Hopefully, long enough. She didn't dare glance at the carved-rim wall chrono over his head. He would surely pick up on that, and she couldn't afford to let him get suspicious now. But she had a pretty good time sense, and she didn't think she would have to drag this out more than another two minutes.

Barring an agonizing stretched-out moment she'd once spent cowering in the shadows watching angry police charge past, it was probably the longest two minutes of her life. Toomes stared unblinkingly up at her as she eased off her clothing, occasionally licking his lips. His expression was that of a hungry tiger playing games with a lamb before moving in for the kill.

Chandris played it as slowly and sensuously as she could. She'd never done anything like this herself, but some girlfriends of Trilling's buddies had once had an impromptu competition at a party, and she had that slightly disgusting memory to draw on.

But even slow and sensuous, it was clear she was running out of time. Toomes's breathing had become short and erratic, his muscles visibly trembling as he watched the show. She could smell alcohol on his breath, which added another couple of turns to his coiled-spring tightness. The man was primed and ready for action, and it wouldn't be long before impatience and desire overwhelmed whatever limited self-control was left in that reek-fogged brain.

And when that happened...

When that happened, she would do whatever she had to. Whether it was right or wrong, whether it was utterly repulsive or merely horribly unpleasant, she would do whatever she had to. Hanan and Ornina were counting on her.

And people were dying out at Angelmass.

She had undressed to the waist, and was beginning to roll her panties slowly down over her hips, when the fire drill she'd programmed into the building's housekeeping system the day before finally went off.

"What's that?" she gasped, spinning around and nearly losing her balance as she accidentally stepped on one of her shoes. "Amberson—it's the police!"

"No, no," Toomes said, his voice almost unrecognizable. "It's just a fire drill. Some idiot must have reset the—"

"Fire?" Chandris gasped, jerking like she'd been shot. "Fire?"

"It's a drill," Toomes insisted. "Just a griffy little—wait!"

It was too late. Chandris had already scooped up her discarded blouse—and with it Toomes's call stick—and was running on bare feet toward the desk. "Wait!" Toomes shouted again, his voice accompanied by the squeak of embroidered cloth against feathers as he leaped up and charged after her. Chandris didn't even pause at the desk, simply snatching up the credit chit on the fly and making for the door.

"Hey—get back here," Toomes snarled, his voice suddenly ugly as the prospect of frustrated lust loomed before him. He was running now, trying to cut her off at the door.

But he was on bare feet, too, and was wearing a full-length robe, and Chandris was already up to speed. The sliding panel opened with gratifying promptness as she keyed the call stick at it, and she beat him to the doorway with three paces to spare. There was a brief tickling of air on her bare back as he swung a hand in an unsuccessful grab, and then she was out and racing across the reception room.

Toomes followed, alternately cursing and cajoling and pleading. Chandris was younger and lighter, but Toomes was in pretty good shape, and as she reached the door to the hallway she could tell he was still right behind her.

Behind her, and showing no signs of fading in the stretch. As far as he was concerned, he'd paid a lot of money for this chance, and he was not going to let it get away without a fight. And with a small maze of doors, hallways, and elevators lying between Chandris and the street, it seemed inevitable that he would eventually drag her back to the feather couch, by her hair if necessary.

The outer reception door, she remembered, swung outward. Lowering her shoulder, she slammed into it full tilt, getting it open but losing precious momentum in the process. Even as she stumbled out into the hallway, Toomes's hand raked down her back. With a squeal of triumph, he caught the back of her panties. "Got you, you little—"

The noun never came. An instant later he skidded to a startled and terrified halt, his fingers dropping their grip on Chandris's panties as if the cloth had suddenly caught fire.

Judging by the stunned expressions on their faces, the eight men and women standing on and under the scaffolding flanking both sides of the hallway were probably at least as startled to see Toomes as he was to see them. They stood there gaping, their sprayers and cans of paint hanging forgotten in their hands, as Toomes scrambled madly to get his robe closed over what was left of his dignity.

Chandris didn't bother with either the dignity or the embarrassment. Clutching the blouse haphazardly to her chest, she charged down the center of the gauntlet, still babbling about fires.

No one tried to stop her. No one, as far as she could tell, even moved, except maybe to follow her with their eyes, as she sprinted down the bank of elevators halfway down the hall. Across from the elevators was the stairway, and with a final gasp of relief, she vanished through the doorway and started down the stairs.

Two floors down, she emerged again and slipped into a nearby women's restroom. The spare clothing she had stashed there on her way into the building fifteen minutes earlier was undisturbed, and a few minutes later she was back on the stairs, dressed in a typical cleaning woman's outfit.

Instead of the earlier mad dash, she took this part of the trip a little easier. Caught red-handed in the act of assaulting a half-naked girl a third his age, Toomes wouldn't be in any shape to continue the chase any time soon.

Eventually, of course, it would occur to him to wonder who in the world had logged in an order for the executive-floor corridor to be painted that particular evening. Hopefully not before she was out of the building and beyond his reach.

Still, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of conscience as she got into the line car she'd called. She didn't consider what she'd just done to be cheating, but Hanan and Ornina might not see it the same way she did. Better, maybe, that she just keep the details to herself.

And of course, there was no way in hell and eggs that she was going to tell Kosta. No way at all.

Predictably, Kosta was waiting near the gate as the line car let her out. "How did it go?" he asked, his voice sounding more anxious than he probably intended it to.

"Better than expected," Chandris said, handing him the credit chit as she gave the Gazelle a quick once-over. None of the workers she'd left here earlier were in sight. "How are the repairs going?"

"Same way," he said, peering at the number on the chit and then tucking it carefully away in his pocket. "They've got an automated setup in the bow doing radiation-hardening on the new electronics, and another one in the engine room doing likewise. There's nothing they can do either place until that's finished, but the foreman says it should only take a couple more hours. They've all gone off to dinner until then."

"That's going to be a pleasantly long dinner," Chandris said, gesturing up at the gaping holes still scattered across the Gazelle's hull where damaged plates had been. "What about out here? I told him I wanted the hull finished by tonight."

"It will be, mostly," Kosta assured her. "They've got all the old plates out and are fabricating the replacements back at their shop. He said they'll have them finished tonight and can start putting them on in the morning."

"They can start putting them on tonight," Chandris retorted. "What's this 'tomorrow' stuff—they've got spare work crews. Where's that foreman, off at dinner with the rest of them?"