She was guilty of overwriting a bit more than usual; at any rate, it didn’t have quite the effect she had anticipated. The first time the Angel heard it he remarked that Orpheus must have discovered a second Virgin Queen; he never referred to it again. When it reached the Swagman’s ears, he concluded that money wasn’t the only thing Virtue was capable of piling as high as the sky. As for Cain, who heard it after he’d reached Safe Harbor, he grimaced and commented to Schussler that some of the sights referred to had been seen altogether too often. Of all the men and aliens Virtue had met on the Inner Frontier, only Sitting Bull, chief of the Great Sioux Nation, assumed that the verse had actually been written by Black Orpheus, and he found himself in full agreement that shyness was not exactly one of the Virgin Queen’s more noticeable traits.

In truth, the only positive effect it ever did have was that Virtue gained another little piece of immortality when Orpheus incorporated it into his ballad.

In the meantime, it was business as usual during the two-day voyage to Sunnybeach. The Angel questioned her thoroughly about every aspect of Cain’s character, every portion of his past, every hope he may have expressed for his future. She answered with the truth when she could and lied when she couldn’t.

Even though he assumed that her knowledge of Cain was fragmentary at best, the picture that emerged puzzled and disturbed the Angel. He understood men who killed for profit, and men who killed for hatred, and even men who killed for ego—but Cain seemed to fall into none of those categories. And, as with anything that ran counter to his experience, he distrusted it, as he now distrusted Cain.

For her part, Virtue tried to learn more about the Angel, especially his past and his reasons for becoming first an assassin and then a bounty hunter. He didn’t overtly refuse to answer her; he merely ignored her questions, and when he stared at her with his colorless eyes, she felt disinclined to force the issue.

Finally they reached Sunnybeach, which handled considerably more traffic than she had expected. On most Frontier worlds one simply decelerated and landed, but the procedure here was not unlike that back in the heart of the Democracy.

First a voice came over their radio and asked them to identify themselves.

“This is the Southern Cross, two hundred eighty-one Galactic Standard days out of Spica Six, William Jennings, race of Man, commanding,” replied the Angel.

“Registration number?”

The Angel rattled off an eleven-digit number.

“Purpose of visit?”

“Tourism.”

“Are you equipped to land planetside, or will you require use of an orbiting hangar?”

“I can land in any spaceport rated Class Seven or higher.”

“Please maintain your orbit until we can confirm you,” said the voice, breaking the connection.

“Who is William Jennings?” asked Virtue.