“Actually, Hosato, there’s a good chance you triggered all this. It might have been better if the machines had killed you.”

“Wait a minute—” Hosato began, but the Hungarian waved him back to silence.

“I was merely pointing out that when you escaped from the manufacturing area, you signed the death warrant for everyone in the Mc. Crae complex. The computer couldn’t be sure whom you had talked to, so to preserve Turner’s secret, it simply killed everyone.”

“Now, don’t try to hang this on Hosato!” Sasha intervened. “He didn’t program the damn computer. Besides, all of us here got away from the robots, not just Hosato.”

“True enough,” the Hungarian acknowledged. “But that was to survive the attack triggered by Hosato’s earlier escape. However, that does raise an interesting problem. If I’m correct, the robots massacred the humans at the Mc. Crae complex to eliminate any information leak Hosato might have caused. Now, four of you escaped from the massacre. Extending the same logic…”

“…those things will try to kill every human in the universe,” Rick said softly. “All to preserve Turner’s bloody secret project. Mother of God!”

Hosato barely noticed the exchange. His mind was already turning over plans for a counterattack, analyzing them and gauging their strengths and weaknesses. Whether or not mankind as a whole was being threatened was inconsequential. He had indirectly been the cause of the death of several hundred innocent people. He was now honor-bound to destroy the murderers, to avenge those innocent deaths, even if his own life was sacrificed in the effort.

To the Hungarian fell the lot of traveling to Griin-becker’s Planet on a preliminary scouting mission. The others hadn’t liked it, but he successfully defended his suggestion. None could challenge his qualifications as a scout in this situation. Perhaps most convincing was his argument that of the five of them, he was the only one whose descriptive stats weren’t in the Mc-. Crae personnel-data files.

His plan was simple enough—to join one of the tour groups visiting Mc. Crae Enterprises and make his observations in the safe disguise of a tourist. It was agreed that the planning of their counterattack would wait until his return, both for the data he would bring and for his expert counsel.

In the interim, the weary refugees were forced to find activities to occupy their leisure time. Rick found refuge in the Hungarian’s extensive library, losing himself for hours in the stacks of text to the point that he frequently failed to appear for meals. Sasha enlisted James’s aid and took advantage of the Hungarian’s small gymnasium and firing range. It was still her intent to participate in the final assault on Mc. Crae, and to that end drilled herself mercilessly to adjust to the loss of her right arm. She firmly rejected Hosato’s offers of assistance, preferring to practice alone or with James as a companion.

Left to his own devices, Hosato made use of the workshop to check and prepare what was left of his equipment. It soon became apparent to him, however, that he was in actuality stalling—avoiding a duty he was reluctant to fulfill.

Finally, however, he could no longer ignore his conscience and reluctantly locked himself in the Hungarian’s communications room.

It took a while to establish contact, which was not surprising, as long-range communications equipment was not common on Musashi, but after many relays and delays he was confronted with the holographic image of his grandfather. The figure of the elder Hosato, elegant in a simple black kimono, appeared floating inches off the floor in a seated position. That, coupled with the fact his eyes focused at a point several feet behind Hosato, indicated the transmission/ receiving gear was not adjusted properly. Still, it was an incredible technical feat to have the image this clear, considering the distances involved.

The figure motioned to Hosato, indicating a place in the air directly in front of it. Hosato responded, kneeling on the floor, his hands resting on his thighs.

“You are looking well, my son,” the image said. The voice was strong and reverberant.

“And you, grandfather,” Hosato replied.

He was genuinely relieved to see his grandfather in such good health. The elder Hosato was in his nineties but he sat ramrod straight. His tight unlined face rested on a sinewy pillar of a throat that loomed up from muscular shoulders. It had been five years since Hosato had last spoken to him directly.

“Your mother and sister have been worried about you,” the image continued. “It has been many years since we have heard from you.”

“I apologize for any distress I might have caused them. Since leaving home, I have traveled far, and on the occasions I could afford to communicate with you, proper facilities were not available.”

“We are not wealthy,” his grandfather pointed out sternly. “But we would have accepted the expense of such a communication to hear from our eldest son.”

Hosato hung his head. “Though I knew this, my pride would not let me impose such a burden on you. Forgive me.”

The image waved a ghostly hand. “Enough of such talk,” it said. “Tell me of your adventures since you left us.”

“Most recently, I had a supporting role in a production of Down the Alley on Tansil,” Hosato responded.

“I am not familiar with this play,” the image stated.

“It is a very old script. The story revolves around a young criminal who…”

To a casual observer viewing the conversation, it would seem to be a normal, though prolonged, exchange of pleasantries, gossip, and news between father and son.

It wasn’t.

The Hosato family, true Ninjas that they were, were very close with their secrets. They did not engage in idle conversation. The fact that Hosato contacted his family at all was an immediate indication that he was facing a crisis, one that either required the family’s counsel or was a direct threat to the family.

As they spoke, Hosato and the image of his grandfather, their hands and fingers moved minutely, constantly changing position. It was not the hand signals of the deaf-mutes or the sign language of the Great Plains Indians. It was the Hosato family code, which had been passed along for generations. It was drilled into all members of the family until they were able to carry on two conversations simultaneously, one verbal, which served only to cover the real conversation passing between the subtly moving hands. Many people spoke Japanese, but only the family knew this code.

After Hosato’s hands had finished explaining the current situation, his grandfather immediately formed the question he had been dreading.

“What of your companions?” the fingers asked.

“I seek advice on how to proceed with my mission,”

Hosato countered. “I am faced with a foe that threat-ens-the existence of mankind.”

“Mankind has faced many threats,” came the reply from the image’s hands. “Yet it still survives. Your companions constitute a direct threat to our family.”

“The mechanic does not possess sufficient knowledge of our activities to constitute a threat,” he explained.

“And the woman and the boy?”

There it was. His grandfather had now asked the question directly. Hosato could no longer evade the issue.

“I was considering sponsoring them into the family,” he stated.

The image’s hands were motionless for several moments before replying.

“A family member may sponsor only one outsider for membership.” The fingers formed the words with a crisp abruptness. “It is the law.”

“I was hoping that under the circumstances, an exception could be made to the law,” Hosato appealed.

“It is the law,” came the firm answer.

“As current head of the family, it is within your power to change or modify the law,” Hosato pleaded.

“My son,” the image responded slowly, “the laws of the family are not to be changed lightly. Perhaps if you live to succeed me as head of the family, you will realize that.”