“There’s a call for you,” she said. His scowl deepened, and she hastened to add, “It’s from the boss.”

Summervale’s face smoothed quickly into a masklike calm, and he rose with a curt nod. The woman stepped back out of the doorway, and he brushed past her with an oddly courteous apology.

She watched him vanish down the hall, moving toward the com room with his customary cat-footed grace, and felt the familiar shiver he left in his wake. There was something coldly reptilian about him, part and parcel of his upper-class accent and the sort of instinctive courtesy he showed to all about him. He was like an heirloom sword, graceful and poised, but honed and lethal as chilled steel. She’d known more than her share of dangerous, lawless men, but none quite like him, and he frightened her. She hated to admit that, even to herself, yet it was true.

The com room door closed behind him, and she turned away with another shiver, adjusting her dust mask as she opened the door to the lab and returned to her own responsibilities.

· · • · ·

Summervale took one look at the face on his com screen, then nodded curtly to the duty operator. The man departed without a word, and Summervale seated himself in the chair he’d abandoned. Long habit drew his eyes to the panel, double-checking the scrambler circuits, before he looked up at the man on the screen.

“What?” he asked without preamble.

“We may have a problem,” his caller said carefully. The man’s Sphinxian accent was pronounced—possibly too pronounced, Summervale thought yet again. It had an almost theatrical quality, as if it were a mask for something else, but that was fine with Summervale. Its owner paid well for his services; if he wanted to maintain an extra level of security, that was his business.

“What problem?”

“The NPA’s spotted the new mekoha,” his caller replied, and Summervale’s mouth tightened.

“How?”

“We’re not certain—our informant couldn’t tell us—but I’d guess it’s a side effect of Harrington’s operations. She’s freed up a lot of NPA manpower, and they’re extending their patrols.”

Summervale’s eyes flashed at the name “Harrington,” and his tight mouth twisted. He’d never met the commander, but he didn’t have to meet her to hate her. She represented too many things out of his own past, and he felt the familiar heat tingle in his nerves. Yet he was a professional. He recognized the danger of visceral reactions, however pleasant they might be.

“How much do they know?” he asked.

“Again, we’re not certain, but they’ve been running analyses of the stuff they’ve brought in. The odds are pretty good they’ll figure out it’s not Stilty-produced. In fact, they may have already. One of my other sources tells me Harrington’s pulled one of her pinnaces off the customs assignment.”

“To run orbital sweeps,” Summervale said flatly.

“Probably,” his caller agreed.

“Not probably—certainly. I told you it was risky to make the stuff so pure.”