Gailet laughed. “Bullshit.”

The Kwackoo stopped its dance of irritation and listened to its portable translator. When it only stared at her, Gailef shook her head. “You can’t palm this off on us, Kwackoo. You and I both know putting chim Probationers in charge here was just a sham. If there’s been a security breach, it was inside your own camp.”

The Servitor’s beak opened a few degrees. Its tongue flicked, a gesture Gailet by now knew signified pure hatred. The alien gestured, and two globuform robots whined forward. Gently but firmly they used gravitic fields to pick up the sleeping neo-chimp without even disturbing the blankets, and backed away with him toward the door. Since the Kwackoo had not bothered to look under the covers, obviously it already knew what it would find there.

“There will be an investigation,” it promised. Then it swiveled to depart. In minutes, Gailet knew, they would be reading Fiben’s “goodbye note,” which had been left attached to the snoring guard. Gailet tried to help Fiben with one more delay.

“Fine,” she said. “In the meantime, I have a request… No, make that a demand, that I wish to make.”

The Servitor had been stepping toward the door, ahead of its entourage of fluttering Kwackoo. At Gailet’s words, however, it stopped, causing a mini traffic jam. There was a babble of angry cooing as its followers brushed against each other and flicked their tongues at Gailet. The pink-crested leader turned back and faced her.

“You are not able to make demands.”

“I make this one in the name of Galactic tradition,” Gailet insisted. “Do not force me to send my petition directly to its eminence, the Suzerain of Propriety.”

There was a long pause, during which the Kwackoo seemed to contemplate the risks involved. At last it asked. “What is your foolish demand?”

Now though, Gailet remained silent, waiting.

Finally, with obvious ill grace, the Servitor bowed, a bending so minuscule as to be barely detectable. Gailet returned the gesture, to the same degree.

“I want to go to the Library,” she said in perfect GalSeven. “In fact, under my rights as a Galactic citizen, I insist on it.”

Exiting in the drugged guard’s clothes had turned out to be almost absurdly simple, once Sylvie taught him a simple code phrase to speak to the robots hovering over the gate. The sole chim on duty had been mumbling around a sandwich and waved the two of them through with barely a glance.

“Where are you taking me?” Fiben asked once the dark, vine-covered wall of the prison was behind them.

“To the docks,” Sylvie answered over her shoulder. She maintained a quick pace down the damp, leaf-blown sidewalks, leading him past blocks of dark, empty, human-style dwellings. Then, further on, they passed through a chim neighborhood, consisting mostly of large, rambling, group-marriage houses, brightly painted, with doorlike windows and sturdy trellises for kids to climb. Now and then, as they hurried by, Fiben caught glimpses of silhouettes cast against tightly drawn curtains.

“Why the docks?”

“Because that’s where the boats are!” Sylvie replied tersely. Her eyes darted to and fro. She twisted the chronometer ring on her left hand and kept looking back over her shoulder, as if worried they might be followed.

That she seemed nervous was natural. Still, Fiben had reached his limit. He grabbed her arm and made her stop.

“Listen, Sylvie. I appreciate everything you’ve done so far. But now don’t you think it’s time for you to let me in on the plan?”

She sighed. “Yeah, I suppose so.” Her anxious grin reminded him of that night at the Ape’s Grape. What he had imagined then to be animal lust that evening must have been something like this instead, fear suppressed under a well-laid veneer of bravado.

“Except for the gates in the fence, the only way out of the city is by boat. My plan is for us to sneak aboard one of the fishing vessels. The night fishers generally put to sea at” — she glanced at her finger watch — “oh, in about an hour.”

Fiben nodded. “Then what?”

“Then we slip overboard as the boat passes out of Aspinal Bay. We’ll swim to North Point Park. From there it’ll be a hard march north, along the beach, but we should be able to make hilly country by daybreak.”

Fiben nodded. It sounded like a good plan. He liked the fact that there were several points along the way where they could change their minds if problems or opportunities presented themselves. For instance, they might try for the south point of the bay, instead. Certainly the enemy would not expect two fugitives to head straight toward their new hypershunt installation! There would be a lot of construction equipment parked there. The idea of stealing one of the Gubru’s own ships appealed to Fiben. If he ever pulled something like that off, maybe he’d actually merit a white card after all!

He shook aside that thought quickly, for it made him think of Gailet. Damn it, he missed her already.

“Sounds pretty well thought out, Sylvie.”

She smiled guardedly. “Thanks, Fiben. Uh, can we go now?”

He gestured for her to lead on. Soon they were winding their way past shuttered shops and food stands. The clouds overhead were low and ominous, and the night smelled of the coming storm. A southwesterly wind blew in stiff but erratic gusts, pushing leaves and bits of paper around their ankles as they walked.

When it started to drizzle, Sylvie raised the hood of her parka, but Fiben left his own down. He did not mind wet hair half as much as having his sight and hearing obstructed now.

Off toward the sea he saw a flickering in the sky, accompanied by distant, gray growling. Hell, Fiben thought. What am I thinking! He grabbed his companion’s arm again. “Nobody’s going to go to sea in this kind of weather, Sylvie.”

“The captain of this boat will, Fiben.” She shook her head. “I really shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s… he’s a smuggler. Was even before the war. His craft has foul weather integrity and can partially submerge.”

Fiben blinked. “What’s he smuggling, nowadays?” Sylvie looked left and right. “Chims, some of the times. To and from Cilmar Island.”

“Cilmar! Would he take us there?” Sylvie frowned. “I promised Gailet I’d get you to the mountains, Fiben. And anyway, I’m not sure I’d trust this captain that far.”

But Fiben’s head was awhirl. Half the humans on the planet were interned on Cilmar Island! Why settle for Robert and Athaclena, who were, after all, barely more than children, when he might be able to bring Gailet’s questions before the experts at the University!

“Let’s play it by ear,” he said noncommittally. But he was already determined to evaluate this smuggler captain for himself. Perhaps under the cover of this storm it might turn out to be possible! Fiben thought about it as they resumed their journey.

Soon they were near the docks — in fact, not far from the spot where Fiben had spent part of the afternoon watching the gulls. The rain now fell in sudden, unpredictable sheets. Each time it blew away again the air was left startlingly clear, enhancing every odor — from decaying fish to the beery stink of a fisherman’s tavern across the way, where a few lights still shone and low, sad music leaked into the night.

Fiben’s nostrils flared. He sniffed, trying to trace something that seemed to fade in and out with the fickle rain. Likewise, Fiben’s senses fed his imagination, laying out possibilities for his consideration.

His companion led him around a corner and Fiben saw three piers. Several dark, bulky shadows lay moored next to each. One of those, no doubt, was the smugglers’ boat. Fiben stopped Sylvie, again with a hand on her arm. “We’d better hurry,” she urged.

“Wouldn’t do to be too early,” he replied. “It’s going to be cramped and smelly in that boat. Come on back here. There’s something we may not have a chance to do for some time.”