He was passing through the bustle of a small bar, on his way to check on Beychae, when he heard a voice behind him say, "Ah; sincere hellos, and things! Mr Starabinde, isn't it?"

He turned slowly.

It was the small doctor from the scar party. The little man stood at the crowded bar, beckoning to him.

He walked over, squeezing between the chattering passengers.

"Doctor; good day."

The little man nodded, "Stapangarderslinaiterray; but call me Stap."

"With pleasure, and even relief." He smiled. "And please call me Sherad."

"Well! Small cluster, isn't it? May I buy you a drink?" He flashed his toothy grin, which — caught in a small spotlight above the bar — glared quite startlingly.

"What an excellent idea."

They found a small table, wedged up against one bulkhead. The doctor wiped his nose, adjusted his immaculate suit.

"So, Sherad, what brings you along on this little jaunt?"

"Well, actually… Stap," he said quietly. "I'm travelling sort of… incognito, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't… broadcast my name, you know?"

"Absolutely!" Doctor Stap said, nodding fiercely. He glanced round conspiratorially, leaned closer. "My discretion is exemplary. Have had to "travel quietly"…" his eyebrows waggled"… myself, on occasion. You just let me know if I can be of any help."

"You're very kind." He raised his glass.

They drank to a safe voyage.

"Are you going to the "end of the line", to Breskial?" Stap asked.

He nodded. "Yes; myself and a business associate."

Doctor Stap nodded, grinning. "Ah, a "business associate" Ah."

"No, doctor; not a "business associate", a business associate; a gentleman, and quite elderly, and in a different cabin… would that all three descriptions were their opposite, of course."

"Ha! Quite!" the doctor said.

"Another drink?"

"You don't think he knows anything?" Beychae asked.

"What's to know?" He shrugged. He glanced at the screen, on the door of Beychae's cramped cabin. "Nothing on the news?"

"Nothing," Beychae said. "They mentioned an all-ports security exercise, but nothing directly about you or me."

"Well, we probably aren't in any more danger because the doc's aboard than we were already."

"How much is that?"

"Too much. They're bound to work out what happened eventually; we'll never get to Breskial before they do."

"Then?"

"Then, unless I can think of something, the Culture either has to let us be taken back, or take this ship over, which is going to be tricky to explain, and bound to remove some of your credibility."

" IfI decide to do as you ask, Cheradenine."

He looked at the other man, sitting alongside him on the narrow bed. "Yeah; if."

He prowled the ship. The clipper seemed cramped and crowded; he'd got too used to Culture vessels, he supposed. There were plans of the ship available on-screen, and he studied them, but they were really just for people to find their way about, and provided little useful information on how the ship might be taken over or disabled. Judging from watching the crew when they appeared, entry to crew-only areas was by voice and/or hand-print match.

There was little flammable on board, nothing explosive, and most of the circuitry was optical rather than electronic. Doubtless the Xenophobe could make the clipper Osom Emananish dance and sing with the effector equivalent of one hand tied behind its back, from somewhere in the next stellar system, but without the combat suit or a weapon, he was going to have a tough job trying to do anything, if and when it came to it.

Meanwhile the clipper crawled through space; Beychae stayed in his cabin, catching up on the news via the screen, and sleeping.

"I seem to have swapped one subtle form of imprisonment for another, Cheradenine," he observed, the day after they left, as the other man brought him supper.

"Tsoldrin, don't go cabin crazy; if you want to go out, go out. It's a little safer this way, but… well, only a little."

"Well," Tsoldrin said, taking the tray and lifting the cover to inspect the contents. "For now it's easy enough to treat the news and current affairs casts as my research material, so I do not feel unduly confined." He set the cover aside. "But a couple of weeks might be asking rather too much, Cheradenine."

"Don't worry," he said, dejectedly. "I doubt it'll come to that."

"Ah; Sherad!" The small fussy shape of Doctor Stap sidled up to him a day later, while people were watching a magnified view of an impressive gas-giant in a nearby system slide past on the principle lounge main screen. The small doctor took his elbow. "I'm having a small private party, this evening, in the Starlight Lounge; one of my, um, special parties, you know? I wondered if you and your hermit-like business partner might like to participate?"

"They let you aboard with that thing?" he laughed.

"Shh, good sir," the doctor said, pulling the other man away from the press of people. "I have a long-standing arrangement with the shipping line; my machine is recognised as being of primary medical importance."

"Sounds expensive. You must have to charge a lot, doctor."

"There is, of course, a small consideration involved, but well within the means of most cultured people, and I can assure you of some very exclusive company, and complete discretion, as ever."

"Thank you for the offer, Doctor, but I'm afraid not."

"It really is the opportunity of a lifetime; you are most lucky to have the chance a second time."

"I'm sure. Perhaps if it occurs a third time. Excuse me." He patted Stap on the shoulder. "Oh; shall I see you for drinks this evening?"

The doctor shook his head. "I'll be setting up; preparing, I'm afraid, Sherad." He looked somehow plaintive. "It is a great opportunity," he said, toothily.

"Oh, I'm well aware of that, Doctor Stap."

"You're a wicked man."

"Thank you. It's taken years of diligent practice."

"I bet."

"Oh no; you're going to tell me you're not wicked at all; I can see it in your eyes. Yes; yes, it's there; purity! I recognise the symptoms. But," he put one hand on her forearm, "don't worry. It can be cured."

She pushed him away, but only with the softest of pressures. "You're terrible." The hand that had pushed him away lingered just for a moment on his chest. "You're bad."

"I confess. You have seen into my soul…" He looked round for a second, as the background noise of the ship altered. He smiled back at the lady. "But, ah, it gives me such succour to confess to one so close to a goddess-like beauty."

She laughed throatily, her slender neck exposed as she put her head back. "Do you normally get anywhere with this line?" she asked, shaking her head.

He looked hurt, shook his head sadly. "Oh, why are beautiful women so cynical these days?"

Then he saw her gaze shift to somewhere behind him.

He turned. "Yes, Officer?" he said to one of the two junior officers he found standing behind him. Both had guns in open holsters.

"Mr… Sherad?" the young man said.

He watched the young officer's eyes and suddenly felt sick; the man knew. They'd been traced. Somebody somewhere had put the numbers together and come up with the right answer. "Yes?" he said, grinning rather stupidly. "You guys wanna drink?" He laughed, looked round at the woman.

"No thank you, sir. Would you come with us please?"

"Whassa matter?" he said, sniffing, then draining his glass. He wiped his hands on the lapels of his jacket. "Captain need some help steering the ship, yeah?" he laughed, slid off his bar stool, turned to the woman, took her hand and kissed it. "My dear lady; I bid you farewell, until we meet again." He put both hands to his chest. "But always remember this; there is forever a piece of my heart that belongs to you."