No, he hadn’t followed a paper trail. He had followed one of six fugitives, the one he knew, through a chain of logic. Beowulf Shaeffer, albino. Track him through the regular purchase of tannin secretion pills. No? Then he must be living like a vampire: working a night shift at Shasht or the Islands, at any business that caters to jet-lagged travelers. No? Then…under the sea? Losing hope…and there he is!

He’d run up a long flight of stairs to catch me. He certainly hadn’t phoned anyone on the way. He hadn’t let me out of his sight since. Congratulations, Ander! Beowulf Shaeffer has not escaped.

But Ander hadn’t had a chance to call for backup.

The curve of glass above me supported kilotons of seawater and a life older than planet Earth. Luminescent angler fish and eels and elaborately shaped jellyfish writhed through the blackness. I sat on a bench and watched. Perhaps something was watching me.

Ander would search in vain for Feather Filip.

That wouldn’t stop his search. Using instruments on a ship or satellite, he would pick out every darkened island. Dead lamplighter, no glow of house lights. Choose among those for just two live islands in line of sight; then deep radar for a hollow object more massive than sand offshore. Carlos Wu’s ’doc.

In the lamplighter pit: the scorched remains of an antique lander. He’d search out human remains. He’d find bits of my bones and read their DNA. If he found traces of Feather’s blood, it would only confirm my story.

If Ander was honest, he’d return the machine to Earth and the UN. If he changed his mind, so much the better. Give him something to hide, to sell.

Meanwhile, Beowulf Shaeffer waits patiently for word. Let him stew long enough, paying hotel rates when he clearly can’t afford it, and he’ll settle for much less than his hundred thousand. Monitor his phone; we wouldn’t want him looking for a better offer from the Shashters, let alone the Patriarchy. At least we know he’ll wait.

The thing is, Shaeffer knows too much. A man who has seen Julian Forward’s miniature black hole and the tools he used to make it a weapon should not be running loose. (Feather Filip had told me that, but I believed it.) The money is trivial…well, trivial given that it will never be paid. But Shaeffer needs the money; he won’t run away from that.

I watched the eternal show of Fafnir’s sea life for a time in case I was being watched myself I fished my flat portable out—less advanced than Ander’s, purchased locally—and tapped at it idly. Addresses popped up, with transfer booth numbers. Some I filed, filling in a map.

People went in and out of the booths. Maybe one was an ARM planting cameras. Maybe not.

So I strolled into the near booth. Got to kill some time—right, Ander?—or the waiting will drive me nuts. My card in the slot. Look at the wall, watch the advertisements flow past (discreetly small, by city law), and presently tap out a number.