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The worker apologetically avowed that she could not give out such information to those who were not cleared to receive it. Closing in discreetly around her, two of the other escapees resolved the standoff by wrenching the register from her hand. When she objected and tried to take it back, one of them quietly shot her in the back.

A minute's work with the register was sufficient to tell them everything they needed to know. By the time Port Security was made aware that a murder had been committed within its jurisdiction, the group of six was already hurrying down the appropriate corridor.

Since the pedestrian passageway accessed that portion of the port tarmac that served private craft, security was minimal. Having participated in a ferocious firefight in a similar corridor many months ago, the Elder and the speaker each experienced a profound sense of déjà vu as they huffed and puffed to keep up with their associates. Unlike on that previous occasion, this time there was no skillful senior soldier to surprise him and his colleagues, no many-limbed thranx to unleash multiple hand weapons in their direction.

This time there would be no mistake, even if their talented bomb maker had overstated the explosive potential of the contents of the package being carried by the Order's speaker. If their quarry was already aboard his shuttle, they would set it off beneath the craft, or close enough nearby. If he had not yet arrived at the port, they would conceal themselves close to his craft and wait. If Port Security interfered, several of their number would stage a noisy diversion. He, for one, would readily participate in any attack necessary to divert attention from whoever took final possession of the cleansing package.

“We're here!” the man who had shot the unsuspecting port worker announced.

Designed to handle small cargo as well as passengers, the lift carried the six of them from the depths of the subterranean corridor up to the surface. Stepping out onto the tarmac and into the warm, pleasant sunshine of New Riviera, the Elder looked to his right toward the nearest shuttle. Somewhere below, armed security teams were now racing down the corridor in pursuit of those who had violated and murdered. From different directions a pair of Port Security skimmers could be seen speeding toward the line of parked shuttles. Several other shuttlecraft, whose origin and ownership were of no consequence, gleamed nearby.

The pad where, according to the stolen port register, the shuttle belonging to the young man known as Philip Lynx had been parked was now empty.

As the others drew their weapons and crowded in behind him, an increasingly agitated speaker turned to the Elder for advice. “It's not here!” He looked around wildly. “Could we have taken the wrong access corridor?”

The man holding the stolen register performed a hurried recheck. “No, not a chance. PA-Fourteen—this is the right place!” He turned a hasty circle. “It should be here.”

The two approaching security craft were slowing, dropping surface-ward as they neared the place where the Order members had emerged from the belowground service corridor. Confused, angry, and resigned, the speaker fondled the lethal package. Three contact switches protruded from the bottom and a fourth from the top. His fingers hovered in the vicinity of the underside.

“Honored Elder, should I proceed with … ?”

“No.” The Elder's decision was firm. “Our lives may be needed yet. Put the device down.” Turning, he regarded his loyal colleagues. “All of you, set your weapons aside. Dying is inevitable, but it should not be wasteful.”

“But what of the anomaly, the one who would try to interfere?” one of the others wondered dejectedly. “What went wrong? How did we come to the wrong place?”

“We did not come to the wrong place.” After the marathon run through the access corridor the Elder was feeling the full weight of his years. His weariness was compounded by failure. “Despite our haste, despite our best efforts, it appears that we just got here a little late.”

Turning