“Ain’t just the shuttles getting shot down,” the deputy pointed out. “Besides, it’s only illegals sent off in them things. Cat was born right here on Lok. Everyone knows she ain’t illegal.”

“It’s not just the illegals,” Molly said. “They’ve got this Ryn guy, and they’ve got Urg’s family—” Molly wracked her brain to think who else, but that was already stretching the population of Callites she personally knew.

“That’s crazy,” the deputy said. “Why would they—?”

The sheriff waved him off. “You say they’re taking legals?” he asked.

Molly nodded. Even if Pete was lying about them rounding up legal Callites, she needed an excuse to have the sheriff look into it.

“You believe her?” the deputy asked. “She’s obviously on drugs.”

Sheriff Browne walked over to his desk and rested his hand on his newspaper. “Old man Robbins delivered the paper two days in a row,” he said.

“Yup,” the prisoner agreed.

“What’s strange about that?” the deputy asked. “Robbins prints the damn thing. Course he’d be the one to fill in on a delivery or two.”

The sheriff turned and aimed his “hand” gun at the deputy. “Robbins ain’t walked a route in twenty years.” He made two popping sounds with his mouth, and his extended fingers rocked back with the recoil. “Dontcha think it’s odd he’d suddenly deliver it twice in two days?”

“It’s odd enough the fool’s printing that rubbish,” the prisoner said.

The deputy looked to the prisoner, but nodded rather than hush him up. “Yeah, hard to believe he’s running a press with ships dropping out of the sky. Maybe his Callite delivery boy got hurt in the—”

“Cor,” Sheriff Browne said. “Boy’s name is Cor, and Firehawks don’t fall on the likes of him. He’s too clever for that and too good to turn tail without slipping word to me.”

The deputy took off his hat and waved it in front of his face, which sent the shaft of dust by the window into a tizzy. “You don’t seriously think—?”

“I think I wanna hear what this girl has to say. After she puts that pet of hers out in the street, of course. Go open her cell up and get it.” The sheriff pointed his “gun” away from the deputy and toward the lock in front of Molly.

“Sir, I—”

“Open that gate, son, and get that varmint out of there.”

The deputy shook his head. “I’m sorry Sheriff, but I can’t do that.”

Sheriff Browne whirled on the younger man. It seemed he was spun around by the shocking display of obstinacy, like a slug to his shoulder. Molly turned to follow the action and saw that the deputy had drawn his gun. A real one.

“Goddamnit, sir. Why couldn’t you take early retirement like I sug-gested?”

Molly watched the scene from between the bars. Beside her, the prisoner stirred, moving to his own cell door like an eager spectator peering over a balcony. The two of them stood, barely a meter apart, and silently followed the action.