"That wasn't very polite," Lathe said to the first man, curled around himself on the floor where he'd fallen. Through the pain in his eyes Lathe could see a fading remnant of fear being replaced by resignation. "Pulling a—looks like a flechette or dart gun—on us. Skyler?"

"This one had a pellet scattergun," the other reported, hefting the barman's weapon. "Pellets may be paral-drugged."

Lathe eyed the man by the door. "Dump your gun onto the floor and come here."

The other obeyed instantly, moving in the jerky fashion of an unoiled automaton. "I'm sorry, sir—we didn't know it was you guys—Phelling just said—"

"That we were easy targets?"

"Oh, no, sir—just that you were selling in the boss's territory without his okay—"

"Shut up, Travis." The man at Lathe's feet spat between clenched teeth.

"Ignore him, Travis, this is very interesting," Skyler put in. "Just who is this boss of yours?"

Travis gulped but remained silent. Lathe switched his gaze to the barman. "What's his name, Phelling?"

The other shrugged slightly. "It's no secret—you could figure it out easily enough with a territory map. Manx Reger."

Lathe nodded, though the name didn't flip any switches. "And what's your excuse?"

Phelling spread his hands wide. "Look, all this is Mr. Reger's territory. You know how it works—part of the price for letting me run my place is to keep my eyes open."

"Uh-huh." Lathe's fingers sought out his tingler. Mordecai: Clear out backup.

Acknowledged.

"Well," Lathe told Phelling, "I suggest you be a bit less enthusiastic about joining in the fight next time. Let's go, Skyler."

The two blackcollars walked through the still-frozen tableau to the door, dropping their appropriated weapons there as Lathe pulled his shuriken out of the wall.

Mordecai was standing beside a large and well-polished car as they emerged into the parking lot, two vaguely crumpled figures sprawled beside him. "Any trouble?" Lathe asked.

"Hardly." Mordecai gestured to the car. "This thing's a rolling arsenal—a pair of scatterguns in the back seat and a long-range sniper's flechette rifle in the trunk. Are they Security?"

"No, they seem to be the local underground. The wrong underground, unfortunately." Lathe stooped to peer inside the car. Plenty of room for both themselves and part of Caine's team. "Might as well ride in comfort. You got the keys?"

Mordecai dangled them in reply.

—

They reached the site of Caine's forced landing fifteen minutes later... to find that while they'd been gone the universe had taken a hard left turn.

"What do you mean, not here?" Lathe fumed to Jensen. "They have to be here."

"All I know is that no one's replying to tingler signals," the other said, frustration evident in his voice. "Hawking's been driving up and down the road for ten minutes without drawing a single buzz in response."

"But—" Lathe broke off as their tinglers came on: Glider located, four hundred meters west on road.

They found Hawking in the bushes about five meters off the southern edge of the road. "Torn up some, but it's definitely Colvin's cargo glider."

"Any sign of the cargo pod itself?"

"Not yet. Maybe Colvin just pushed his range too far and crashed, but everyone was in good enough shape to hike it."

Lathe looked around. Behind them a tall bluff rose against the starry sky, directly back along the route the gliders had been tracking.

Jensen followed his gaze and his thoughts. "Could be they steered around it," he suggested. "A bit tricky, but possible."

"The road switchbacks upward on the other side of that bluff," Skyler pointed out. "That would have created some updrafts this direction. And Colvin did have more altitude than the others."

"Finding the other gliders might give us a better idea of what happened," Hawking added.

Lathe glanced west just as another blue-violet light appeared briefly between distant mountain peaks. "Unfortunately, we haven't got that much time," he said. "Whether Security's got them or not, we're going to need help finding them." So much for giving Caine his grand illusion of independence, the comsquare thought with a touch of bitterness. I should have known better.

"Help from whom?" Hawking asked. "Caine's mysterious Torch?"

"Maybe later—if they really exist. For now, I've got someone a bit more substantial in mind. Come on—we need to get back to the bar before it closes."

Back on Plinry, Colvin knew, he would never live this down.

He'd made it over the mountain that had nailed Alamzad and was gliding above the road watching for the switchbacks with plenty of altitude to spare. And then that damn wind had come in out of nowhere and that bluff had shot up right in front of him, and he'd panicked.

Panicked. There was no other word for it. He'd frozen like an amateur, riding that wind dead-on for the bluff until there was no time to try to steer around it. By the time he'd been able to think again he had exactly two options: ram the mountain just above the second switchback, or try and fly over the damn thing. He'd almost made it, too... but almost never counted for anything.

And so now here he sat, all alone on top of the bluff with an injured bird and a heavy cargo pod and a wind that was trying to freeze his face off... and a massively bruised ego.

"Colvin?" Pittman's voice came anxiously in his ear. "You okay?"

"Sure," Colvin said, trying to sound casually hearty. I meant to do that; of course I did. Not fooling anybody but himself. "Where are you?"

Braune's voice cut in. "We're on the road around beyond the bluff you landed on—maybe a couple hundred meters past that last switchback curve. The road looks pretty level now for a while—shouldn't be too bad a hike."

"Though it'll probably get worse before it gets better," Pittman added. "What's the view like from up there?"

"Oh, terrific." It was a terrific view, too. The problem was that it was a terrific view of all the wrong things. To the southeast he could see that the road did indeed begin to climb again no more than a kilometer or two past the others' position; to the west he could see the blue-violet lights of searching aircraft circling the mountains a few kilometers away. The trajectory of the falling drop pods had temporarily fooled them, but that wouldn't last long. Soon the search would widen, and picking up five men hiking along the road in the middle of nowhere would be child's play.

And as he gazed westward, he saw a flicker of light along the road.

Headlights.

It was a crazy idea—he knew it was a crazy idea—but for all that it was their best hope. The road passed beneath him twice in a sharp hairpin switchback turn before rounding the bluff to continue past Braune and Pittman. At their position the vehicle would be starting to pick up speed, but around the curves it would surely be going slowly enough to hijack.

If he could get down there fast enough.

He stood up, nearly losing his balance to the wind, and sent his hands on a quick inspection tour of his glider. Injured, sure, but not crippled. A few bent struts and a small rip or two in the wing, but nothing that couldn't handle a short flight. The cargo pod was the only problem, but if the gale whistling in his ears held up he'd have no problem launching even with that dragging along the runway.

The lights were moving closer, approaching the first pass beneath him, and for the first time Colvin could see that the headlights were backed up by a minor Christmas-tree display of amber running lights. The "car" was actually a large trailer truck—which opened up an entirely new possibility.

Wrestling the glider against the wind, he snapped into his harness and pushed off. For a second the pod dragged against the bare rock like an anchor, threatening to send him head-downward over the rim to the road below. Then it came free and he was airborne, fighting the eddy currents near the bluff as he came around in a tight circle. The truck was laboring along the upper part of the switchback now. Coming around behind and above it, he brought the glider's nose sharply up to kill his excess speed, and dropped squarely onto the top of the trailer.