marquoz lit A pipe by breathing on the bowl, then sucked on it for a few moments, blowing billowing clouds of acrid smoke everywhere. Finally he said, "The problem, of course, is keeping the Com out of it. I'm having one hell of a time lying through my prodigious teeth just to get us this access."

Mavra Chang's sharp, black eyebrows rose slightly. She was getting to like the little dragon, not only for his cynical, self-confident personality but also for the streak of larceny in him. Obie thought that Mavra liked Marquoz because the Chugach was shorter, not counting tail, than Mavra although, in sheer bulk, he outweighed four of her.

"You think they're catching on?" she asked.

He nodded. "I think they are aware that there's more to it than we've told them. After all, they are not stupid. Their agents report a great deal of change in the cult and its operations and a businesslike transformation of its Temples. Right now, because of Oiympus's economic clout, they are humoring an influential interest group at little cost, but they're getting worried at how suddenly un-nut culty everybody's acting. They know such a powerful group can be a severe threat."

Mavra sank back, stuck a cheroot in her mouth, declined the dragon's offer to light it, and brought things more to the point. "So how close are we? Obie is digesting enormous gulps of data but it's all secondhand. You know we don't dare bring him in this close to Suba and the Council itself."

A speaker barked into life. It was an ordinary intercom, but some modifications had been made. Obie might not be able to risk a direct link with the Com computer complex but he could risk a small private line.

"Hello, Mavra," the computer's pleasant and uncannily human voice broke in. "I couldn't help overhearing. Want an update?"

"Please," she invited and settled back. Obie could, of course, simply continue the link she'd had with him on Olympus, but she was paranoid about keeping that sort of state up for any length of time. To her Obie was another person, and she valued her privacy even as she knew she enjoyed it only at the computer's sufferance.

"He's well hidden, I can tell you that," Obie told her. "Nobody can be erased totally from the computers, you know that, but if anybody tells you that no individual can do anything without computers knowing and reporting it he is dead wrong."

"You've had problems finding data on Nathan Brazil?"

"Oh, no. Not really, Mavra. Despite a really good coverup it was fairly easy to sort out the facts of his life back a couple thousand years—back to Old Earth. He's been born in at least three dozen places and died more than that."

"How's that?" Marquoz put in.

Obie laughed. It was eerie to hear a machine be so damned human, particularly a machine as powerful and absolute as Obie.

"Oh, yes. After all, records are kept. If you don't have logical backgrounds, then somebody's bound to notice. I've had to trace a very good mind determined not to be traced, and if it wasn't for three factors I can tell you it would have been impossible."

"Three factors?" Mavra was interested.

"Oh, yes. First, he does not seem to be able to alter his appearance, even surgically, and make it stick. He's tried. Since he's not a part of the Markovian reality like us but of the pre-Markovian original state of the Universe, the one that created them, he's apparently impervious to change by anything maintained by the Well of Souls. Once, long ago, on the Well World itself, he actually managed to change bodies when his was badly injured. He can regenerate anything, it appears, and cannot be killed although he can be injured, even very painfully. Yet, even then, when he got out of his old body he later turned up in the Com looking just like his old self. It is very curious —he is a mass of contradictions. One would say that his current form was his original form, which is why he keeps reverting to it, except that all the data indicate he predates humanity's origin."

Mavra considered it. "I have often wondered about some things. I don't see how a god can be hurt, lose his memory, or cling to one form, among other things. He seems awfully ordinary, Obie, to have power such as you've described."

"I agree. He is a mass of questions with no answers. I would love to learn those answers, Mavra."

"We're trying."

Marquoz stepped back into the conversation. "You said three factors. Constancy of form is only one."

"Oh, yes. Well, the second thing is that he is a sailor. Back on Old Earth he commanded at least one ship that sailed a watery ocean, and he's commanded such ships, however powered, on a number of worlds. The combination of the shape consistency and the vocation made it easier to hunt him down."

"And the third?" Mavra asked.

"His religion. It is very curious, you know, that he should have one, let alone observe one. It is an ancient Old-Earth religion that came out of a collection of tribal groups a few thousand years ago. They seem to have started as polytheists of the routine sort and then, very suddenly, became the first monotheistic religion in human history, and codified that religion with a series of laws and customs. A number of other huge religions sprang from it but the followers of the original have remained small in number and have survived the millennia holding to their beliefs. It is called 'Judaism,' followers usually called 'Jews,' and there are some around even today, still a handful. Very curious."

"And he follows this faith?" Marquoz put in.

"Yes, he seems to. Although he does not live in one of their communities and seems never to have, he is often in contact with them, particularly on their highest holy days, and has been known to look after them."

Marquoz was not the only one fascinated, but his thinking followed the same lines as Obie's while Mavra was acquiring a more romantic if equally enigmatic picture.

"You say he observes this religion and has a special interest in the welfare of its adherents," the little dragon mused aloud, "yet there is no evidence that he is more than a participant in their rituals? He is not regarded as especially holy or godlike?"

"Absolutely not," Obie replied strongly. "Their god is universal but not tangible, certainly not an ordinary man. In fact, once, when what appeared to be an ordinary man showed up in their homeland claiming to be their god's human son, they executed him. A much larger religion grew out of that, though."

"More and more contradictions," Marquoz mused. "Why would Nathan Brazil be interested in such a group? If he is god why would he follow it as an adherent? If he's not, then he's at least a Markovian holdover who knows damned well where humanity came from—including his little group. It makes no sense at all!"

"Even more," Obie said. "The religion that sprang from the execution of the man who claimed he was god's son? It's called 'Christianity,' and it is still very much around and generally rather well organized even though fragmented into subcults. Those people have a legend that there is one immortal man, a Jew, who cursed god's son on the way to the execution and was in turn cursed to live eternally until the executed one should return to establish the rule of Heaven. It is clear that, no matter what the true origin, Nathan Brazil is this Wandering Jew, the source of the story."

"Less and less sense," Marquoz snorted. "I guess we won't know the answers until we find him. I'm getting interested in that myself, now."

"Obie?" Mavra called. "Can you give us what you do know—in brief, of course. How far back have you been able to trace him?"

Obie was silent a moment. Then he said, "Well, the dates will mean nothing to you. Let's just say that the first real record I have was back in the days of Old Earth, when space travel was still in its infancy. He was a freighter captain, of course, sailing from Mediterranean ports to North and South America. Those terms mean nothing to you, I know—sorry. I find a couple of things interesting about the period, though. He called himself Mark Kreisel back then, and he was a citizen of a tiny island country called Malta although the company he worked for was not Maltese but from a much larger country far away called Brazil."

"Aha!" Marquoz commented. "It is also interesting that Malta is not very far from what was once the country of Israel, the only Jewish state in the industrial age and the birthplace of the religion I mentioned."

"How far back was this, Obie?"

"Roughly eighteen hundred years, Mavra—the dating systems have changed several times since then and many of the old records are either inexact or unclear on which they used. That would give you a rough idea, though."

Marquoz was fascinated anew. "As far back as that . . . And even then he was near those unusual people with the small religion. Even then. I wonder, though. I would think he'd have been a citizen of that group's country."

"No, that would have limited him," Obie said. "The Jewish people have been ill-treated in human history almost from the start. Much of the world did not recognize the country and would have destroyed it had it not had a strong military and a few powerful allies. The Jews were always persecuted for being different from the main culture of the places they lived because they would not fully adopt the majority's ways."

"I think I have an idea of being mistrusted because of being a bit different," Marquoz noted sardonically.

"Malta, on the other hand, was a tiny island country nobody ever heard of, a polyglot of races and cultures, and absolutely no political threat to anybody," Obie told them. "A perfect vantage point, a perfect base, a nationality that nobody gave a damn about."

"And then what?" Mavra prompted. "I mean, what happened?"

"It would seem," Obie responded, "that Captain Mark Kreisel ran into a bad storm and that his ship was abandoned. He remained aboard in the old tradition to secure against salvage—the laws are pretty much the same on that now as then—and, though the ship didn't sink, when rescue parties went to find him he was gone. No boats or rafts were missing, and on the high seas, hundreds of kilometers from land or safety, the authorities assumed that he'd been washed overboard in heavy seas and drowned. That was the first recorded death of the man we now look for as Nathan Brazil."

Mavra was fascinated by the story and begged for more. Obie told of the many lives and many identities of Nathan Brazil over the centuries. As an astronaut named David Katz he'd been one of the supervisors on the building of the first permanent orbiting space stations; he'd fought in a number of wars and surfaced in a number of countries. In several guises, he was something of a legend in humanity's far past. As Warren Kerman he'd been chief astrogator on the first human starship; as a Russian cosmonaut named Ivan Kraviski he'd been the third man to step onto the alien world they would name Gagarin, the first Earthtype world discovered in space. As man had spread, so had Nathan Brazil, not leading the pack but with the leaders all the same.

Mavra was entranced, but Marquoz commented, "Funny. I would have thought he'd have kept a low profile—yet here he is, constantly in the headlines."

"Not so odd," Obie replied. "Every man he was was a real person, who was born someplace, grew up someplace, worked his way up and eventually died —never of old age, I might add. He has a penchant for disappearances."

"You say they were all real people," Mavra cut in. "But they couldn't be—could they? I mean, it's all the same man . . ."

"It was, I feel sure," the computer told her. "Yet they were real. I cannot see how he managed it— yet, somehow, he did. It is interesting that all of them came from orphaned families or small families with few living relatives. Also, they were picked for close physical resemblance. At some point Brazil moved in and replaced each individual, usually at a juncture when the man was far from home and fairly young. One thing's for sure—he knew them well enough that he was never tripped up, never once. Everyone, even the people from the man's real past, seemed to believe the impersonation."

"I wonder—did he murder them?" Marquoz asked worriedly. "And, if so, what power did he use to become them literally when he never changed his physical form? It worries me."

That seemed to upset Mavra. "He would never coldbloodedly murder anyone!" she protested. "Everything we know about him says he wouldn't. As a small child I have memories—he spirited me out past the Harvich secret police during the takeover—the only strong memories from that period I have. There was kindness in him, a gentleness."

Marquoz shrugged. "Nevertheless, if he did not do them in, what happened to them?"

"That's the key," Obie said over the intercom. "That's the major thing. If we can learn that we might find him. For, you see, over thirteen hundred years ago he broke his pattern. He became Nathan Brazil, he purchased a freighter, he went into business. And he stayed Nathan Brazil until just over twelve years ago."

"Interesting," Marquoz muttered. "I wonder why?"

"Fairly simple," Obie responded. "First, that coincides with the development of the rejuve process, which, even then, was good for a century. As time passed the process got better, the possible lifespan longer. Of course, as you know, the brain cells eventually die even in rejuve, but by the time this would have happened to Brazil everyone who knew him and was likely to run into him was dead and he had a new batch of friends. Com bureaucracy being what it was, he had only to renew his pilot's license every four years and that would be that. He became a legend among the spacers—the oldest man still to be flying. He'd drank with them, gambled with them, fought with and beside them, helped them out when they needed it, and they owed him. The spacers thought that he was just the only person lucky enough to be able to take an infinite number of rejuves. With the Com expanding, times between meetings even of old friends was great. The relativity factor complicated matters, and, of course, he'd find little to like in the sameness of the hivelike communal that made up most of the Com."

"But he finally did give it up, huh?" Mavra queried.

Obie was philosophical about that. "Well, yes, of course. If a cult that said you were God started a campaign to find you—wouldn't you think it time to change identities? Somehow I think any of us would."

"You've learned this all from the computer files?" Mavra asked, amazed.

"Yes and no. It was there, but only in bits and pieces. It has taken not only the computer files but also the legwork of thousands of Fellowship members on a large number of worlds to correlate," Obie replied. "We could not have done it without them—but now we are stopped until we can unearth some clue as to where he was reborn."

"Did he just disappear again?"

"That's about it, Marquoz. He kept ships an awfully long time—two, three hundred years or more, until they wore out. They were all named the Stehekin, a word whose meaning eludes me. The last one was found, a huge hole blown through its midsection. It had been looted. There was blood on the bridge that matched Brazil's—quite a lot of it—but no trace of him or his valuable cargo. It was assumed that he'd been lured out of nullspace by a false distress signal, attacked by pirates, and murdered. There's actually a plaque to his memory in Spacer's Hall."

"You don't believe it, though," Mavra noted.

"Of course not. That sort of thing is his favorite way out. No, I think he found some real person, reached the point he had to reach with that person in order to assume his identity, and did so. He is somewhere else now, as someone else, waiting a decent amount of time before he can resume a normal life again."

A new voice said, "Well, I think he should be pretty easy to find." They whirled, saw that it was Gypsy. Marquoz nodded but Mavra looked at him strangely, an odd thought passing through her mind. It was ridiculous, of course, but . . . No, he was a little too tall, a little too muscular, a little too dark. She wondered, though. When Obie had picked them all up from the Temple that first time, the computer had not done anything more than simple teleportation. He'd made no detailed analysis; he hadn't stored the mind and memory of Gypsy and Marquoz. Later, they'd refused to use Obie's teleportation system. Both Gypsy and Marquoz had insisted on using spaceships. Afterward Mavra and Obie had run a check on Gypsy, just out of curiosity, and found nothing. Absolutely nothing. When even Mavra Chang's early history could be found in the files and all travel and expenses required records, there was not even a travel document showing that he existed. His thumbprints, retinal and blood patterns had matched nowhere at all.

Finally she couldn't resist it. "Gypsy? Ever heard of Malta?"

He looked a little surprised but didn't bat an eyelash as he replied, "Sure. It's the capital city of Sorgos, I think."

Marquoz chortled lightly. "I know what you're thinking. I've sometimes thought it myself. But, no, he has the wrong physiology. Brazil has occasionally been able to alter thumbprints but never retinal and blood patterns. Forget it. He's another mystery."

Gypsy looked confused. "What's that all about?"

"The lady was just wondering if you were Nathan Brazil yourself, that's all."

He chuckled. "Oh, hell, no. Whoever heard of a Jewish Gypsy?"

They all had to laugh at that. Still, Mavra told herself, there was something extremely odd about the man. His strange powers went beyond empathy. In an age in which everyone showed the proper papers just to go to the bathroom and even Mavra's had had to be carefully faked, Gypsy, according to Marquoz, had never been asked for them. In a customs line he would simply be ignored; stiff-necked hotel clerks, even when robots, never thought to ask for his documentation. Even on New Pompeii he strolled into high-security areas without a challenge. Why? What strange power did he have? Where did he get it? Could he influence Obie? Was that why the computer had taken no readout?

Seemingly ignorant of this mental speculation, Gypsy plopped down in a chair, yawned, and rubbed his eyes.

Even as Mavra stared, her preoccupation passed; her mind turned to other channels, dismissing the mystery of Gypsy as unimportant to their present work. She turned to the intercom and Obie and never once even questioned why the problem of Gypsy had suddenly become something she shouldn't concern herself with.

the com computers were, with the exception of Obie, the greatest and fastest gatherers, analyzers, and disseminators of knowledge in the Com sector of space. To this had been added Obie, a pleasantly human personality that masked the ability to do millions of different, complex projects all at the same time. The speed and rate of human conversation and the slowness of the human mind must have been agonizing to him, yet he never complained about it or seemed to think of himself as something apart from man. Obie thought of himself as a human being and acted accordingly.

Still, with all the speed and versatility at their command they had the problems of bureaucracy and interstellar distances. The information they needed would probably be available to Obie in fractions of a second—if he had all the data. Data, however, were gathered on a thousand planets over an immense area. The data were collected by millions of departments, eventually stored, eventually correlated, eventually— sometimes after years—sent on to higher authorities. The searchers couldn't wait for this information finally to reach the Com; they had to go out and get it.

And that, of course, was where the Fellowship of the Well came in. The Acolytes probed, sifted, stored, and passed on all they could. They were everywhere. If they could obtain the information freely, they did; if it took official sanction, they got it; if they couldn't obtain official sanction, then they begged, bribed, or stole what they wanted. Mavra Chang had once been an expert at computer thievery; Obie was an even better tutor.

Occasionally, Acolytes were caught with their hands in the informational till. In such cases, human and lower-government agencies were taken care of directly by Marquoz; if all else failed, Mavra and the Nautilus crew could break anybody out of anywhere. If a coverup was needed, Obie could be counted on to provide one.

Obie was working on the three common points in Brazil's history. Certainly he would try to disguise himself, but it would be a true disguise, not one of the new popular shape-changing techniques. He wouldn't risk exposing himself by resorting to an experimental device.

Only a small number of Jewish communities remained, and those were carefully monitored. Then there was his occupation—Brazil had always been a captain. It gave him mobility, peace and quiet, and anonymity, all of which he required. Mavra would check in with Obie daily on the Nautilus to keep up with events. Having just returned from bailing out two Fellowship adherents accused of stealing garbage disposal records on the largest city of an obscure frontier world, she was eager to hear of any progress.

"Progress is where you find it," Obie said philosophically. "So far I have amassed a lot of information on Jewish captains—there are a surprising number considering how tiny a minority they are— but very little that is specific. Material that came in this morning seems to add to what I need, yet it's not enough. I have a number of suspects, none of which might be Brazil. I need an additional correlation."

"Of what with what?"

"All the Jewish captains and Brazil's life and disappearance—that's the data still coming in. Check back in a couple of hours when I have the rest of it. I may be able to pinpoint it accurately."

So she went Topside and asked Marquoz and several of the Olympians to meet her later on. They would come running, although it could take a day or two to assemble everybody on the Nautilus.

By late afternoon, when Mavra contacted Obie again, he had the search narrowed down fairly well.

"First of all," he began, "do you know what a rabbi is?"

She admitted she didn't, so Obie continued.

"Well, he is a priest in the Jewish faith—except he has no mystical powers, real or imagined. Literally the term is 'teacher' and means that his education has specialized in Jewish law and culture so that he's an expert—just as any other profession is the product of education. Each Jewish temple has a rabbi selected by the congregation for his knowledge of the faith— but there are numerous rabbis who have no congregation, who have other jobs, even, but who are considered experts and can instruct others. Many of these specialize in fine points of the law and live the faith, yet make their money in secular occupations. It's really a fascinating thing. Do you know, for example, that there are three rabbis who are also freighter captains?"

She was surprised. "Captains? Religious teachers?"

"See what I mean? And yet it's a triply good living, since it's not only lucrative and provides a lot of time for study but also is the best way to reach the small congregations scattered across hundreds of worlds. Of the three, all have at one time or another worked jobs in which Brazil's ship, as a private contractor, was also involved, so they all have met him. Two of them seem to have had extensive contact with Brazil over the years—decades, in fact—and may be considered close friends. But only one of them owns his own ship; the others work for shipping companies. I had encountered this before but had rejected the man because he was Hassidic—the strictest of the sects, or degrees, of Judaism, whose members are bound to rigid laws of dress, of eating, of religious form and observance. The Hassidim function in a modern world without compromising, basically keeping the laws that are thousands of years old. I had not expected to find Brazil in such a role since, clearly, he has observed very few of those laws himself. Also, this particular rabbi, is old; he's already undergone two rejuves, and he's taller and stouter than Brazil, with a full white beard. But, then, data that came in today persuades me of the logic of it all."

Mavra frowned. "Well, I can see that it would be an easy disguise—some padding, a false beard, some lifts in the shoes like I use. Yes. But beyond that?"

"Well, I was able to reconstruct route descriptions of this man's ship and Brazil's Stehekin for a period of three decades. You would be shocked at how often their routes are congruent—and remember, they both owned their ships, so they weren't bound by a traffic manager. Their side trips particularly interested me— they touched practically every strict Jewish community at some point in a two- to -three-year period. During the twenty years prior to Brazil's disappearance, they had celebrated the highest of Jewish holy days together at one or another congregation. They knew each other very well over a very long time."

"Doesn't that rule him out, though? Wasn't it Brazil's M. O. to find a young man to replace?"

"This is just as good. An old man who has outlived all his contemporaries. A freighter captain of repute and reputation. But, more important, roughly six months before his disappearance Brazil and this man met on a small planet. Our man was old, he was having medical problems, his physical was coming up and he couldn't possibly pass it without a rejuve— but medical records indicated that he just couldn't stand another rejuve. Yet, some four months later, with no rejuve, he took and passed a complete examination with flying colors!"

Mavra looked puzzled. "But—four months? You said they met last six months before."

"Sure! Don't you see? They swapped identities way back then! Brazil used the time to get the last of whatever he needed to simulate his man properly and then became him, while the old rabbi went off in the Stehekin posing as Brazil, who'd just passed his own examination a year before and had three years before another."

"Wouldn't somebody notice that Brazil had turned into an old man?" she asked.

"Oh, sure. If they saw him. But if he served ports where he wasn't known, and if he stayed on his ship for that time, there'd be no mystery. The Stehekin took no passengers during the period but did haul some freight. Then, two months after the switch, an 'attack' is arranged. Brazil is killed and that's that."

"But what happened to the man he replaced? Did he die or what?"

"Perhaps. It depends. Consider what Brazil could offer him. An old man who'd been everywhere and seen it all and was having his livelihood and love— you have to love space to work at it for two centuries —taken from him, with death shortly to follow. What Brazil could offer him was a new life in a new body, a renewal, new experience and adventure."

Mavra cursed herself for a fool. "Of course! There are Markovian gates all around! Brazil could have told him how to use one, even brought him to one. He went to the Well World!"

Obie chuckled. "I wonder what sort of creature he is now? I should dearly love to see how he manages to keep kosher!"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. It's not important. I'm sure that Nathan Brazil is now Rabbi David Korf, captain of the freighter Jerusalem."

Mavra was genuinely excited at the news. "Then all we have to do is find out where the Jerusalem will make planetfall next and be there to meet it!"

"So it would seem," Obie agreed. "Except for one thing. After the switch Korf totally changed his operational area—I suppose to minimize chances of running into people who knew the real Korf well. The trouble is, he's an independent. It might be years before the relevant documentation for an independent gets filed. I've checked everything I could, but after about six years ago I have no sign that the Jerusalem ever made a contract or hauled cargo anywhere in our little corner of space. Brazil has not only pulled his disappearing act, he seems to have taken his ship with him this time."

According to the licensing board, Rabbi Korf had in fact returned and renewed his license only a year before. This was more puzzling than a total disappearance. The last renewal indicated that both Korf and the Jerusalem were still very much in service and, in fact, required recertification. But where? And for whom? There were no records to show.

"Strictly private, maybe? Perhaps illegal?" Mavra suggested.

Marquoz, who had arrived just a step ahead of the rest of the crowd, Temple and otherwise, was skeptical. "If that illegal, then why bother to recertify and reestablish his identity at all? If not, then he needs the cover—and that would also mean legitimate business. No, I think he's still hauling cargo in the open and quite legally between Com worlds."

"Impossible," Obie responded. "As the Fellowship people will tell you, we have all worlds covered."

Marquoz cocked a large reptilian head and his smile widened slightly in mock surprise. "No, you don't. Not by a long shot. What your Fellowship covers is human worlds. The Acolytes are not very popular in the nonhuman sectors—which, it would seem to me, would be the very place to best avoid the cult."

Obie was silent for a moment. Then he said, "My cost was astronomical, my builder perhaps mankind's greatest genius. I can do any calculation in an amount of time so small that it is incomprehensible to the organic mind. So, tell me—why didn't I think of that?"

"Too simple," Mavra told him dryly. "Obie, your problem is that you think like a human being, only faster."

"All right," the computer retorted, trying to channel the argument away from his own failings. "So now what? There are a lot of nonhuman worlds out there in the Com and allied with it, and we don't have the proper records for them or the proper personnel to get them."

"I wouldn't be concerned with the allied and associated worlds," Marquoz said. "If he was dealing there exclusively, he wouldn't need to recharter. No, he's within the Com proper, which means one of a very few races. We can eliminate some right off— mine, for example, which is serviced entirely by a nationalized shipping company; the nonorganic boys, since their trade's of a far different type; the non-carbon based, too, I think, are out—he's avoided the human sector because he didn't want to be stuck in his ship all the time. He wants to socialize, and that means a place where we can breathe the air and drink the booze without artificial aid. That narrows it down pretty well, doesn't it?"

"I agree," Obie replied. "The pattern's consistent. In my files I find that he's always had rather an affinity for Rhone centaurs—the ones called Dillians on the Well World. They meet all the other specifications, too—although this, in itself, is a problem since the Rhone is a spacefaring and expanding race itself, almost as large as humanity, possibly older and certainly more spread out. Without the Fellowship to do the legwork, it's going to be hell to track him down. He's chosen well."

It was Mavra's turn now. "I don't think it ought to be that hard. I don't know a damned thing about them or their culture—the closest I've come is being briefly in Dillia, which hardly counts—but if the Rhone are highly advanced then they have their own bureaucracy and central controls. They keep files and records someplace and they're probably as efficient at that as humans are."

"They could hardly be any worse," Obie snorted.

She smiled and nodded. "So, let's find those records."

All eyes turned to Marquoz. He sighed and said, "All right, I'll see what I can do."

It took ten days and a minor burglary. The Rhone, far better organized than the Com proper, required ship listings at five central naval district offices so that ships could be traced if overdue. The human areas of the Com only required that the ship file a plan at two locations before embarking; in many cases even that wasn't done, and the human area didn't really care since the procedure was for the protection of the freighter anyway.

Disguised as Rhone, with nicely counterfeited orders, seven of the Nautilus crew were dispatched to each naval headquarters. They had to locate a middle-ranking naval officer, one with broad access to traffic files. The newer he was the better, although the operation's headquarters for such large areas were so big that few people would know everybody and a complete stranger could probably walk through without being seriously questioned on his rights—as long as he knew the codes and passwords and had the right ID tags.

It was on the latter that the Rhone depended most for security; among the things preserved on the tags was an actual tissue sample from the wearer. A Rhone's sample was unique, and an electronic comparison of it with living tissue—say, of the palm— would be an infallible method of making sure the wearer was who he or she claimed to be.

On the off-chance that there might be an energy-binding system not thoroughly detectable even by Obie's absolute analysis, it was decided that only original-issue tags would be used. The system was simple: Lure the target officers someplace, drag them, transport them to Obie, then run them through the dish. Just as Yua and her supervisor had been reprogrammed by this process, so were the young officers. At some point during the next three days or so they would look at the shipping information and their minds would be able to retain all the information no matter how many ships were involved or how complex the routing. Later they would call a number and repeat that information. At no time would they be aware of what they were doing; they would have no memory of their kidnapping, of Obie, or of anything else. Once the compulsion had been carried out, they would go on about their business never knowing they had been used.

As the information came in, Marquoz had Obie make a printout for the rest of them to use. The third district showed what they wanted clearly, as Obie could have told them instantly if they'd asked. But, he understood people well enough to allow them some minor victories.

"There it is," Marquoz said, pointing to a single line. "'Jerusalem, HC-23A768744, M Class Modified, arrival Meouit 27 HYR.' Must not be carrying anything valuable—no classification codes. Probably grain or beer or something like that."

Mavra smiled slightly. "From what I've been told, a cargo of beer or ale would appeal to Nathan Brazil."

"Me, too," the little dragon retorted. "The date 27 HYR corresponds, I think, to June 24. That's five days from now. Anybody know where this Meouit is?"

"Obie does," Mavra responded confidently. "I think we'll get there well ahead of him." She sighed. "Well, I guess it's time to call a war council. We now know where the man we think he is will be five days from now. We'll have to be pretty damned sure we don't blow it."

They came to the Nautilus once more, to its beautiful gardens and Greco-Roman buildings, then down the elevator for the long ride to the asteroid's core, down a twisting corridor and across a huge bridge that spanned the main shaft for the big dish— the giant projector that took up much of the underside of the asteroid and was capable not merely of destroying but of reshaping and redesigning whole planets.

On one side of the bridge was the almost never used main control room. Now Obie alone supervised himself and the vast machinery that was the Nautilus. On the other side of the bridge was the small chamber with the little dish and the heavily instrumented balcony. This had been Zinder's original lab, transplanted here by the evil Trelig. Through monitors Obie could have addressed them anywhere, but he preferred this place for gatherings. It was his "office," his true home.

Five Olympians assembled there in their great cloaks, three Aphrodites and two Athenes, plus Marquoz and Gypsy and Mavra. Of them all, only Mavra felt totally confident when in this place; it was her home, too, and she was Obie's partner, not his possession. The others feared her a bit for that; the psychological effect was just right. Except for Yua, the Olympians were trying their best not to look terrified; they knew this was the seat of power—the place where their race was born, not by the act of a benevolent god but by the whim of an evil maniac.

When all were seated except Marquoz, who never sat on anything except his tail, Obie opened the conference.

"First, let me state the obvious," he began. His voice, materializing from empty air, was unsettling. "We are about to head for Meouit by the most direct course. It would take weeks to get there by ship. I am awaiting word from the crew Topside that our other guests are properly secured for what we call the 'drop.' That is what it will feel like—as if you are falling down a deep shaft. Please do not be alarmed; the effect is temporary. Even I feel some discomfort, much more since that rip in space-time."

The Olympians in the chamber looked apprehensive, but there was little they could do. They were at the mercy of the machine and could only pray that he trusted them enough not to do anything funny with their minds. They didn't know, nor were they told, that Obie could not perform such tricks on or in the Nautilus unless you were under the little dish.

"First of all," Obie continued, "remember that, for all our long hard months of work, we only suspect that Rabbi Korf is Nathan Brazil. There is a possibility, although I consider it low, that Korf is Korf. We must be prepared for this just in case."

One of the Olympians spoke up. "You have powers —the power in some cases to pluck people here from wherever they may be. Why not simply do so with this Korf and avoid any problems? We could find out what we needed to know here, at little risk."

"What you say is true," Obie admitted, "but only to a degree. In order to pluck, as you say, individuals I must have a sensor down there actually focused on the object. Mavra has been that focus in the instances you know of, but we cannot be positive that we'll be able to get close enough long enough for that to happen. Also, please remember, if this man is Nathan Brazil, he will look human but he will be something we are not—he will be a part of a different universal plan than we. We are all—all—by-products of the Markovian equations. Our reality is held firm by the great computer the Markovians constructed, the Well of Souls. Nathan Brazil's is not. He is independent of that computer except that it aids him in retaining what form he chooses and protects him from death. It also might protect him from being snatched by me. It might severely damage me to attempt to transport him when he is not a part of the basic equations. We can't risk it, not until we know more, anyway. No, it's direct action that's called for. We must convince him to come to us."

"I foresee a great problem there, then," Marquoz put in. "He has gone to great lengths to avoid detection. If he knows we're on to him, he'll flee and we may never find him again in time. Our approach must be subtle, gentle—but all avenues of escape must be blocked."

"That is ridiculous!" one of the Athenes snorted. "If He is asked if He is in fact Nathan Brazil, His master plan will be fulfilled and He will show His true powers."

"But how can you be sure?" Mavra shot back. "Oh, everything's panned out as your beliefs say so far—but, ah, perhaps more is required. Remember that he went public and was aboveboard until a dozen or so years ago. He must have been asked a million times by customs agents alone if he was indeed Nathan Brazil. You see? I think you have a problem —I think that, even under your own beliefs, logic dictates that you are going to have to ask him by his true name for him to admit it—and we don't know his true name. If I'm right on that then you'll panic him just as Marquoz warned."

That concept seemed to disturb the Olympians slightly. It was a valid point within their faith—and one that simply had never occurred to them. Nathan Brazil was not his true name; it was a traditional first name coupled with the name of an Old-Earth country he'd once been associated with.

"You—you're just trying to confuse us," the Olympian accused. "It is the logic of the Evil One!" She made a sign and the others did the same, even Yua.

"Think of it logically," Obie argued. "If you are right, then nothing is lost by using our methods. You will get your chance to ask. If we are right, then you will have lost that chance, probably for good, by refusing to do it our way. You don't have a choice, really."

One of the Athenes, the obvious leader, looked at her sisters and then back at the others. Though a fanatic, she was not stupid. They were about to plunge into some sort of abyss to reach this distant planet more quickly; it would be easy for this computer simply to exclude Olympians, leaving them in empty space.

"Very well," she said at last. "Your way. But we will have full access to Him as soon as He is contacted?"

"As soon as we know he can't get away, yes," Obie assured them. "My word on that." For all the good it'll do you, he added silently, although he could tell from Mavra's expression that she was thinking the same thing.

"He'll have a spaceworthy ship," Marquoz pointed out. "An easy getaway. He'll have to be approached cautiously, taken by surprise but by subterfuge, as well, not by force. We want him as a friend. It worries me that, although you say he should have been immediately called back to the Well of Souls to repair the damage, he has not responded to those calls."

"Agreed," Obie responded. "Either his memory has deteriorated again or he has deliberately ignored the signals. If the former, we may be able to return him to his senses; if the latter, it may be something beyond our control. We must be careful. Any suggestions?"

Mavra nodded. "One, I think. You remember, Obie, when you replayed for me the memories of my grandparents' odyssey with Brazil on the Well World?"

"Yes?"

"I think he really loved Wu Julee. Certainly she loved him. The Well World had turned her into a Dil-lian—a centaur—and you said he had a liking for centaurs. I wonder . . . . Suppose you transformed me into an exact duplicate of her as a centaur? It would mean nothing to anyone but Nathan Brazil. Even if his memory's gone bad it should shake something loose. As far as everybody else on Meouit is concerned I'd be just another attractive Rhone. I've looked over the shipping records—he has no return cargo, so he's going to be deadheading someplace unless he picks something up here. He'll come down looking for cargo. Suppose I meet him as the representative of a cargo company? By his reactions to my appearance we'll get a good idea of whether Korf is Brazil. I think he'd find an appointment with me emotionally and financially irresistible."

"And we'd be waiting inside at the appointed spots," Marquoz put in. "I like it."

"Well, I don't," the Athene leader snapped. "By not asking the Holy Question immediately you risk him smelling a trap and not keeping the appointment."

"Oh, we'll have people on him the moment we spot him," Mavra assured her. "If he makes to bolt we'll move immediately. Remember, we can take him by force if he decides to go back to the Jerusalem; if he bolts in any other direction he's going to be awfully conspicuous on a Rhone world."

"And we're going to have to sneak you down as it is," Obie added. "The Rhone aren't too fond of the Fellowship or the Olympians. Come on, you said you'd go along with us."

The Olympian stood and seemed about to say something, then sat back down. "All right. You win."

Marquoz turned to Gypsy. "You should be down there with us. You've seen him before."

Gypsy shook bis head. "Nope. Sorry. I don't want to be anything but what I am. But it sounds like a good scam; it should work. I'll follow it from here."

"Suit yourself," the Chugach replied with a shrug. He turned and faced the empty air. "I, for one, do not wish to be a Rhone, though."

"No need," the computer told him. "The Olympians won't, either. You can all wait together. We'll send some crew down to rent a warehouse and establish a dummy company—this can be done in a day or so. They'll also scout around. We'll use one of the spare ships to get you in; disguise you as cargo or something and get you to the warehouse. Then we all wait."

Marquoz sighed. "Yes, then we wait."

"Drop's coming!" Obie warned. Before anyone could react the world went out around them and they were engulfed in a blackness without end, dropping uncomfortably, dropping to a point far, far away.

THE ADVANCE CREW OF THE NAUTILUS HAD DONE AN effective job. The warehouse was dingy and located in a poor neighborhood, but it was close to the spaceport and easily accessible even to someone who had never been there before. The small signboard said, in both the Com trading language and in Zhosa, the local tongue, Durkh Shipping Corporation. It seemed old and worn, not brand new as it actually was.

It was chilly and near dusk in Taiai, largest city on Meouit, and flakes of snow floated in the air here and there. A young Rhone woman clad in an expensive fur jacket studied the scene accompanied by several larger Rhone males.

She looked barely in her teens, not beautiful but pleasant, even a bit sexy, with long, brown hair. Her skin was a light brown, her pointed ears jutted up slightly on either side of her head and seemed to swivel independently of each other. At the waist, the near but not-quite-human torso faded into short-cropped light-brown fur that covered a perfect equine body. She needed only the jacket for warmth; below the torso she was well insulated by fur and subcutaneous fat.

"Not bad," she said admiringly, "not bad at all."

The male Rhone who stood closest to her, much taller and more obviously muscular than she, was pleased.

"Shall we go inside and greet the others?" she suggested, and he moved to slide one of the doors open for her. The lights inside created an illuminated wedge in the semi-darkness as the door slid back, admitted them, and then was closed by the last centaur.

The young female Rhone sniffed slightly, then looked toward a corner. "How have you been making out, Marquoz?" Mavra Chang called.

The small dragon stalked out of the shadows puffing on a fat cigar. "Pretty crappy, if you must know," he snorted. "How'd you like to be locked up in a barn on an alien world with only religious fanatics for company for two days?"

She looked sympathetic. "Sorry, but we had to sneak you all in when we could. You could have let Obie make you a Rhone," she reminded him, "and have spent the last couple of days out in the open and comfortable."

"Thank you, I like to remain me," he grumbled. "I can see Gypsy was the smart one, though. He's back on the Nautilus sleeping on feather beds and eating like a horse, I'll bet."

"Well, we'll be getting down to the spaceport shortly," Mavra told him. "The ordeal's almost over. Our man is in orbit now and due down to sign the customs forms and releases in about two hours."

An Olympian stepped from the shadows. "Remember your word!" she warned. "He is to be brought to us!"

"We'll keep our end of the bargain," Mavra promised. She turned to face two of the Nautilus crew. "Well, come on, bodyguards. I'd like to get down there as soon as possible. I don't want to miss him."

She bade the others farewell and turned. One of the crewmen slid the door open and then shut it behind them again. A blast of cold air was all that was left now besides the waiting.

The Olympians stepped back into the shadows, and the leader turned to the other three. "Two hours," she whispered. "Are you ready?"

One of the others turned and removed her cape, taking from the lining four small, very sophisticated pistols. She handed one to each of the others, keeping the fourth for herself.

This was yet another reason why the Olympians had not wanted to reach Meouit through Obie.

Marquoz was busy passing the time with the Rhone-shaped crewmen; one had some dice. They paid no attention to the Olympians whatsoever; all of them had been trying to tune out the strange women for two full days as it was. Which was just the way the Olympians wanted it.

"Check your charges," the leader whispered. The small activating whine went unheard.

Mavra Chang lounged around the shipping office trying to look bored, but deep inside her she felt almost like a little girl expecting the arrival of a favorite uncle but afraid at the same time that the uncle might have forgotten her.

Nathan Brazil . . . . The name had been so small a part of her long existence that it shouldn't mean much at all, yet it had haunted her since childhood. As a freighter captain herself back in the old days, she had known of him, heard the legends of the hard-fighting, hard-drinking captain who never seemed to grow old. From her grandparents she'd heard fairy tales of the magical Well World and Brazil's name had been there, too, always in the hero's role. And Brazil had plucked her as a small child from the forces of totalitarian repression that had engulfed her relatives and her world, he had passed her into the hands of the colorful Makki Chang, who raised her on a great freighter. Later, on the Well World, Brazil's name was mentioned everywhere, sometimes with reverence, sometimes with fear. Then too, there was Obie's playback only a few months ago of her grandparents' memories of a hideous, throbbing six-limbed mass that proclaimed itself master of reality, of all space-time, as the creator of the Universe. All Brazil.

The tugs had already established the craft's orbit, now the pilot boat would descend with the in-system pilot and the captain to process the cargo through customs, then the wait while cargo ferries transferred that cargo from the massive bulk of the freighter, which never made planetf all.

Mavra watched and her heart seemed to skip a beat as the information board inside the port authority office flashed the name jerusalem, her registry numbers, and the words in port.

Outside, lights locked on the small pilot boat as it drifted down and gently settled into the first of the eight cradles around the port authority building. Mavra turned expectantly, watching the far door, where the captain and the pilot would enter in a few moments. She held her breath. Time dragged, and after a while she grew afraid that the captain hadn't made planetfall, that he was deadheading somewhere.

One of her two crewmen, playing at filling out some forms, leaned over and whispered, "Why don't you relax? Right now you look like you expect your long-lost husband to come home any moment now."

Suddenly conscious of how obvious she must have seemed, Mavra turned and pretended to be looking through some cargo manifests stacked in the anteroom. That, she could do more natually. But if Brazil didn't come out shortly somebody in the port authority was going to wonder why it was taking her so long to choose the correct form.

Suddenly the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The pilot, his face lined and elderly, which seemed perfect for his spotted gray coloring, led the way, clipboard in hand, and, behind, she saw the massive load-master. Both were apparently talking, and it was a few seconds before she realized that they were talking not to one another but to a third party almost hidden between them.

Mavra's first thought was that Korf was too tall; almost 170 centimeters, wearing a curious porkpie hat from under which massive folds of gray-white hair drooped and mixed with a full beard of similar color. Only the eyes and the nose were visible, and the rabbi's general build was obscured by a heavy black coat that reached his knees. If appearances were worth anything, he was twenty kilos too heavy and a century too old.

The voice, too, was unpleasant; very high-pitched and nasal, quite unlike the low tenor Mavra remembered of Nathan Brazil. Her heart sank; this, certainly was not the man they were after. She glanced surreptitiously over her forms and tried to find any of the qualities of that funny little man she'd known as a child—some of the warmth, the gentleness, anything.

That's it, she decided, crestfallen. We've blown it. All that work and we've blown it. She looked over at her crewmen and saw the same emotions mirrored in their expressions. One gestured slightly with his head toward the door and she nodded almost imperceptibly. They walked toward the door, hooves clattering on the hard, smooth plastine surface, walking right past the two Rhone and Rabbi Korf as they wrangled over the bill of lading.

"The maize, then, is in two-hundred-ton containers ready for gripping?" the loadmaster's deep bass was asking.

Korf nodded and pointed. "Yes. Shouldn't take but two, three hours to get that section. It's the building supplies that—"

At that moment, her mind now far from this place, Mavra had not made allowances for bureaucracies that wax floors and she stumbled slightly. Korf and the two Rhone looked up.

The rabbi, seeing she was all right, turned back to the papers then did a double-take, head shooting back up to stare at her. Embarrassed, Mavra barely noticed the movement but something in the corner of her eye told her that she had attracted more than usual attention. She stopped, carefully, just short of the door and half-turned her human torso to look at the human; for an instant their eyes met, and something in those eyes and that expression caused a chill to go through her.

Her crewmen, oblivious to what was happening, were already outside before they noticed her absence.

Mavra's rational mind told her that the strange man was more likely Father Frost than Nathan Brazil, but something in his reaction and her gut feelings said otherwise. No human would look at a Rhone woman that way, no human except one who might not be.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted you with my clumsiness," she said smoothly, trying to control herself. "My associates and I had been waiting to see the captain of the ship that just came in, but you must be he and I see that you'll be tied up for some time." She looked shyly nervous. "I—I'm afraid I'm not used to business yet."

The captain recovered quickly, although he still kept staring at her with that odd look in his eye. "I am the captain, Madam Citizen. What did you wish of me?"

"My father is in the import-export business. He and his associates are attending a conference at Hsuir where they just completed a big transaction. They asked me to find out what ships were coming in and might be—is deadheading the correct term?—well, leaving empty. I'm not really involved in the business, you understand, but with everybody at the convention I'm the only one they could call." She sounded so sincere that she almost believed the lie herself. "But I see I've come too early."

The captain nodded. "I'm afraid so. This stuff will take hours, and I wish to have a real bath and sleep soft and long tonight to put myself on your time. I am empty at the moment, though—could we talk tomorrow afternoon?"

She smiled sweetly and nodded. "Of course. Where are you staying? I will call you there. I know your name and ship from the listings."

"At the Pioneer. The only place here with rooms that also have individual kitchens—I have special dietary requirements."

She nodded. "I'll call—not too early," she promised.

"What did you say your company's name was?" he came back. "And yours, in case things clear up earlier?"

"Tourifreet, in your pronunciation," she answered glibly. "It is the Durkh Shipping Corporation—the number is listed." Again the smile. "We'll talk tomorrow, then," she added and walked out, leaving him staring at the door closing behind her.

"You're sure it's him?" Marquoz grumbled. "The boys don't seem to think so."

Mavra nodded. "I'm as sure as I can be. Our little mimic trick worked. He knows who I look like, all right—there's nothing wrong with his memory. It was like he'd been hit with a stun bomb. You could see it in his eyes, the war between his mind, which told him that this just had to be an amazing coincidence, and that emotional backwash that was winning control."

One of the crewmen who had been there said, "I still think you're nuts. He's too tall, too broad—nothing at all like the descriptions of Brazil."

She smiled slightly. "He wore well-made thick boots, I noticed, very much like those I normally wear when I have feet instead of hooves. With that long coat he has on to further disguise things he could have been on stilts for all we know, certainly lifts high enough to give him a dozen centimeters of lift. He had the old man's walk, which would further discourage things—and he's had a long time to practice, too. The coat is padded, who knows with what, to make him broader. Even the dark gloves poking out of those oversize sleeves obviously came from arms too thin and too short for that body. The beard's good, but I've seen good false beards before. And the hat helps. No, it's him, all right. I'd bet my life on it."

"Don't you think it was a bit risky just to let him go like that?" the Olympian leader asked Mavra. "We have no idea that he wasn't put off by your appearance so he would suspect a trap."

"I seriously doubt he suspects a trap, but he'll check anyway. There really is a trading convention in Hsuir, which is about all he can check, since it's on the other side of the world. The next thing I'd expect him to do is punch in the company name and see if he gets a number—he will. Finally, he might sneak over here late this evening or in the morning to establish that there really is a company warehouse. He'll find us here, old sign in place."

"And if you've made a mistake somewhere?" the Olympian pressed.

Mavra chuckled, reached into her coat, and pulled out a small transceiver. She switched it on and a tiny red light glowed. "Halka? How's our man doing?" she asked into it.

"He cleared port about an hour ago, Mavra," came a tinny response. "Went immediately to the Pioneer with one large bag. Went straight to his room, four-oh-four A, and hasn't been out since, nor has anyone else gone in."

She composed a knowing smile to the Olympian, a smile caressed with confidence and frost. "Satisfied? We'll be on him every step of the way now. Borsa will even have his hotel line tapped in short order. We've got him."

The Olympian remained skeptical. "If he is in fact Nathan Brazil, I wonder? . . ."

"Well, I'm satisfied," Marquoz announced, yawning. "I would suggest that we all get some sleep. It looks to be quite a busy day tomorrow, and none of us knows how or when it'll turn out."

AS SOON AS HE ENTERED HIS ROOM AND LOCKED THE door, the man who called himself Captain David Korf checked the room for bugs. Satisfied, he sat on the comfortable bed in the hotel room, one designed to resemble first-class accommodations in the human part of the Com, and tried to think.

Somebody was on to him, he knew that much. Somebody who knew a lot about him, somebody who had baited their trap so that it would be irresistible to him. They had only really slipped once, in the shadows, which was very, very good—but it's tough to trail a sophisticated alien through a city when you're four-footed and huge, particularly late in the evening when few others are about. Hooves clatter no matter how muffled, and five hundred or so kilos of bulk is not easily faded into the shadows.

Korf glanced at the phone beside the bed. There were several people he could call, even the cops. No, the cops would only arrest a few of the tails and wouldn't tell him who or how or why. People so well prepared wouldn't employ stooges who broke easily.

He had no local friends, although he had cultivated several on his regular stops. But this planet was new to him. There were a few humans about from other ships or on layovers who he knew, even one or two he might count on in a fight. They should be looked up, he decided, if his choice was to find out who these people were instead of running.

Running appealed to him despite his curiosity, but that would not be easy. A human could not help but be conspicuous on a world inhabited almost solely by centaurs. The lone spaceport would be covered, of course. Not impossible to get through, no, but it would mean sneaking in using cargo containers or, perhaps, stealing a ship—weight tolerances would betray a stowaway. He rejected the cargo route because it was likely the containers wouldn't be pressurized. He could steal a pilot boat or somesuch, of course, perhaps a tug—but then what? The cops would have the Jerusalem covered, and there wasn't anyplace in range at the slow speeds the tugs could manage. Drifting in space for eons appealed to him not at all.

He sighed. No, running held too many risks and too many ifs. He would have to face them. He rather preferred the idea of a confrontation; his curiosity was piqued.

He would walk into no trap unprepared, though. Again he glanced at the phone, thinking of the few humans he could call, and he'd almost made up his mind to call when he thought better of it. No, anyone so well organized would have bribed the hotel operator by now—he would have, in their place—and it wouldn't do to tip his hand just yet. He needed out—a public call box. One selected at random would be best. He also needed to watch the watchers a bit, to see what he was up against. The Pioneer was a transient spacer hotel, though small. Just a glance into the human lounge off to his left on the way in had revealed about two dozen men and women even at this late hour.

He started thinking about what the watchers would expect him to do, then turned, grabbed the phone, and punched for the Durkh Shipping Corporation. A number immediately appeared in the little readout screen, which surprised him not at all. Durkh might even be a real company. He didn't bother to check on the import-export convention; if they were thorough enough to establish a corporate cover there would be, even if they'd had to throw it themselves to get people out of the way.

But—who were they! Not the cult, certainly. Maybe mercenaries hired by the cult—but what mercenaries if that was the case! Frankly, he just didn't see the Fellowship of the Well as having enough smarts to pull something like that. But if not them, then who? Moreover, who would have the contacts not only to trace him but actually to trace him all the way to Meouit, to this little bit of nowhere, and be ready with Rhone agents—and the girl!

She disturbed him most. Plastic surgery? Neoform? No matter what, there was no way they could have done that to anybody in the time between when he had taken the contract and the time it'd taken him to make planetfall.

Worse, who could know what she had looked like? Only people on the Well World, so very long ago, would know that and they were all dead, all except, perhaps, that scoundrel Ortega—but even he would have no way of extending his influence beyond the Well. It didn't make sense. Only a very few people had ever returned from the Well World, and they were all accounted for—certainly all who might have known what she had looked like back then.

He kept thinking about it. There was something new here, something potentially quite dangerous. The rip in space—time those assholes had caused— might it have strange side effects? He had not been on the Well World in generations; had someone capitalized on the rip to come back or come through to this space? Was it possible that anything could live in there?

Nothing makes sense, he told himself. There was only one solution. He got up from the bed and heaved his suitcase onto it, opening it carefully. He took off his heavy coat and the false padding that filled him out, kicked off the uncomfortable lift boots, carefully removed the massive beard by applying a chemical from a tiny kit he carried with him. Slowly he removed Rabbi David Korf completely, the bushy white eyebrows, the lines around the eyes, everything. Next he went to the window and looked out. Not far up, certainly not impossible. A sheer drop, though; it would be tricky to get down. The descent could be managed, though. Worse would be getting the window open wide enough—and it was damned cold out there, snowing fairly steadily now.

But—once down, then what? The snow would help, of course, but any group that knew Wuju's form would be familiar with every cell in his body. It would have to be a good disguise, one of his best, one that would foul up even the most expert shadow. He had one for that. He didn't like to use it, but it was effective; he'd even used it once or twice in staging deaths.

He returned to his suitcase. He always carried the disguises with him, both as insurance and because he occasionally wanted to get out on worlds without attracting undue attention. The last-gasp disguise, he'd named it; but it was effective.

Much of "Korf's" hair was also fake, of course, but Brazil wore a fair amount of his own, stringy black, underneath. He trimmed it short with a set of clippers, then carefully shaved a large part of his body. Now actor's cream to smooth his natural wrinkles and ruddy complexion, and to darken it. A professional actor's cosmetics case aided him as he worked methodically, transforming himself into someone who resembled him very little. He couldn't hide the Roman nose, of course, but he could smooth it out and flare the nostrils slightly so that it looked quite different. Finally the wig, which he'd paid a fortune for over two centuries before. More work, then the special clothing. He was a very small man, which aided this particular disguise. In his emergency kit he carried five identities. His actor's kit could produce variants.

All of his outfits were reversible to black; that made it handy, although a white coat would have been nice out there right now. Well, so be it.

After over an hour of painstaking work he stood and studied himself in the mirror. Perfect. But he had no matching heavy coat for the fierce wintry weather outside; he would be very cold and very uncomfortable for a while.

Although this was his best disguise he had never liked it; still, he did enjoy the challenge. When you've been around familiar places long enough you need a way to get away, to be other people, talk to people you don't dare be seen talking to—and duck people who want to see you, as now.

He had to make himself up to resemble his description in the fake ID papers he carried. On most planets they'd be good enough to get him in and out without a second glance but customs and immigration at the planet's only port of entry would have no record of his arrival. On a larger human world that would make little difference, but here it would provoke an inquisition.

He gave the disguise a last look, then walked to the window. God, it looked cold out there! He raised it, not without difficulty for he was trying to be quiet. Barely large enough to get through, but it would do, he decided. The blast of icy air stung him; he hated being so uncomfortable, but he loved the challenge. Almost as an afterthought he went over and programmed some Rhone music so that it would shut off in fifteen minutes, then put in a wake-up call for the next morning with the desk. Just so, he decided, just so.

Taking a clear gel from a small jar he rubbed it onto his hands, took a deep breath, went out the window, positioned himself, and, with the gel's aid, used his hands as suction cups to carry him down the thirty meters of brick wall to the alley below. Once on the ground he spotted the rear entrance, entered, allowed himself a few moments to thaw out and to roll up and discard the gel, then strolled openly down the corridor toward the lobby.

It was getting very late now, but, as he suspected, the human lounge was still filled with people, most relaxing with pleasure drugs or social drinking, a little dancing—all the things an alien lifeform might do for companionship on a winter's eve in a strange place.

There was a cloakroom, conveniently unguarded. Who'd bother to steal a human-fitted coat here? He went there, selected one that fit both the disguise and his body, coolly put it on, returned to the lobby and with a nod to the front desk walked through the front door into the wintry weather. When no alarms flashed, no yells arose behind him, and no noticeable shadows materialized, he relaxed a little and began to whistle a little time. This was getting to be fun.

The sun was coming up; it had been a quiet if chilly night for the crewmen watching the warehouse and the Hotel Pioneer. All would swear that none of them had been observed and that, so far as they knew Korf had slept the night away.

One of the Rhone shadows down the hall from Room 404-A jumped at a distant sound and realized that he'd been dozing. He looked down the hall as the elevator, a huge cage built with centaurs in mind, came up to a stop and the door slid back. A single person got out and walked down the hall. It appeared to be a young and pretty woman, dressed fit to kill, her walk an open invitation on a hundred worlds. She brushed back long brown hair and took out a small pad, consulted it, then started checking the numbers on the rooms until she reached 404-A. That perked up the watch, both the man at the end of the hall and the others hiding in nearby rooms. She knocked and there seemed to be an answer from inside, then there was some fumbling and the door opened slightly. She pushed on it and strode in, closing the door quickly behind her.

"I'll be damned," snapped a tinny voice in the guard's ear. "I thought he was a holy man or some-thin'."

"You never know," another cracked. "Now that's my kind o' religion!"

The men would have been startled to discover that room 404-A held but a single occupant. The woman kicked off shoes and removed her wig and some plas-tine body molding but did not bother to get rid of the entire disguise. It was already dawn and Nathan Brazil wanted some sleep before he had to become Rabbi Korf again; he flopped on the bed and drifted off almost instantly. A slight smile lingered on his face at the thought that, should his shadows check the room after he left tomorrow, they'd get a hell of a shock from the case of the disappearing woman.

"HE LEFT ABOUT AN HOUR AGO," THE RADIO TOLD them. "Tolga and Drur are on him. We still haven't figured out the girl, though."

Mavra looked grim. "I think I can guess," she said dryly and signed off.

"The girl was Brazil, then?"

She nodded. "Of course, Marquoz. Simple thing, really, particularly with all his experience."

"But how did he get out of that room?" the head Olympian wanted to know. "You said you had people watching it!"

Mavra shook her head, feeling a little stupid. "I've stolen millions from tougher places using any number of methods he could have used. Damn! My thinking's rusty! I've depended on Obie too much! And he actually thumbed his nose at us by walking straight up to the room with a little petty ventriloquism and an unlatched door!"

"You know what this means," Marquoz said apprehensively.

She nodded. "Yeah. He's on to us."

"And he hasn't called, which means he's going to try and make a break for it somehow," the Chugach added. "I think we're in big trouble unless we put the snatch on him now."

Mavra thought furiously for a moment. "I don't know. It's broad daylight and so far we've only seen him in places that are crowded. He could call the cops to complain he was being followed or something and they could escort him right back onto his ship!"

"And what if he does?" the Olympian leader demanded. "What can we do then?"

"Call in Obie and kidnap the whole goddamn two and a half kilometers of it," Mavra snapped angrily. She wasn't mad at Brazil—in fact, it restored her faith in him and his legend—but, rather, at herself for being taken in so. At one time she had been the greatest thief in the history of the Com, and it was galling to be taken in this way.

They were still debating the mess when the electronic buzzer echoed through the empty warehouse. As they were yelling at each other, it was a moment before the meaning of the sound penetrated, then all fell silent suddenly.

The phone was ringing.

Mavra glanced over at a female Rhone crewmem-ber and nodded. The Rhone shrugged and walked to the phone, which lay on the floor where it'd been placed as the only real furnishing. No videophones on Meouit, at least.

On the fifth buzz the woman picked up the transceiver and said, "Durkh Shipping Corporation."

"I'm sorry, I don't speak the tongue," a pleasant high-pitched voice came back to her. "Do you speak standard?"

"Of course, sir," replied the agent in her best secretarial tones. "What may we do for you?"

"We may put me through to Madam Citizen Tourifreet, if you will," replied the caller. "David Korf calling."

"Ah—oh, yes, just a moment, sir." The Rhone turned to Mavra and raised her eyebrows question-ingly, pushing the "hold call" button.

Mavra turned to the others. "Well? What do you make of this?"

"I'd say his curiosity has gotten the better of him," Marquoz replied. "Either that or his late-night sojourn was devoted to tipping the odds in his favor."

"What should I do, though—considering?"

The Chugach shrugged. "Go through with the original plan. After all, we only want to talk to him."

She nodded and walked over to the phone, then pushed the button again, and said sweetly, "Tourifreet."

"And a good day to you, Madam Citizen," Korf's voice replied pleasantly. "You wished to discuss some business?"

"Just Tourifreet, please," she responded casually. "We use no titles. Yes, well, ah, I've been in touch with my father and I have all the particulars. Twenty standard containers, agricultural products."

"Not much of a load," he noted, sounding genuinely disappointed.

"I don't know about that," she replied coyly, "but we have no objection to your taking on other cargo than ours, I'm sure."

"Destination?"

It's amazing how he keeps up the fiction, she thought. He was the coolest operator she could remember, better, even than her long-dead thief of a husband. "Tugami—on the frontier. New routing, pretty far out, but it's in a fine location for going elsewhere, or so my father says."

She could hear voices behind him in the background. It sounded like a busy office or marketplace. She also heard the rustle of papers and then he said, "Oh, yes. I see. I don't have all the frontier stuff in my navigational log. Yes, all right. I think I can pick up some minor Rhone sector cargo for intermediate drops. There's no rush?"

"Not that I know of."

"Very well, then. Shall we settle terms and sign the papers today? I want to move tomorrow at six."

She resisted the impulse to suggest they meet for dinner. Rhone dining was quite different from human, for one thing; and, for another, if he was still playing Korf's part he'd have his own kosher meals. "Why not drop over here when you're free? Anytime this afternoon or early evening," she suggested. "I haven't much else to do."

"All right, if you'll give me directions," he said smoothly. "Shall we say in an hour? I assume you're near the port authority."

"Very close," she agreed and proceeded to give him detailed directions. They signed off with the usual pleasantries and she turned to the others. "What do you make of that?" she asked.

Marquoz gave a dry chuckle. "That was the most entertaining show in town. Imagine! You're a total fraud, he's a total fraud, both of you know the other's a fraud—and yet it was such a convincing conversation I almost believed the both of you myself! My, my, my!" He chuckled again.

"Do you think he'll come?" the Olympian asked nervously.

Marquoz nodded. "Oh, he'll come. Oh, yes indeed, he will. He's actually enjoying this, couldn't you tell?" His tone became suddenly more serious. "But he won't come blind. If he walks down that street over there and across the square right in the open you can be sure that he's armed and ready with a variety of tricks and that he also probably has friends already in place. This is a dangerous man—to walk so brazenly into a trap he knows about. We shouldn't underestimate him again."

They all agreed. Mavra walked over to the doorway and opened it slightly. There was some wet snow about and it was still a little chilly, but the clouds had broken and sunlight streamed all around, so bright against the snow it hurt the eyes. She pointed as they looked.

"Up on that roof is Talgur, armed with a stun rifle and scope. Over there is Galgan, same, and up on that steeple or whatever it is is Muklo. Plus us in here and Tarl and Kibbi shadowing him. Should be enough." She shut the door.

"Too much," an Olympian voice snapped from behind them. Stun beams shot through the warehouse as well-placed Olympians easily cut down the crewmen, Mavra, and Marquoz. The Olympian leader looked around, then, satisfied, turned to the others. "The three on the roofs. You know what to do."

They nodded and dashed to the second-floor exits they'd spent two days scouting and preparing. In less than ten minutes all had returned. "They'll sleep till dark," one of the Aphrodites assured her confidently.

"Their vantage points were well chosen," the leader noted. "Take the far roof and the steeple—those are best no matter what route he chooses. Use the crew's rifles to pick off the shadows and anybody else who gets in the way. Full stun."

"And if they have stun armor?" one of them asked.

"Then kill them."

"Where will you be?" another asked her.

"Right in the square," she replied. "I shall become a statue until he is close enough to touch. Then and only then will I ask the Holy Question." She smiled broadly and there was more than a hint of fanatical rapture in her eyes. "And this time the answer shall be the true one, sisters! Salvation and paradise are at hand!"

The leader looked across the square. All was ready, she saw; her sisters now held the high points and she blended herself to near invisibility in the shadow of a large statue. As long as she remained still, no one would be able to tell where she stood. She depended on the others for weaponry. The cold did not bother her at all; on Olympus Meouit's snow flurries would be considered high summer. She was satisfied to wait patiently, perfectly still. Her people had waited so very long for this that another forty minutes would be as a raindrop in a heavy storm. That stupid little lizard policeman and that arrogant bitch, spawn of the , Evil One and their minions, were all silenced. Her word! As if one's word given to the Evil One was binding! The Holy Mother had been right, she'd planned it all carefully, and she and her sisters had carried it out. There had been no mistakes. All was perfect.

In fact she'd made two mistakes. One was understandable; her religion did not permit her to believe that Nathan Brazil would use others to prevent unpleasant surprises, yet even now three very nasty spacers he had contacted the previous evening were sitting on other rooftops watching the show. The apparent disappearance of the leader in the middle of the square had surprised them, but the others, although they, too, were blended with the rooftops, wielded weapons trained on the square and those were clearly visible. Even using the weapons as points of reference you could barely make out the outlines of the Olympians holding them.

The second mistake was in forgetting that the stun settings were established for human-average body-mass; Rhone, which Mavra and all of her crew were now, were much larger and required a more powerful shot. What would have kept humans—and Marquoz, despite his bulk—out for hours had started to wear off in thirty minutes on the stunned Rhone inside the warehouse Mavra included. It was kind of like waking up one cell at a time, but slowly awareness, pain, and mobility was flowing back into them.

The man who pretended to be David Korf stood two blocks away looking down the street. I feel like Frontier Rabbi, two-gun sage of the Talmud, he thought crazily. He had removed most of the padding from the coat and it was on now so that it could be discarded in an instant. He'd cut his pockets so that when his hands were in them they rested on two highly efficient Com Police machine pistols, the kind you didn't even have to aim to shoot.

The kind nobody but cops was supposed to have.

He spoke into the portacom he held in his right hand. "How's it going, Paddy? What've we got?"

"Well, no innocents if that's a bother," a thickly accented human voice said. Most old spacers were somewhat nuts; Paddy, whose hobby had been folk songs, had decided he was Irish long ago and acted it despite the fact he had one of the blackest African skins ever seen. "Looks like they really is a convention someplace."

"No other ships in, either," Brazil noted. "So? Your other boys as good as you?"

"You kin trust me to pick 'em, Nate," Paddy replied. "We got us some of the supergals, it looks like, on the rooftops."

Brazil was surprised. "Olympians? Here? Damn! So it's that crazy cult after all!" He was almost disappointed. He'd been hoping for something more interesting. Paddy's reply raised his hopes again.

"No, it looks like the babes moved in on your other folk. There's dead or knocked-out horsies all over the rooftops. Looks like ye got a lotta people after ye, Natty!"

That was better. "You got the Olympians?" he asked. "How many?"

"Three that we see on the rooftops; there may be more, but if so they ain't layin' for ye on high."

That was manageable. Any others would be in the warehouse. If he was lucky the Olympians had done the dirty work for him and he had only to deal with them and not with the unknown enemy—if the two were different, as it now appeared.

"Zap 'em, hard stun, as soon as you see me," he instructed. "They're not human and pretty tough, so give it all the juice you got."

"And if that still don't get 'em?" Paddy pressed eagerly.

"Do what you have to," Brazil responded. "Then take their positions and cover me in the square."

"Righto. Come ahead" was the reply.

Brazil put the portacom in an inside shirt pocket and started down the street. It's a kind of pretty day, he thought. Idiotic way to spend a pretty day like this.

Ahead he saw the opening into the small square with a monument of some kind in the center—a huge Rhone of age-greened bronze pulling some sort of wagon, the god of commerce or somesuch. The statue was the only impediment, but it would provide cover for somebody, he thought. No, Paddy's men would have seen anyone.

Or would they? He stopped just short of the square, just out of sight, and peered hard at the statue. How many Olympians could use it as a backdrop to fade into? he wondered idly. He put his hands through his pockets to the pistols. Well, superwomen or no super-women they'd have to be unarmed. He swallowed hard, inhaled then exhaled, and stepped into the square.

At that moment Paddy and his men fired. The Olympian women on the rooftops quietly stiffened and rolled over. Nothing was heard or seen in the square, but Brazil knew that his ambush had been successful; if not, there'd have been yells, screams—even possibly explosions, knowing Paddy.

He glanced over the warehouses washed in the bright sunlight, spotted the Durkh Shipping Corporation sign on one, and headed toward it carefully, keeping half an eye on the statue. With the snow the green centaur looked like it had white mange.

Inside the warehouse Mavra was the first to rise groggily to her feet and recover her wits.

They'd been double-crossed by the Olympians, there was no doubt in her mind. That meant the women were laying for Brazil in the square! She reached the door, slid it open, and saw him approaching diagonally across from her. Quickly she reached for the transceiver and flipped it to all-call.

"Talgur! Galgan! Muklo!" she called. There was no answer. She tossed the thing aside in frustration. She had to warn him, she knew, had to get him out of there— But how to do it without getting shot?

It was cold, yes, but to hell with cold! She removed coat and long sweater so she was now unclothed. That would show him she had no weapons concealed or otherwise. Without thinking further of the risk she kicked off on her powerful equine hind legs and bounded full-speed into the square right toward the tiny black-clad bearded figure approaching casually.

"Go back!" she screamed at him, all the time charging. "It's a trap!"

He stopped dead, seemingly amazed by it all and taken slightly aback by her rush toward him.

The Olympian leader, cursing, broke from her place by the statue and started running for Brazil, screaming, "Shoot her, sisters! Shoot!" As she did so, her shrill plea echoed eerily off the buildings on the square.

Brazil saw the Olympian amazon rushing him to his left and the specter of Wuju charging across and was completely stumped. "Holy shit!" he managed.

Paddy was quicker. As soon as he saw the Olympian break from the statue he drew a bead and prepared to fire. The Olympian leader beat Mavra to Brazil and screamed, "Lord, are you Nathan Brazil?" At that moment Paddy fired and she was knocked to the ground and lay unmoving, an amazed expression on her face.

Mavra was taken by surprise by the shot but assumed that at least one of her people had managed to retain control of a rifle. Two Rhone crewmembers, Brazil's shadows, suddenly galloped into the square, guns drawn, from two different street openings. Mavra briefly felt reassured. She tried to stop but her momentum was carrying her past Brazil.

More pulse-rifles fired from the rooftops, felling the Rhone. Again caught off-guard, Mavra swerved to avoid Brazil but he'd already shed his coat to reveal a large double-bolstered gunbelt. One of the machine pistols was in his left hand. He didn't try to avoid her; instead, as she swerved and slowed, he jumped on her back!

She almost buckled from the unexpected extra weight, but as she stopped and reared in an attempt to throw him, she felt the cold of a pistol in the small of her humanoid back.

"Just don't try anything," he warned sharply. She knew his voice well from Obie's files. She stopped dead.

"Head up the street toward the port authority building," he ordered. She calmed herself and started slowly in the indicated direction, completely confused about what had happened.

"Who's up there?" she managed, pointing at the rooftops.

Brazil laughed, enjoying his full control. "My people, of course! You should've covered the back alley and the window last night!"

She was sweating now, and felt the cold very bitterly all of a sudden. She shivered.

"Mind telling me where we're going? I'm freezing to death!"

He laughed again. "Tit for tat. I damn near froze going down that brick wall in the snowstorm last night. You won't die. Just get to the port authority."

She bent around a little and glanced at him. He was a ridiculous sight, a man in leather high-heeled boots, skin-tight smooth brown pants, a crazy thick gunbelt with two holsters. He wore a thin cotton shirt of red and white checks, a gigantic white beard, flowing white hair, and the porkpie hat.

"Okay. Stop here," he ordered, just short of the heavily trafficked main street across from the port authority. "Now I'm going to dismount, but don't you think I can't shoot you where you stand. The locals take offense at seeing a human ride a Rhone, but this little pistol has a mind and will of its own."

She'd caught a glimpse of the pistol and knew it to be true.

He slipped off and she felt as if she'd shed a ton of weight. The sensation felt so good it hurt, and she stiffened up slightly.

"Now, the boys in the port authority have been paid pretty good not to notice us," he told her, "but since you're a native and I'm not, racial loyalty might yet overcome greed—although I wouldn't count on it. So what I'm going to do is holster this thing and we're both going to walk over there, into the authority waiting room where we met yesterday, and out Gate Four to the shuttle boat. Since they haven't finished unloading my ship yet they'll probably see no evil. I can't break orbit now, anyway."

She nodded, knowing that he'd never be this confident unless his own people had them covered the whole way and everything was already set up. It didn't matter; all she wanted was a talk, anyway.

She wished, though, that she'd allowed Obie to do an implant in her the way he'd done on Olympus. But she was still so angry with him for that trick with the Temple of Birth that she had adamantly refused this time. Now she missed his presence. She knew Obie could deal with Nathan Brazil better than she.

They entered the building and, as he'd said, nobody paid the slightest attention, not even to her—and she thought she was reasonably attractive for a Rhone —bare as the day she would have been born if really a Rhone. And in the middle of winter!

The pilot boat was automated and took no time at all to lift. She was thankful for the warmth and the chance to catch her breath. Brazil sat back and regarded her with a mixture of amusement and fascination.

"So tell me, Tourifreet or whatever your real name is," he began, "are you the head of this conspiracy or just a hired hand? Who knew enough to make you look like that?"

She managed a smile although still slightly winded. "Not Tourifreet, no," she wheezed. "Mavra. Mavra Chang. I'm your great-granddaughter, Mr. Brazil."

He took out a cigar, lit it, and settled back against the bulkhead. "Well, well, well . . . Do tell. Anybody ever tell you you favor your great-grandfather?"