It was the last documented time Solian had been seen alive. No sign of his body had been found when Brun's men had searched the Idris the next day, and they had searched thoroughly, requiring each passenger with cargo, including Dubauer, to unlock their cabins and holds for inspection. Hence Brun's strongly held theory that Solian must have smuggled himself out undetected. “So where did he go out to, during that forty minutes he was off the ship?” Miles asked in aggravation.

“He didn't cross my customs barriers, not unless someone rolled him in a damned carpet and carried him,” said Bel positively. “And I don't have a record of anyone lugging in a carpet. We looked. He had pretty free access to the six loading bays in that sector, and any ships then in dock. Which were all your four, at the time.”

“Well, Brun swears he doesn't have vids of him boarding any of the other vessels. I suppose I'd better check everyone else who entered or left any of the ships during that period. Solian could have sat down for a quiet, unobserved chat—or more sinister exchange—with someone in any number of nooks in those loading bays. With or without a nosebleed.”

“The bays aren't that closely controlled or patrolled,” Bel admitted. “We let crew and passengers use the empty ones for exercise spaces or games, sometimes.”

“Hm.” Someone had certainly used one to play games with that synthesized blood, later.

After their utilitarian dinner, Miles had Bel conduct him back through the customs checkpoints to the hostel where the impounded ships' crews were housed. These digs were notably less luxurious and more crowded than the ones devoted to the paying galactic passengers, and the edgy crews had been stuck in them for days with nothing but the holovid and each other for entertainment. Miles was instantly pounced upon by assorted senior officers, both from the two Toscane Corporation ships and the two independents caught up in this fracas, demanding to know how soon he was going to obtain their release. He cut through the hubbub to request interviews with the medtechs assigned to the four ships, and a quiet room to conduct them in. Some shuffling produced, at length, a back office and a quartet of nervous Komarrans.

Miles addressed the Idris 's medtech first. “How hard would it be for an unauthorized person to gain access to your infirmary?”

The man blinked. “Not hard at all, Lord Auditor. I mean, it's not locked. In case of an emergency, people might need to be able to get in right away, without hunting me up. I might even be the emergency.” He paused, then added, “A few of my medications and some equipment are kept in code-locked drawers, with tighter inventory controls, of course. But for the rest, there's no need. In dock, who comes on and off the ship is controlled by ship's security, and in space, well, that takes care of itself.”

“You haven't had trouble with theft, then? Equipment going for a walk, supplies disappearing?”

“Very little. I mean, the ship is public, but it's not that kind of public. If you see what I mean.”

The medtechs from the two independent ships reported similar protocols when in space, but when in dock both were required to keep their little departments secured when they were not themselves on duty there. Miles reminded himself that one of these people might have been bribed to cooperate with whoever had undertaken the blood synthesis. Four suspects, eh. His next inquiry ascertained that all four ship's infirmaries did indeed keep portable synthesizers in inventory as standard equipment.

“If someone snuck in to one of your infirmaries to synthesize some blood, would you be able to tell that your equipment had been used?”

“If they cleaned up after themselves . . . maybe not,” said the Idris 's tech. “Or—how much blood?”

“Three to four liters.”

The man's anxious face cleared. “Oh, yes. That is, if they used my supplies of phyllopacks and fluids, and didn't bring in their own. I'd have noticed if that much were gone.”

“How soon would you notice?”

“Next time I looked, I suppose. Or at the monthly inventory, if I didn't have occasion to look before then.”

“Have you noticed?”

“No, but—that is, I haven't looked.”

Except that a suitably bribed medtech ought to be perfectly capable of fudging the inventory of such bulky and noncontrolled items. Miles decided to turn up the heat. He said blandly, “The reason I ask is that the blood that was found on the loading bay floor that kicked off this unfortunate—and expensive—chain of events, while it was indeed initially DNA typed as Lieutenant Solian's, was found to be synthesized. Quaddie customs claim to have no record of Solian ever crossing into Graf Station, which suggests, although it does not alas prove, that the blood might have been synthesized on the outboard side of the customs barrier too. I think we had better check each of your supply inventories, next.”

The medtech from the Idris 's Toscane-owned sister ship, the Rudra , frowned suddenly. “There was—” She broke off.

“Yes?” Miles said encouragingly.

“There was that funny passenger, who came in to ask me about my blood synthesizer. I just figured he was one of the nervous sorts of travelers, although when he explained himself, I also thought he probably had good reason to be.”

Miles smiled carefully. “Tell me more about your funny passenger.”

“He'd just signed on to the Rudra here at Graf Station. He said he was worried, if he had any accidents en route, because he couldn't take standard blood substitutes on account of being so heavily gengineered. Which he was. I mean, I believed him about the blood compatibility problems. That's why we carry the synthesizers, after all. He had the longest fingers—with webs. He told me he was an amphibian, which I didn't quite believe, till he showed me his gill slits. His ribs opened out in the most astonishing fashion. He said he has to keep spraying his gills with moisturizer, when he travels, because the air on ships and stations is too dry for him.” She stopped, and swallowed.

Definitely not “Dubauer,” then. Hm. Another player? But in the same game, or a different one?

She continued in a scared voice, “I ended up showing him my synthesizer, because he seemed so worried and kept asking questions about it. I mainly worried about what sorts of tranquilizers were going to be safe to use on him, if he turned out to be one of those people who gets hysterical eight days out.”

Leaping about and whooping, Miles told himself firmly, would likely just frighten the young woman more. He did sit up and favor her with a perky smile, which made her shrink back in her chair only slightly. “When was this? What day?”

“Um . . . two days before the quaddies made us all evacuate the ship and come here.”

Three days after Solian's vanishing. Better and better . “What was the passenger's name? Could you identify him again?'

“Oh, sure—I mean, webs, after all. He told me his name was Firka.”

As if casually, Miles asked, “Would you be willing to repeat this testimony under fast-penta?”

She made a face. “I suppose so. Do I have to?”

Neither panicked nor too eager; good. “We'll see. Physical inventory next, I think. We'll start with the Rudra 's infirmary.” And just in case he was being led up the path by his nose, the others to follow.

More delays ensued, while Bel negotiated over the comconsole with Venn and Watts for the temporary release from house arrest of the medtechs as expert witnesses. Once those arrangements had been approved, the visit to the Rudra 's infirmary was gratifyingly short, direct, and fruitful.

The medtech's supply of synthetic blood base was down by four liters. A phyllopack, with its hundreds of square meters of primed reaction surface stacked in microscopic layers in a convenient insert, was gone. And the blood synthesizing machine had been improperly cleaned. Miles smiled toothily as he personally scraped a tinge of organic residue from its tubing into a plastic bag for the delectation of the Prince Xav 's surgeon.