A pair of soldiers hurried purposefully across the ferrocrete plaza from the direction Grayson had just come. He ignored them as he pretended to admire the statuary, but kept his head angled in such a way that he could watch the soldiers out the corner of his eye. The chances were that none of them would recognize him, for no Marik trooper had seen him except as a blur or a running form in the distance. Still, the man holding a radio, the one he had hit—and probably the man who had been crouching at his side as well—had gotten a good look at his features. If they were sharp enough, either of those two might recognize him.

These were two different soldiers, however. They wore heavy black-purple clamshell armor and dark-visored combat helmets instead of felt caps. Each carried an assault rifle cradled uncertainly in nervous hands. They entered the park hesitantly, their helmeted heads turning this way and that. Twice the sun glinted from their visors as their gaze swept past him, but Grayson remained calm and unmoving. After a second, one of the troopers took his comrade by the arm, and pointed across the garden toward the buildings beyond. Then the two broke into a trot, parting waist-deep weeds as they zigzagged past still forms of nymphs and dying warriors in what they imagined was the direction of their prey.

Grayson didn't move, but continued to survey the park. He wasn't sure how intelligent was the search being mounted for him, but he was taking no chances. A moment later, two more armored and helmeted soldiers followed with slow deliberation along the trail of the first two. Grayson couldn't tell for certain whether all four were working together, but it was a possibility he could not afford to discount.

He decided to stay put for a while.

A man walked up to a spot on the wall some five meters from Grayson and sat down. He was an old man wearing the tunic and boots of a laborer, and holding a knobbed walking stick in his veined, gnarled hand. His beard was white, his scalp bald, but his eyes were clear and remarkably blue. As Grayson looked across to him, those blue eyes caught his. There was no recognition on either side. Grayson had never seen the man before, but he did detect a flash—the merest suggestion—of comradeship. Or was it simple curiosity?

The man's eyes tracked back across the park in the direction the soldiers had gone, then back to Grayson. He shrugged then, as if to say, It's a strange world.

With that brief eye contact to lead him on, Grayson decided to venture further. He stood up, gingerly putting his weight on the hit leg, happy to find that the numbness and tingling were almost gone. He walked a few steps over to the old man, then sat down again. "Good morning."

" 'Morning to you, young feller." The man's voice was clear and strong.

"I'm new in town," Grayson said. "What's with all the soldiers?"

"Them? Some sort of flap with the new landholder, they say. They came in a week ago and took over. I hear the landhold at Durandel's been leveled."

"I've . . . heard that too. But why?"

"Beats me. I don't care for politics, myself. 'Long as the new landlord keeps the peace and keeps the tax collectors off my back, I'm happy." The man's eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't be that those soldier boys were after you, son, would it?"

"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know. You come in here, limping . . . like maybe someone had nabbed you with a tingler. Then you sit there showing a truly remarkable interest in these perfectly awful sculptures while the Captain-General's best line troops go racing past. I don't know. Call it a hunch. Or a wild guess."

Grayson decided to change the subject. "What's all this about papers and a document center?"

"You arenew in town. That's the first thing these johnnies did when they came in. Everyone has to have papers, like this." He reached into his tunic, fumbled with an inside pocket, then withdrew a flat wallet. Opening it, he withdrew a single, folded sheet, printed on one side. "Actually, this is all there is. Paper ... not papers. Name . . . date . . . birth . . . mother . . . father . . . occupation . . . the usual bureaucratic dreck. You don't have yours yet, eh?"

"First I've heard about it."

"Might explain why those soldiers yonder were interested in you . . . but then, they weren't after you at all, were they?"

Grayson rubbed his leg. The numbness and tingling were nearly gone. "Well, I'd better get a move on."

The old man watched him with a keen, lively intelligence. "You'd better, eh? And where to?"

Grayson smiled. He could picture himself telling the gentleman that he was setting out in search of the resident Lyran Commonwealth spy!

"Oh, just a guy I have to see. Business."

"Ah. Business. Well, you find any business in this town, you come back and tell me." His eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a smile. "The again, if you don't find any business, you might want to tell me, too. Mebee I can help."

Grayson had the strange feeling that the man was laughing at him. His words made no sense, probably the maunderings of an old man on the verge of senility. Nodding toward the gentleman, he stood up. "Yes, well, I'll see you later."

"Yes, I daresay you will."

His confrontation with the old fellow left Grayson shaken. The trip into Helmdown had been so carefully planned, but the man's careful banter, his apparent or pretended knowledge of Grayson, was unsettling. Grayson abandoned any attempt to look the part of a Helman farmer and hurried back toward the center of town. Hogarth Street was not far from the Council House, and he found it easily after consulting one of the electronic maps positioned at strategic corners throughout the town. The crowds were thinner there, though plenty of people were still about. Grayson wondered if so many strangers were in town because they had come to get papers, or because they were curious about all the Marik soldiers from the DropShips. Perhaps it was both.

The name of his contact was Jenton Moragen, whose Moragen Emporium was reputedly one of the most respected mercantile firms in Helmdown. Though not large—the company's personnel register recorded 52 people on its payroll, including those working offworld— it had been an important part of Helm's economy under Moragen's great-great-grandfather, almost two hundred years before.

According to Grayson's informant, it had been Moragen's grandfather who had begun to act as a conduit of information from Helm to the Lyran Commonwealth. Jenton was merely carrying on the family tradition, both as businessman and as spy. Little enough happened on

Helm to warrant the attention of Katrina Steiner or her officers on Tharkad, of course, but there had been occasions for Moragen to show his usefulness. Once, when agents of the Draconis Combine had been showing an unusual interest in Helm several years before, he had written up a report for transmission to Commonwealth space, then thoughtfully sent a copy to the District Office of the Captain-General.

The Marik aide who had told all of this to Grayson had laughed. "Jenton is an old friend of our governor there on Helm. Listen, you want to get to know the governor, go ask Jenton to introduce you. They'll sucker you into a game of three-handed trovans and clean you out!"

Grayson found the Moragen Emporium without any trouble.

Posted over the door, with its tack-welded electronic lock, was a notice that could be read from clear across the street: CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE MILITARY GOVERNOR.

Closed! There was fine print on the notice, but Grayson did not want to appear too curious about that door or its sign. A sudden chill gripped him. All around him were tall, blank-windowed buildings, behind where there might be hidden watchers, men with vision-enhancers, recorders, and radios for alerting other men on the streets. As casually as possible, Grayson continued his walk along the opposite side of the street from the Emporium. The building had been freshly whitewashed, and the electric sign above was intact, though the power was off. It looked as though it might have been closed only the day before.