Morgan Walshaw had sent six security personnel along with him. Five hardliners, Bruce Parwez, Evan Hams, Jerry Masefield, Isabel Curtis, and Glen Ditchett to handle the arrests, they'd all had duty tours up at Zanthus before, knew how to handle themselves in free-fall. He'd checked them out, satisfied with what he'd found, tough, well-trained professionals. The staff lieutenant was Victor Tyo, a twenty-five-year-old Eurasian, who looked so fresh-faced he could've passed himself off as a teenager without much trouble. It was his third field assignment, first in an executive capacity, and he was determined to make it a success.

Greg watched the approach to Listoel from the gondola's Pullman observation lounge, right up at the prow. Two kilometres below the lounge's curving transparent walls the deep blue Atlantic rollers stretched away to merge with the sky at some indefinable distance. The ride was unbelievably smooth.

"Have you ever been up to Zanthus before?" he asked Victor Tyo.

"Yes, I went up last year. The company launched a new microgee module, a vaccine lab. I helped interface our security monitor programs with its supervisor gear. It's my familiarity with the monitor programs which got me assigned to the case. Part of my brief is to upgrade them."

"That and the fact you've been cleared yourself. I'm supposed to vet the security staff out at Listoel and Zanthus, too. Until then, they're on the suspect list along with the furnace operators and managers."

Victor Tyo shifted uncomfortably. "That's some pretty powerful voodoo you've got there. Did you actually read my mind to clear me?"

"Relax, I can't read minds direct. I sense moods readily enough, but that's not quite good enough. For instance I can see guilt, but most people have something to be guilty about. Petty criminals are the worst for that—the bloke fiddling his lunch expenses, accepting payola. Simply because they are so petty it gnaws at them, becoming a dominant obsession."

Victor's mind began to unwind, relieved he wasn't an open book for Greg to flick through at leisure. "Do I have much guilt?"

"More like anxiety," Greg reassured him. "That's perfectly normal, pre-mission nerves. You must lead a commendably sinless life." He turned back to the window; the ocean below was turning green.

Most of the Alabama Spirit's first-class passenger complement had been drifting into the Pullman lounge for the last few minutes. A flock of stewards descended, offering complimentary drinks to the adults, and explaining the docking procedure to the excitable children.

The sickly green tint of the water was darkening, reminding Greg of overcooked pea soup. Even the foam of the white horses was a putrid emerald colour.