Hawking reached to his belt—but not to the pouch holding the silvery stars. His fingers dipped instead into a smaller pouch, hidden behind the first, and emerged with another throwing star. It, too, had eight points—but there the resemblance ended. This star was half the diameter of the other; heavier, sharper, and colored a jet black. A wolf, to the silvery star's Saint Bernard. His eyes on the squirk, Hawking permitted himself a smile at Caine's na?vet?—imagine thinking blackcollars used demonstration shuriken for hunting!

The star flashed across the clearing, burying itself deeply into the squirk's body before the animal could react. The squirk dropped like a stone; and its noisy passage through the branches triggered sudden activity above the clearing. In a single smooth motion O'Hara snatched a star from his own pouch and snapped it skyward. A second squirk, killed in mid-leap, slammed into its target tree and slid to the ground.

"Show-off," Hawking muttered as he moved off to retrieve his star and squirk. O'Hara just grinned and went to get his own.

"I'll take them in," Kwon volunteered. "Better get at least four more; we've got a full house today."

"No problem," Hawking assured him. Gesturing to O'Hara, he set off deeper into the woods.

Considering the trouble Hawking and the others had been having, Caine was mildly surprised when dinner was indeed ready by noon. The food was good enough—roast squirk reminded him of very tough shrimp, somehow—but he paid only token attention to the meal. His real interest lay in the group of men gathered around the large wooden table. What he saw wasn't encouraging.

There were thirty-one blackcollars present, all proudly wearing black turtlenecks and dragonhead rings. Only one other man had the red-eyed ring that signified a comsquare: Trevor Dhonau, the wizened old man at the head of the table. Lathe, sitting next to Caine, identified Dhonau as the doyen, or senior member, of the Plinry blackcollars. Whether the title held any real power Caine didn't know; but it almost didn't matter anymore. Looking at the faces around him and listening to the conversations, he knew there was no help here for him. The blackcollars hated the Ryqril and their domination; that much he was sure of. But equally clear was the fact that all of them had resigned themselves to it. In hindsight, Caine knew he should have expected nothing more—the Ryqril would hardly have allowed them to live had they been otherwise. But it was still a crushing disappointment.

Blackcollars, even old ones, were evidently not the kind to linger over their meals, and soon the plates were empty. At the head of the table Trevor Dhonau got awkwardly to his feet, favoring a game right leg. Tapping his knife on his plate until conversation ceased, he raised his glass. "Blackcollar commandos, once more we are met together," he said, his voice slightly slurred. "Let us dedicate our time here to those our comrades who have gone before us, and pledge that their sacrifice should not be in vain."

The others picked up their glasses and drank. Caine, conscious of his role as a collie, left his untouched. Lathe nudged him. "It's good stuff," he said. "Tardy Spadafora makes it himself. Aren't you going to try it?"

Caine shook his head. "Sorry. I shouldn't have come—I don't belong here." He looked across the table, where Mordecai was sitting. "I heard you mention you were going back to Capstone tonight. Could I possibly ride with you?"

Mordecai's eyes burned into him. "I suppose so."

Lathe plucked at Caine's sleeve. "Hear, you can't leave today. You'll miss the shuriken and nunchaku contests and—"

"I'm sorry." Caine got to his feet, abruptly sickened by the whole pathetic farce. "Excuse me, please."

Back in the room Skyler had assigned him Caine began pulling together the clothes and other things he had brought. But he had barely started when a sudden dizziness swept over him, sending him to a sitting position on the floor. For several seconds he tried to fight it as strength flowed out of him like sweat. By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late to call out.

He was asleep before his head hit the floor.

Caine was floating in a dark mist shot through with firefly bursts of light. He had no idea where he was, but lacked the alertness to wonder about it. He got the impression that something had awakened him, but he didn't really know what. It was sort of—ah, there it came again: a voice.

"Who are you?" it said, with a tone of insistence impossible to resist.

Allen Caine, his mind said promptly, pleased that he had remembered it so well. But his tongue had other ideas. "Al-Alain Rienzi."

"Who are you?" the voice asked again.

"Alain Rienzi," his tongue repeated. Caine watched its performance with interest, as he would any other magic.

"Who do you work for?"

That was a tricky one. Technically, Caine was a free agent, far away from those people whose names he couldn't remember. While he was mulling it over his tongue gave its own answer. "Senator Auriol of the TDE."

This was becoming boring. Caine decided to go back to sleep. "Wake up!" the voice demanded. Resentfully, Caine did so.

It went on and on...

"Well?" Trevor Dhonau asked.

Freeman Vale turned off the microphone link to the next room before answering. "He's definitely not Alain Rienzi—that much I'm sure of. There's just a little too much hesitation before his answers. I'd guess the rest of his story is phony, too, which implies either thorough conditioning or some very excellent psychor training."

Dhonau nodded and looked around the windowless room at the silent group of blackcollars. "Comments?"

"How about increasing the verifin dose?" Kelly O'Hara suggested.

Vale shook his head. "Won't help. We're already at the maximum level. More than this and he just goes to sleep faster."

"His fingerprints match the ones on his ID," another blackcollar reported. "If he's a collie spy why didn't they at least set him up with his real name? It's not like we can fly to Earth and check him out."

"Good point," Dhonau agreed. "On the other hand, if he's an agent for some sort of underground—on who knows what mission—how did he get here? He would have had to get by both Earth's security setup and Galway, and Galway, at least, is nobody's fool."

"Let's ask him," Lathe's cool voice broke the short silence. "We're not getting anywhere this way."

Dhonau pursed his lips. "I suppose you're right. Vale, Haven—bring him here."

Caine's head was aching fiercely and his legs were none too steady as the two blackcollars who'd awakened him half led, half carried him into the room where the silent group of old men waited. It was not a total surprise—he already knew he'd been drugged—but he hadn't expected so many of the blackcollars to be involved. Fourteen of them—almost half the total—were crowded into the cramped space, including Dhonau, Skyler, Mordecai, and Lathe. Why Lathe had been included he couldn't guess.

"Sit down," Dhonau said, and Caine found that a chair had been moved into position behind him. He sank into it gratefully as his two escorts stepped back to stand by the room's only visible exit.

"Let's start with your name," Dhonau suggested. "We know you're not Alain Rienzi, we also know you've had some pretty esoteric psychological training. I don't know whether or not that training would protect your secrets under physical torture, but if necessary we can find out."

A chill went up Caine's spine. He looked around the room, wondering what would happen if he made a break for the door. Two old men were all that blocked his way, and his own combat training was considerably fresher than theirs. But he was still weak from the aftereffects of the drugs they'd used on him. Besides, these men were theoretically on his side and there was something in Dhonau's voice he hadn't heard there before.