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‘For the next month,’ said Bruchac. ‘Look, is there a problem?’

‘Maybe,’ said the customs guy. He was in his twenties, and 75

sim-hero handsome. Bruchac imagined him on a recruiting poster. Organic Import/Export Regulation – it’s a man’s life.

The guy took out a medical handscan, putting down the work case. ‘I just this minute got a report that on its last trip this Hopper visited Mictlan. About a week ago.’

‘Yeah,’ said Bruchac. ‘Part of the supply route.’

‘Mictlan’s a nice planet,’ said the customs guy, waving the handscan around the airlock. ‘If you like dead people.’

Bruchac said, ‘Look, I checked the flight records myself.

Everything was SOP. The Hopper stayed in the spaceport and didn’t go anywhere near the quarantine areas. And it went through standard decontamination before leaving. You must have all that in your records.’ He looked at his chronometer. ‘I’ve got passengers arriving any minute.’

‘There’s just been an outbreak of Breckenridge’s Scourge reported on Mictlan,’ said the customs guy.

‘Breckenridge’s Scourge? I’ve never even heard of that.’

‘Neither had I, until we got the report in half an hour ago.

Turns you into one huge boil, apparently. Thing is, Biocustoms on Mictlan say the standard decontamination might not kill it.’

‘You’re kidding. They only just contacted you?’

‘Apparently it takes about a week to incubate. People are dropping like flies on Mictlan.’ He paused. ‘Not that that’s anything new.’

‘So what you’re saying is, this shuttle might be contaminated?’

The customs guy shrugged. ‘They say the outbreak started with bacterial particles lodged in a Hopper’s air filters. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ He started waving the handscan at Bruchac.

‘Listen,’ said the pilot. ‘You’ve got a lot of work to do. Why don’t I leave you to it?’

‘Sure,’ said the customs guy. ‘I’m going to check the air filters and do a sweep of the ship. You can wait back in the ready room if you want.’

‘No problem,’ said Bruchac. ‘No problem at all. Just give me a yell when you’re done.’

76

The Hopper’s cockpit was tiny. Chris Cwej squeezed in through the door and looked through the front window. Charter Pilot Bruchac was legging it across the tarmac. Chris grinned and tossed the work case into the co-pilot’s chair.

He went down to the cargo deck. There were a couple of Ogron handlers still lugging boxes of equipment around, securing them for the flight. Chris smiled at them. Small eyes stared back.

Chris cracked open lockers until he found a spare pilot’s uniform. It was a size too small. He looked at his chronometer –

the passengers would be here in five. He shrugged and started pulling off the Biocustoms uniform, tossing the mask into the locker. The Ogrons were ignoring him, strapping down the last of the equipment.

In his time he’d flown everything from an Adjudicator flitter to an experimental Nazi plane. The Hopper would have bog-standard controls; he could probably let the flight computer do most of the work. All they had to do now was get out of the spaceport before Bruchac checked with someone.

He was back at the airlock in time to welcome the passengers aboard. Two men, one in his mid-thirties, one in his sixties, and a young woman with a fine-boned face. All of them in casual gear, duffle bags slung over their shoulders. And the Doctor, in his tweed jacket, smiling breezily.

‘Professor Martinique?’ Chris asked.

The older man raised his hand. Chris said, ‘I’m Charter Pilot Cwej. Come on up. I have a couple of pre-flight checks to complete, and then we’ll be ready to depart.’

He helped Martinique clear the top of the ladder. Thankfully, the airlock had a bit of elbow room, despite a row of metal storage cabinets along one wall. Martinique shook his hand. ‘This is Emil Zatopek, my assistant, and this is Iaomnet Wszola, a student. And this is –’ He waved at the Doctor, wearing that slightly bewildered look people sometimes got around the Time Lord.

‘My flight engineer,’ said Chris. ‘Hello, Doctor.’

‘Everything running smoothly?’ asked the Doctor.

‘Very smoothly. Why don