He flashed Jennifer an angry look, stopped, and quickly shifted the crate, slamming it down to the dock.

"What do you people want? My papers are in order. I have a green card." He fumbled angrily in the pocket of his coveralls. He spoke perfect English, but with a peculiar accent that Brennan had never heard before.

He shoved a piece of paper at Brennan. It had his photo and the name "Durg at'Morakh bo Zabb Vayawandsa" printed under it. He was born, it said, on Takis. The name on his union ID card, which he also handed to Brennan, had been Americanized to Doug Morkle.

"Everything is in order," he said, his anger turned to smugness.

"Yes, I see," Brennan temporized. This was utterly unexpected. Brennan remembered that Tachyon had once mentioned the Takisian who'd been marooned on Earth back during the Swarm troubles. Expert martial artist and casual killer, he was certainly capable of murdering Chrysalis. But what motive would he possibly have for killing her? "It, uh, says here on your union card that you're a heavy-equipment operator."

Morkle stared at him through slitted eyes. "Are you from the union office?"

"That's right," Brennan lied.

"My exemption has been filed," Morkle said, triumph in his voice. "There is nothing wrong with my papers. The proper box is checked."

"Uh-huh." Brennan looked again at the card, scanning it carefully. The special "ace exemption" box had indeed been checked, "Giving the bearer the right to function as a heavyequipment operator with or without the actual physical presence of such equipment as long as he/she is remunerated at commensurate rates of compensation."

"Of course," Brennan said.

"I must return to work. My shift is almost over." Morkle held out a hand the size of a shovel. "My papers please."

"Do you always work the midnight-to-eight shift?" The Takisian nodded impatiently and hoisted his burden. "Last Monday, too?"

He nodded again, his anger obviously building. "Well, thanks, Mister… Morkle."

"That's Morkle!" He pronounced it with a liquid lilt at the end of the word. "Ideal! Will you Earthers ever learn how to speak correctly?"

"Do we believe him?" Jennifer asked as they watched him stroll off with his burden.

"It looks like an iron-clad alibi."

"Another dead end?"

Brennan sighed. "I'm afraid so."

But that just made Wyrm look more and more like the prime candidate. It was time to interview him personally. First, though, Brennan decided, it would be sensible to return tc the hotel room and pick up more firepower. He wasn't about to waltz into the Curio Emporium bare-handed.

"What the hell do you mean it never got put on the plane?"

"I'm sorry, sir." The Delta luggage clerk wasn't nearly as good at being sorry as Waldo Cosgrove was. "Our next flight from La Guardia is due in about twenty minutes, I'm sure your luggage will be on that one." Behind her on the wall was a- large poster covered with drawings of suitcases. "If you could indicate the type of luggage," she said, "it would help us to locate the missing bags."

"It wasn't a suitcase," Jay said. "It was a cat carrier. Gray plastic, brand new, I just bought the damn thing. You have any idea how hard it is to find a twenty-four-hour pet shop, even in Manhattan?" He sighed. "My, uh, cat's going to be pissed."

"Oh, the poor thing," the woman said. "I have five cats myself, I understand how you must feel. We'll find it, don't worry. If you give me your Atlanta address, I'll have your cat delivered."

"Great," Jay said. He thought for a moment. "I don't know where I'll be. The convention has booked all the big hotels solid, I hear. Tell you what, deliver it to the Marriott Marquis. To Hiram Worchester." He spelled it for her.

"Our pleasure," she said as she completed the, lost luggage form and handed it across the counter for signature. "What's the little fellow's name?"

"Digger," Jay said. At least he hadn't checked the garment bag. He slung it over a shoulder and went out to look for a cab.

"There's an envelope on your bow case," Jennifer said, looking at it as if it were some kind of poisonous reptile. "What?" Brennan called out from the bathroom. "Another message?"

"Apparently."

Brennan came out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. He joined Jennifer, who was staring at his bow case and the small, plain white envelope resting on it.

"This is getting weird," Brennan said. "Getting?"

Brennan grunted and picked up the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a message written in the now-familiar tiny hand, complete with its usual quota of spelling errors.

"`For yur own safety'" he read, "'stay away frum the Cristal Palace."'

"Why?" Jennifer asked.

Brennan shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine. Our secret informant hasn't lied so fax: It's been spooky as hell and gotten me into trouble a few times, but it's always told the truth."

"Were you planning on going to the Palace?" Jennifer asked.

"No. Right now I'm planning on heightening my appreciation of Chinese art." He folded the note and put it in his pocket, then hefted his bow case. "Let's go."

They stopped him the moment he stepped out of the revolving doors into the lobby of the Marriott Marquis. "May I see your room key, sir?" a black man in a security blazer asked him, none too politely.

Jay gave him his most apologetic smile. "Don't have one yet," he said. "I'm just checking in." He tried to walk briskly around him, the garment bag slung over his shoulder.

The guard sidestepped, planting himself squarely in Jay's path. "Hotel's full," he said. "We're not authorized to admit anyone but guests. Can I see some identification?"

"I've got business with one of your guests," Jay said. "Hiram Worchester. He's in the New York delegation."

"Is he expecting you?"

"Well," Jay admitted, "not exactly."

"Then I suggest you phone him. The desk will be glad to take a message. If he wants to see you, we'll arrange a pass." Jay slapped his forehead and let his mouth hang open. "A pass? You know, Hiram gave me a pass, how could I be so stupid? God, isn't that funny? You thinking I'm trying to get in without a pass, and here I've got one all the time?"

"Hilarious," the man in the security blazer said. "Where did I put it?" Jay fumbled in his pocket for a moment, shaped his hand into a gun, drew it out. "Here's my pass," he said happily, looking up. Two tall men in dark suits were flanking the guy in the blazer, dark glasses hiding their eyes. Neither of them was smiling.

"I don't see a pass," the guard said. "I just see you pointing at me, asshole."

Jay. looked at his finger. Then he looked at the men. There were three of them. The two on the ends had bulges under their jackets. He put his hand back into his pocket and took a step backward. The dark suits moved in, crowding him toward the wall. "No, really, I was wearing my pass just a moment ago," Jay explained. "in all this crush, somebody must have brushed against me, knocked it off…"

"That so?" The man looked at his partner and smirked. "You know," Jay said, snapping his fingers, "come to think of it, I just remembered. My friend's in the Hyatt, not the Marriott. How could I be so stupid?" Scuttling backward like a crab, grinning like a moron, he edged back through the revolving doors into the July heat of Atlanta. The feds watched him carefully every step of the way.