“So in effect, the post office wall is your professional trade journal,” commented Virtue.

“I never thought of it that way.”

“That’s because you’re not a journalist,” she said.

There was considerably less red tape this time than during their last trip through the spaceport—Virtue guessed that the local authorities had issued orders to get the Angel off the planet as swiftly as possible—and a few minutes later they were in one of the three dozen rental hangars for private spacecraft, climbing into the ship.

“Something’s wrong,” said the Angel, inspecting the auxiliary control panel that was just inside the hatch.

“What do you mean?”

“The security system’s been tripped. Don’t touch anything.”

“Is it going to explode?” she asked apprehensively.

He shook his head. “I doubt it. If they’d planted a bomb, you’d have triggered it the moment you set foot on the ship.”

“Is that why you let me go through the hatch first?” she demanded.

He made no reply, but looked carefully around for another minute without moving farther into the ship, then turned back to her.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get back on the ground—carefully.”

She followed him through the hatch, and a moment later she was standing some fifty feet away, staring at the ship, while the Angel was speaking to spaceport security on an intercom.

“Nothing’s happening,” she said when he rejoined her.

“If it didn’t blow up while you were walking around in it, it’s not likely to blow up just because you’re looking at it,” he said.

“Then what was done to it?” she asked.

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

A moment later a harassed-looking security officer appeared.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

“Someone’s been in my ship since I landed,” said the Angel.

“Oh? Who?”

“That’s what I’d like to find put.”

The security officer walked to the intercom, asked for an office extension, whispered in low tones for a moment, and then returned to the Angel.

“From what I understand, your mechanic came by just before sunrise.”

“I don’t carry a mechanic.”

“They tell me that his papers were all in order, and that he even had a work order with your signature on it.”

“Which signature?” demanded the Angel sharply.

“The Angel, I suppose,” responded the officer. “Your identity isn’t exactly a secret since last night.”

“How did they know it was my signature?” said the Angel. “What did they compare it against?”

“How the hell do I know?” asked the officer. “My guess is that they didn’t bother to check it against anything. The man works for a reputable firm. They probably took him at his word.”

“What repairs did he say he planned to make?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the security officer.

“Why not?”