“No.” He returned the inspection. “But, you’re — it’s uncanny.” He looked tense. “It’s not you that I’m worried about.”

“Indeed.” She nodded soberly. “I need to go downstairs and greet people. I really don’t expect our hypothetical hitter to risk witnesses, so as long as I stay out of view of the outside we should be all right. The fun starts if any of the guests goes out of bounds or when the hitter departs from the script. Ready?”

Chrystoff froze for a moment, then gave a slight nod.

“Then let’s get this show on the road.”

With the ship docked and resupply under way, Steffi was annoyingly busy. In addition to spending some of her off-hours with Wednesday — the kid had problems and needed a shoulder to unload on, but it was remarkably draining to be in the firing line — she was filling in for Max and Evan, running errands between Bridge and Engineering, generally acting as understudy and gofer for the executive team, and minding the shop while her superiors were dealing with the port authorities. If it went on this way, she’d be lucky to get any time on the surface at all — and after three weeks of constant work she needed to get out of the ship for a while very badly indeed. If she didn’t do her share on the surface, Svengali would have harsh words for her; of that, she was certain. Which was why Elena’s call from the purser’s office came as an unwelcome distraction.

“Lieutenant? We have a situation here. I’m on tube four, northside. Can you come up right away?”

Steffi glanced at the two engineering auxiliaries who were hooking up the ship’s external service cables — power, so they could strip down the number two generator, and crypto, so they could dump the bulk mail spool. “I can give you five minutes. That’s all. On my way. What’s the situation?”

“I can’t tell you until you get here.”

“What do you mean, ‘can’t’?” Steffi was already moving toward the nearest crew lift capsule. Got to sign off the cable hookup, then see Dr. Lewis gets her transport for the new surgery unit …

“It’s very irregular.” Elena sounded apologetic. “I’ve got an override B-5.”

“A—” Steffi blinked. “Okay, I’m on my way.” She twitched her rings to a different setting, then told the lift to take her to the lock bay. “Max? Steffi here. I’ve got a problem. Do you know something about an override B-5 coming up?”

Max sounded distracted. “A B-5? No, I haven’t heard anything. You can try to field it if it’s within your remit. If it goes over your head, get back to me. I’m covering for Chi right now, so I’ve got my hands full.”

“Uh, okay.” Steffi shook her head. “B-5, isn’t that a diplomatic exception?”

“Diplomatic, customs, police, whatever. If they’ve got a warrant for a passenger, it’s the purser’s office. If it’s to do with shipboard ops, get back to me.”

“Okay. Steffi out.” The elevator slowed, then opened its doors on the passenger country side of docking tube four. This level of the tube — a pressurized cylinder the diameter of a subsonic trash-hauler jet — was a wide corridor, ramping up at the far end into the arrivals processing hall of the station. At the ship end, various lock doors and high-capacity elevators opened off it. Just then, a trickle of passengers were idling on their way portside. Elena and a crewman from the purser’s office were waiting by the barrier with a passenger — no, wait, he was on the wrong side, wasn’t he?

“Hello, Elena. Sir.” She smiled professionally. “How can I help you?” She sized him up rapidly: dark hair, nondescript, young-looking with the self-assurance that came with age, wearing sandals, utility kilt, and a shirt in a style that had been everywhere back home. Then he held up a small booklet. With a white cover.

“My name is Martin Springfield,” he said diffidently, “and I’m attached to the UN special diplomatic mission currently in residence in Sarajevo.” He smiled faintly. “Nicky didn’t look like this last time I was aboard, I must say.”

“Nicky? Excuse me?” Elena was trying to catch her eye, but too late.

“That’s what we called her back in the yard. Must have been eight or nine years ago.” Springfield nodded to himself, as if confirming something: “I’m sorry to have to pull this on you, but I’m here because Ambassador Cho needs some questions answered urgently. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“Private—” Steffi’s eyes nearly crossed as she tried to reconcile conflicting instincts: Get this annoying civilian out of the way so I can go back to work; and oh shit, government stuff! What do I have to do now? “Um, yes, I suppose so.” She cast a warning glance at Elena, who shrugged and looked helpless. “If you’d be so good as to step this way? Can I have a look at that, sir?”

“It’s genuine,” Elena volunteered. “Carte blanche. He’s who he says he is. I already checked.”

Steffi forced herself to smile again: “I’m sure you did, or you wouldn’t have called me.” She looked at Martin. “Follow me.”

As if everything wasn’t complicated enough, as she turned, a small clot of people were coming down the tube — a couple of staff entertainers, one or two business travelers, a handful of tired-looking recently thawed steerage customers with their shipping trunks, and Wednesday. Wednesday noticed her at the same time and couldn’t leave well alone. “Uh, Lieutenant Grace? Are you busy? I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about the other day—”

“It’s all right,” Steffi said tiredly, wondering how she was going to talk her way out of this. “Are you all right? Going groundside, I see — do you have anything in mind? Some sightseeing?”

Wednesday brightened slightly. “I’m sightseeing, yeah.” Then she was abruptly sober. “There’s a memorial ceremony tomorrow at the, the embassy. In the capital. Anyone from Moscow who’s in-system is invited. It landed in my mailbox this morning. Thought I ought to go. It’s been five years, empire time.”

“Well, you go,” Steffi said hastily. “If you need to talk when you get back to the ship, feel free to call me — I’m just a bit snowed under right now.” To her relief Wednesday nodded, then hurried off to catch up with the flock of day-trippers. What did I let myself in for? she wondered. After that devastating breakdown on the first night, she’d sat with Wednesday for a couple of hours while she poured out her grief. It had left Steffi wanting to strangle someone — starting with whoever had killed the kid’s family, followed by the kid herself when she realized how much of a time sink Wednesday could be. But she’d filed a report with the stewards, disentangled herself carefully, and when she checked the next day Wednesday seemed to be fine. And she was spending a lot of time with the troll from B312. They were resilient at that age. She’d been made of rubber herself, back when her parents were splitting up; but she didn’t remember collapsing on a total stranger’s shoulder and spilling her soul, or trying to pick a fight over supper. Spoiled, like most rich kids, she figured. Wednesday had probably never had anything to worry about in her life.

Steffi reached the crew elevator and realized with a start that the man from the embassy was still with her. What is he, the human glueball? she wondered.

“We can find a corner of the executive planning suite, or maybe a conference room. Or if it’s okay with you, I can go check on a couple of jobs I’m meant to be supervising.” Let’s get you out of my hair, huh?

“If you can check those jobs in person, I’ll just tag along and stay out of your way while you’re doing it.” Springfield leaned against the side of the lift car. He looked either tired or worried — or both. “But I’m afraid I’m going to be generating a lot of work for you. Ambassador Cho sent me to poke around here because I’m the nearest thing to a shipping specialist he’s got. We have a bit of a needle and haystack problem, I’m afraid. Specifically, we have reason to think that one or more of the long-stay passengers have been using this vessel as a vehicle for serial naughtiness at the last few ports of call.”