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"Excuse me—was that the Toorine Trader just left?" Renard asked with grim foreboding.

The Wuckl gave that shake of assent. "That's right. You missed her by a good half-hour. Next boat in three days."

There was not a shred of doubt in the three aliens' minds that Mavra Chang was somehow aboard her.

"We can fly out and overtake her," Vistaru suggested.

"Wouldn't recommend it," the Wuckl longshoreman put in. "That's a hell of a storm brewin' out there. If Zanti weren't a high-tech hex, they'd never have put to sea at all, I think. They're built to take it. But there are winds over eighty kilometers per hour in it, and a good deal of sleet. That's cold water—dip your feet in it if you want to see how cold. It's why we're fogged in here almost every night."

"How long before the storm passes?" Wooley asked the Wuckl.

The longshoreman wagged its neck a bit. "Hard to say. Meteorology up at the Port Authority Building could probably tell you. Not before midmorning tomorrow, though, I'd say."

The Yaxa thought a moment. "Any idea how fast the ship moves in a high-tech hex?"

The Wuckl cocked its head and considered it. "In a calm with full power, maybe twenty-five, thirty kilometers per hour, more or less. They got the storm with them, though, so make it thirty, I'd say."

Renard looked at the other two. "If the storm lasts as long as our friend here estimates, that's about fourteen hours. Four hundred twenty kilometers head start." He turned back to the Wuckl. "This is near the hex border, isn't it? I mean, Zanti and the next water hex."

The longshoreman nodded. "Yep. But they won't go over into Simjim if they can help it. It's nontech. They're headin' for Mucrol, and they'll keep to the high-tech side unless the storm's too bad to deal with. A straight line's always best, you know."

They thanked the Wuckl and Renard quickly got the map from Domaru's saddle bags. They all peered at it intently.

"All right, here's where they'd have to land in Mucrol," Renard pointed. "Now, there's Gedemondas, possibly two hex sides overland. If we assume she's a stowaway, then she'll have to get off at the Mucrol port. So that's where we head to begin with. If, on the other hand, she's managed to communicate with the crew, and if they're willing, I'd bet on them dropping her as far north in Mucrol as possible, giving her only a hex side to cross, here, near Alestol. If there's nothing at the Mucrol port, that's where we head next."

Vistaru stared at the map in concern. "I don't know about this Mucrol—but I hope she doesn't cross into Alestol. Those nasty barrel-shaped plants can gas you in seconds."

"The Yaxa are friendly with Alestol," Wooley pointed out. "If we can get to a Zone Gate somewhere I can send a message to watch for them but not to harm them."

"Not much chance of that," Renard responded. "We'll be sticking to the borders, and the water hexes are out for that. No, we'll stick to Mucrol. She'll be aware of the dangers on the other side."

Vistaru was thoughtful. "I wonder, though, about the dangers on the Mucrol side."

Renard's head shot up, looked straight at her. "You know about the place?" he asked sharply.

She shook her head. "Not a thing. Do you? Or you, Wooley?"

None of them did. It was a complete mystery.

Mucrol

Ti-gan stared into the midday sun from his post atop the caravan. It was bleak country; a desert of reds and oranges and purples, badly eroded and with occasional clumps of brush, cactus, even a few trees where ground water approached nearer the surface. It was like this for much of the year, except in early and mid spring when melting snows from the northeastern mountains sent floodwater—in its own way, as dangerous as any enemy—cascading through the canyons.

There was water, though; it was locked beneath the surface, and brought up by steam pumps into basins, which then had to be jealously guarded. To control a pack's water was to control it completely.

Ti-gan looked like a cross between a dog and a weasel; his face came almost to a point at