He reached it and opened up as Hawking arrived with the guard he'd stunned. Without comment, Mordecai handed Lathe the keys and helped Hawking drag his burden into the computer room.

"Caine!" Lathe called from the other door. "Come here and get your tape."

Numbly, Caine stepped across the hall. Four men, dropped where they stood or sat... and it didn't look like Mordecai had even drawn his nunchaku.

Lathe found the right key and he and Caine entered the room. Flicking on the light, Caine found himself facing several rows of floor-to-ceiling-length shelves holding hundreds of tape containers. "A lot of records," Lathe grunted.

"Everything for this sector since the TDE began," Caine said, scanning the shelf labels. "The one I want is in this direction. Why don't you go to that side and grab three tapes at random?"

"Good idea."

A minute later they were back at the door with three boxes apiece. Mordecai had taken up a guard post by the computer room door; inside, Hawking was seated at the computer console, studying the controls.

"Ever run a collie computer?" Hawking asked Caine as they joined him.

"No, but I've been pretty well trained in computers generally."

"Fine." Hawking stood up and reached for the tapes. "You run it. I'll load these for you."

The procedure took less than three minutes. Once the six tapes were mounted, Caine read two records from each onto a blank cassette. Eleven red herrings, drawn at random, and that one very special record. He found his hands trembling slightly as he withdrew the cassette and rewound the tapes. "Done."

Hawking looked at Lathe. "Do we return the tapes?"

"No, we'd better get moving. Mordecai, did you pick up a hailer? Good—I don't want to use Caine's any more than necessary. We'll leave by the front door; the induction field control's probably there."

They trooped down the hall together. As they entered the elevator, Caine sneaked a glance at Lathe. The old blackcollar's expression—what Caine could see of it under the battle-hood and goggles—was not that of a man whose task is nearly done. Caine shivered, but kept his questions to himself. Whatever else Lathe had planned, he would learn about it soon enough.

The briefcase was right where Lathe had said he would leave it. Crouching in the relative darkness, Skyler quickly emptied it, keeping an eye on the street. Hopefully, the faint whine of a car he could hear approaching was evidence that Braune and Pittman had been successful. Even as he closed the briefcase the vehicle rounded the corner, turned down the street, and then U-turned to face the cul-de-sac's entrance. Seconds later it was rolling again, with Skyler inside.

"Any trouble?" the blackcollar asked as he passed out knives, throwing stars, and short-range radio gear.

Woody Pittman, who was driving, shook his head. "None," he said. "Braune had it unlocked in half a minute."

Skyler nodded. He wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of taking two novice trainees on a raid into the collies' stronghold—but as long as he had to do so, Pittman and Stef Braune were the best possible choices for the job. Pittman, especially: twenty-two years old, with five years of secret combat training under his belt, he had shed the rashness of youth and was beginning to develop the calculating mentality that made for a good fighter. Braune, three years younger, had the same characteristics at a more undeveloped stage. For the umpteenth time Skyler wished they'd had some of the Backlash drug when the planet went under. Without it none of Plinry's youthful fighters would ever have a blackcollar's super-fast reflexes. Still... Skyler studied Pittman's face out of the corner of his eye. Alert, determined, with that trace of fear that made for caution. Backlash or no, the kid was going to be a good fighter someday.

Most of the lights that blazed from the Department of Planetary Security were on the first floor: the night shift of those guardians of Ryqril interests. The most dangerous place in the whole city for a blackcollar to be, but at least he'd have the use of his throwing knives and other weapons. With armed Security men going in and out at all hours, an induction field alarm was impractical. Lathe's mission was potentially a lot riskier, and Skyler wondered briefly how his friend was doing.

Pittman stopped the car across from the Security building, and he and Skyler slid out opposite sides as Braune took the wheel and continued down the street. Pittman vanished into a shadowy doorway to stand guard as Skyler, loosening his knives in their forearm and belt sheathes, headed across the street.

The main doors were large and imposing and, providentially, inset with lots of windows. Standing off to one side, Skyler peered inside. A short, glassed-in foyer led directly into a larger room dominated by a reception desk. One Security man lounged at the desk, fiddling with a pocket knife; two others leaned against the wall facing him, apparently just chatting. The standees were armed; Skyler could assume the desk man was, too. First target would be the latter, the only one within reach of the various alarm buttons. The others would have to be taken before they could draw. Nunchaku in his left hand, knife in his right, Skyler pulled open the outer door, crossed the foyer in two strides, and emerged into the reception area.

They had turned when he opened the outer door, but astonishment had frozen their muscles—frozen them long enough, in fact, that Skyler decided to risk an act of mercy. "All right; no one move," he ordered in his most authoritative voice... and the spell holding them vanished like a soap bubble.

The desk man lunged toward his control buttons and was knocked backward by the impact of Skyler's knife hilt between his eyes. The other two, still standing together like amateurs, were clawing at their holsters as the nunchaku spun through the air to catch them both across the forehead. One went down instantly; the other, dazed, nevertheless kept his feet until Skyler finished the job with a backfist punch behind the ear.

Ears cocked for sounds of an alarm, Skyler retrieved his weapons, checking the fallen guards as he did so. Two of them would be out for the duration of his stay. The third—the desk man—was out forever.

Skyler gazed at the dead man for a moment, his stomach tightening painfully. It had been a long time since he'd had to kill anyone.... Sheathing his knife almost viciously, he turned to the room directory on the desk.

The list was short and Skyler found the Hostage Holding Room without trouble. It was off to his left, through double doors and down the hall. Nunchaku at the ready, he crossed the reception area, opened one of the doors a crack and slid through.

An open door twenty meters ahead of him spilled light and cheerful conversation into the hall. The holding room, undoubtedly; only hostages would be that noisy. Skyler glided forward, conscious of the ironic twist this particular collie gambit had taken. Shortly after conquering Plinry the occupying Ryqril had required civic leaders to be held as hostages, on a rotating schedule, to insure cooperation from the populace. That order had never been revoked, but in the years following the blackcollar surrender the perception of it had shifted. It was now considered a mark of status to be chosen for one of the four-day stints as hostage—a mark of success, as it were. Luxuries had been added to the holding room, and the hostages treated their stay like the expense-paid vacation it essentially was. In many ways the ten men and women in there were as guilty of collaboration with the enemy as were the loyalty-conditioned collies, and it was a little galling to Skyler to have to get them out. But they were hostages—and when the balloon went up, their private club would turn nasty very quickly.