had scored from Mahoney's safehouse. According to the card, Sten was a caretaker, hired to mind the closed consulate of a frontier world.

"Janitor, eh?" The security goon passed the card back. "Jus' readin' about th' Lords outa curiosity?"

The Lords. New term.

"Nawp," Sten said. "M'kid wanted to know how th' world worked. Shamed m'self not knowin'. Thought I'd better read up some. Got, well, laid off las' week. So got some time while I'm lookin' f'r a new slot. T'rble, lookin' stupid front a y'r own son."

The man grunted and walked back to the front of the library.

Sten swore bitterly. Very nice indeed when a being could end up in the slammer for going to a library and going through public records. Just a hell of a good government.

Be glad you're nonexistent, son of mine, he thought.

Sten had figured the council just might be paranoid enough to put a trace in the libraries. He had found a shop specializing in actor's supplies and purchased the best pancake makeup available. The clerk had glanced at Sten's scar, winced, and not asked any questions. Sten pretended to be embarrassed by having to buy the makeup and also said he was an amateur actor, and he could use a fake mustache in the production he was in. The pitying clerk went along with the pretense and sold him one.

Scar covered, mustache in place—Sten tried to keep from whuffling it as if he were Rykor, or touching it to see if it had come unglued yet—he entered the library.

He was glad he had taken precautions—he had spotted the phony librarian immediately.

Staying with the cheap cover, he had started the search at privy council—functions and duties, beginning when they ascended to total power and staying clear, for the moment, of the time frame he was interested in. Scrolling through the flackery and propaganda wasted a full morning. Then he chanced privy council—history (from formation to present).

That, evidently, was where the security indicator alarm had been hidden.

He scrolled on, glancing every now and then at the front desk. The goon seemed satisfied.

history… hmm. NG.

Okay. What next?

PRIVY COUNCIL, PICS. ANY PERIOD.

Endless head and shoulders for thumbnails. Group photos at ceremonies. All very official. Very few, Sten noted, of the Kraas. Maybe they knew what they looked like.

Almost nothing on Kyes.

Got any other—whoops!

Sten back-scrolled, hoping he had seen what he thought he had.

I have you, he thought fiercely staring at the screen, which showed all five of the councilors hurrying into the entrance of some kind of hall. They were surrounded by security. The pic was rather poorly framed, and Sten saw, in the corner, a cop headed for the camera, an angry look on his face.

So somebody had shot a picture—looked as if he was either a free-lancer or a citizen—of the bastards. The cop was headed for him to try to grab the pic. Good thing the photog was wearing' track shoes or was bigger'n the cop, Sten thought.

Now. What was it?

He read the caption.

Some kind of sporting event. Gravball? Whatever that was. Sten had about as much interest in athletics as he did in watching rocks grow. He had suffered through the obligatory games in the service, rationalizing them as part of the necessary physical conditioning. This was the Rangers against something called the Blues. Teams. The Blues were offworld, the Rangers from Prime. Big match—a hundred thousand people, including privy council to watch…

Game played at Lovett Arena.

Oh clottin' really.

Sten did not know how many of the privy council were sports freaks. Not that it mattered. This was the only occasion he had been able to find, both in the library and in Haines's records, where the council had assembled on more or less neutral ground to

"enjoy" a nonwork-related event.

He noted the date and shut down.

"Clottin' impossible to understand, this politics," he confided to the librarian. "Grab a bite, an' spend the rest of the day readin' sports. Pick up a few coins bettin' at th' bar."

The thug grunted. He didn't care.

Sten could have found a secure com and checked with Haines. He thought it better not to. He probably should have just pulled out and let Haines's police fingers do the rest of the walking. But he was finally on to something. Damned if he was going to let somebody else find the gold from his lead.

He did not eat a midday meal, however. He kept the library's entrance under watch, just in case the goon was really looking for brownie points. Nothing.

He came back, deliberately belched in the goon's direction, and went to his terminal.

SPORTS. RANGERS, HISTORY.

Nothing. He jumped ahead to the date of that big match. Blues undefeated three years… Rangers won… big riots as usual. Nothing. At least nothing he could see that tied the event to any councilman.

He was getting closer.

Lovett Arena.

He was sweaty-palmed. Another tracer, and that goon might not listen to any explanations. How do you winkle in? Try… and his fingers touched the keyboard.

amphitheaters. CURRENT. ENTER.

He was not watching the screen; he kept his eye on the security man across the huge chamber. The man did not move.

No… no… damn, but these people on Prime have got a lot of sports palaces. Lovett Arena.

History?

Try it. Built by Lovett's grandsire… equipped for every kind of sport conceivable, land, water, or aerial. Lions vs. Christians, Sten wondered. PICS.

He looked at picture after picture, ignoring whatever was in the foreground and what was happening. He was looking at the arena itself.

Clot. If those bastards were going to conspire… no. Everything was too open. But wait a minute—that was interesting, entire entry:

BEHIND THE CHEERS:

How a Stadium Keeps You Fed,

Warm, Safe, and Entertained.

Clottin' poor title.

Parking… underground… security offices… my.

So Lovett's grandfather built himself a private suite, did he? Clottin' awful-looking.

Why would anybody hang the heads of dead animals on a wall? Let alone those paintings. But what a wonderful place for a conspiracy to meet. The big game as cover… bigwigs like sports, especially if they get private seats… privacy.

Sten had proof—enough for him—that there had been a final meeting before Chapelle was put into play. How could he get backup, enough to take to the Tribunal?

Mucketies needed servants when they played. Were there bartenders who had been around that night? Joygirls? Boys? Maybe barkeeps. But not sex toys—not even the Kraas would be that careless.

What else? He punched out of sports, and took a chance on who's who. He entered lovett.

His attention was fixed on the screen. Usual plaudits. Educational bg… interests…

entered family banking empire on death of mother… Hmm. No entry… even in this jerk-off log of him being a sports loon.

Sten's concentration was broken as the library's door banged closed. Damn!

Three uniformed cops entered.

Sten crouched away from the terminal and down an aisle with stacked fiche on either side to a door.

It was locked. His fingers went into a fob pocket and came out with a small tool.

Seconds later, the door was unlocked.

He went through the door and relocked it behind him. He heard a shout from the reading room.

Sten, even as he looked for an exit, blinked. This was one hell of a library. Huge vaulted ceiling. Row after row after row of stored fiche, vids, and even books.

He heard fumbling at the door and shouts to get the key. A body thudded against the door.

Sten's fingers curled, and his knife dropped from its sheath inside his forearm into his hand. He ran down into the stacks, loping easily like a tiger looking for an ambush site.

The cops, the security tech in front, got the door open and came into the chamber.

They saw nothing except a couple of robots filing material. They heard nothing. The security man whispered orders: Spread out. Search the whole room.

The cops started to obey perfunctorily. Clot, there they were, wasting time because some clottin' piece of drakh counterspook sees shadows on the wall and wanted them to bust the cops of some private puke. Then the reaction hit them. Maybe private puke—but one who could somehow go through a locked door.

"We'll stay together."

Two of them took out their guns. The third had a truncheon ready. '

"You first, hero."

A tiny, lethal-looking projectile gun appeared in the secret policeman's hand.

They went into the tiger's jungle.

Suddenly a tall case teetered and crashed sideways. The teeter gave one cop and the security thug time to flat-dive out of the way. The other two were caught by the heavy case and its cascading contents. The first case brought a second one across from it slamming down. They floundered and shouted. Somebody fired a round that whined up into the library's ceiling and ricocheted wildly.

There was a scuffle as the "tiger's" pads moved him away, deeper into the stacks.

The two went on, leaving their trapped partners to work their own way free.

One of the trapped cops was wedging his way through a snowstorm of papers, his leg still caught under the case, when he heard a quiet thunk… and the whiny scratch of somebody trying to take his last breath through a crushed windpipe.

Then there was a sliver of death at his throat. "Scream," Sten ordered. "Real loud."

The cop followed orders.

The scream was still echoing as Sten slit the man's throat, came up, and darted into another row.

The security goon and the surviving policeman ran up. They had a second for a shocked gape at the two corpses and the gouts of blood before shock turned into horror and a metal-bound folio discused in from nowhere, smashing into the cop's forehead.

He collapsed bonelessly.

The security man went for the door, backing… whirling… trying to keep from screeching in horror and running into what he knew would be the tiger's final trap.

A fiche clattered on the floor. He spun—nothing. Then he whirled back, gun hand out. Sten stepped in behind him. The goon went limp as Sten severed his spinal cord.

He let the body fall. Two flops and it was a corpse.

Now Sten had all the time in the world.

He found an exit and, nearby, an employee's washroom. He swabbed solvent, and the mustache came off into the disposal; and the makeup was scrubbed clean.

Then he went out the door.

Police gravsleds were howling toward the library. Sten trotted down an alley, then slowed. He strolled onward, glancing curiously as the official units whined past.

Just another citizen of Prime.