“Understood. But you still have gear aboard, and you had urgent messages for the Chair… and where are you calling from, anyway?”

“Secure line,” Stella said. “I know; I’m hoping you can offload my gear and take a burst message.”

“That we can do, but if you’re in danger—”

“I’ll be all right,” Stella said, “if I keep the boy and myself out of sight for a bit.”

Toby did not want to stay alone in the upper office, but Rafe insisted that Stella not go to the dock alone. “Chances are they’re all dead, but if they’re not, Stella needs an escort, and I can’t guard both of you at once.”

“What if someone comes here?” Toby asked. “I’m not even supposed to be here.” He looked better; the enriched mush had made a big difference, Stella noticed.

“I just asked Maintenance when they might get around to repairs, and they said a minimum of two days—they’re still coping with the blast damage on the docks. And I’ve told the block protection group that I’m closed until I get the repairs done. No one should come, and if they do, you ignore them. Just in case—” Rafe opened one of the file drawers in the cabinet: whatever was inside wasn’t files in the usual sense, and he came out with a bell-barreled weapon. “—this is a crowd control weapon, Toby. It will take out a substantial number with each shot, because it’s loaded with shrapnel—and no, Stella, it’s not legal, but it’s dead easy to use. What you do, Toby, is point this at the bad guys and pull this lever. It kicks like dingdong, so brace it on your hip or a desk or something. It will make a horrible mess, including of the wall behind your target, so be sure it’s necessary. Otherwise, don’t hesitate. For chem protection, I can do better than those membrane masks Stella had—good for out and around and being inconspicuous, but this—” He hauled out a standard Pittsdon protective suit. “—is your best bet. Ever worn one?”

“We did drill in them aboard the ship,” Toby said.

“Good. Now. I’ve set all the external systems on full alarm. You have an implant—let’s see—you should have channel fourteen open, right?”

“Right,” Toby said, looking more enthusiastic.

“I’ll program the alarms to ping your implant. First ping—anything, no matter how minor—suit up. Second ping, get the weapon and back into the toilet space. You have a clear line of fire, and they have to find you. Don’t, please, shoot us when we come back.”

“I won’t,” Toby said.

“And dial yourself some high protein now, about a hundred grams. We’ll be back in a couple of hours, I expect.”

Toby looked at Stella, and she made herself smile at him. “Don’t fret, Toby, we’ll be back for you.”

Not surprisingly, Rafe had covert exits from his shop, and he and Stella finally emerged two passages over. They looked, she thought, like any young businesswoman and her older male escort—his gray hair and conservative clothes were, she knew, a disguise—but she was too aware of the potential danger. The attackers would certainly have vidscan of her from dockside, and possibly a line into Customs and Immigration.

“We need to stop by here,” Rafe said, as they neared a small café.

“We do?” Stella said, but followed his lead. She was certain he wasn’t after a quick snack, but he sat down in an empty booth, facing the door. Stella sat opposite him, and her back itched. Facing the door was her choice.

“Rafe—heard you had some problems over at your place.” That was a brisk-looking man with a long apron and a pot of something in his hand.

“Idiots tried to burn in my front door,” Rafe said. “I tell you, Lars, this about does me in. Trade’s been down, and I’ve foisted off all the old books and prints and statuettes you longtime stationers can absorb—”

The man laughed. “You’re right there. We still haven’t finished The Longway Saga, and Myths of Ancient Rome may never make it off the shelf.”

“They don’t know when they’ll get to my security grille, let alone the door, and I don’t know if I can afford it anyway. Can’t do business until it’s fixed, not without going out with a box and obstructing the common walkway.”

“Which is against the fire code. Right. Coffee?”

“No… I was wondering if you’d seen Joey.”

“Ah, Joey. Well, I heard he was assisting the police with their inquiries… I told you, Rafe, Joey could get you into trouble.”

“He’s not bad,” Rafe said. “Want you to meet my friend Sally here.”

“Sally,” the man said. “Any friend of Rafe’s…” His voice trailed away; he looked past them, his gaze sharpening.

“Be right with you,” he said; then, to Rafe, “Strangers. Trouble?”

“Maybe,” Rafe said. “I’d hate to cause a problem—”

“No problem.” The man moved in the direction of his gaze; Stella fought the urge to turn around.

“We might have to leave,” Rafe said to her. “I’m sorry—I thought a snack would do you good.”

Stella kept her own voice low. “Very interesting girl, Sally.”

“Oh yes. Known her a long time, I have. Once had a thing for her. She teaches primary.”

“Teaches?”

“Quite firm with the little lads, I understand. A bit of a softy with the girls, especially the pretty ones.”

Stella felt her face heating. “You are a wicked man, you know that?”

“Oh, darlin’, I know that very well. You look pretty when you’re mad, Sally dear.”

“You do realize I don’t have to be mad to move fast?”

“That’s good because—come on!” He was out of the booth, walking toward the back entrance, as someone behind her let out a yowl of pain. Stella slid out of the booth and followed, not looking around. She could hear the proprietor’s apologies, profuse and urgent, and the angry voices of at least two men, and then they were through the swinging door in a cramped kitchen, where a gray-haired woman kneaded a pile of dough on a counter and a skinny girl had her head in an oven, an array of tools spread on its open door.

“Oh, Rafe,” the older woman said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you—I’m really enjoying The Longway Saga.”

“I’m glad, Tulie. Catch you later, maybe?”

“Sure. Ginny, get your head out of that oven and say hello to Rafe and—”

“Sally,” Rafe said firmly. “Never mind, Ginny, we’re just passing through.”

“Some idiot put a number six cone in here instead of a number eight.” The girl’s voice sounded strange, coming from inside the oven. “Hi Rafe, ’bye Rafe.”

The back door let them out into a passage much like that behind Rafe’s shop. “So all the bad guys aren’t gone,” Stella said.

“Apparently not. We’ll have to go to Tommy’s. I was hoping to avoid that. Joey’s a leetle more reliable, for this kind of thing.”

“Picking up my gear at the dock?” Stella said.

He looked at her. This time her insides did nothing. “No,” he said, after that long look. “And we have to go to Tommy’s first.”

Tommy’s appeared to be a home furnishings store, complete with new and used items and an instore fabricator for custom orders. DESIGN YOUR OWN BED, the poster read. The illustration was nothing Stella would want to sleep in, but she supposed there were people of certain persuasions who would find it… useful. Certainly not restful. As she looked around, more and more of the items seemed suitable for a particular clientele.

“Don’t worry,” Rafe said. “Tommy’s staked out a market niche, but it’s not the one he lives in.”

Before Stella could ask, Tommy himself appeared. He dressed to appeal to the market niche, Stella assumed, and since it wasn’t the one she lived in, either, she felt uncomfortable.

Rafe wasted no time in pleasantries. “Alternate IDs, Tommy. How much, how fast?”

Tommy’s full red lips pursed. “You have a problem, Rafe? I don’t want trouble with the police. In my line of business, you know, I can’t afford—”

“To have them know that you’re playing with the stationmaster’s daughter? I suppose not.”