Cole half-expected to crash into the wall, but it was gone a microsecond before he reached it. He skimmed a few hundred feet above the planet’s surface until he was well clear of the base, then shot up toward the stratosphere. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t been shot down yet, but evidently no one had expected him either to be in the hangar or to fly out of it. The first few laser beams just barely missed him as he made it out of the stratosphere and could finally accelerate to light speeds without burning up from the friction of the atmosphere.

He knew that they’d expect him to head for the Inner Frontier, and he also knew he didn’t have the speed to evade them, the defenses to survive their attack, or the firepower to hold them at bay. He aimed the ship deeper into the Republic, had the navigational computer produce a holo of the sector he was in, and looked for a likely place to land and acquire a less recognizable ship.

Serena II was the closest inhabited planet, but it was a thinly populated farming world. The next two oxygen planets were mining worlds. He needed something bigger, something where he could ditch this ship and obtain a new one—and where he could hide if he had to. He hit upon Piccoli III, a world with ninety-eight percent Standard gravity, a normal oxygen content, and a commercial center housing some three hundred thousand men and a few thousand aliens of various species, and laid in a course for it.

He was sure that the Navy was in hot pursuit, but at light speeds his instruments couldn’t spot them and his viewscreens couldn’t display them. He found the proper wormhole, entered it, and moments later emerged in the Piccoli system. He immediately headed to Piccoli III, and soon entered the atmosphere.

"Computer," he said, "where’s the eject mechanism?"

"I am not equipped with an eject mechanism."

"Wonderful," muttered Cole. "Is there a parachute on this damned ship?"

"No."

"You have to have some safety feature," said Cole. "What is the crew supposed to do if you’re disabled or shot down in a battle?"

"I possess four suits for deep-space usage, and four jet packs for use in atmospheres."

"Where are the jet packs?"

The ship directed him to the proper storage area. He removed one and put it on, then found a laser pistol in the small armory and bonded it to his right thigh.

"Can your sensors find an area that has no human habitation within ten miles of it?"

"There is a mountain range at 37 degrees 18 minutes 4 seconds north and—"

"That’ll do," said Cole. "Enter the atmosphere, head toward it, and let me know when you’re within sixty seconds of reaching it."

The ship was silent for almost three minutes. Then: "I am now within sixty seconds of the mountain range."

"Open the hatch."

The hatch opened.

"I want you to crash into the mountains," said Cole.

"I cannot comply with that order. I am compelled to protect my own existence."

"That’s a Priority R1 order."

"I will crash in 42 seconds."

Cole leaped out of the hatch. He was at about fifteen thousand feet, and he activated the jet pack. He stayed in the area long enough to see the ship crash into the side of a mountain, then headed in a southerly direction. He had no idea where the cities were, but he was sure that he’d come to some long before the jet pack’s power ran out. He decided to cruise at a height of two hundred feet. He wasn’t worried about being spotted by radar or sonar; he wanted to be close to the ground so if anyone started firing at him he’d have a chance to land safely before he was shot down.

It seemed to him that he’d been cruising half the day, though it had probably been no more an hour or so, when a city came into view. It wasn’t much of a city, it couldn’t have a population of more than forty thousand, but he knew that he had to land soon. The Navy would surely have traced him to Piccoli III and would have found the ship’s wreckage by now. It might take them a while to realize there was no corpse, but in an hour or two they’d know, and then they’d come looking for him—and he didn’t want to be this easy a target when that happened.

He spotted a farm that was growing large mutated tomatoes about a mile off to his right, and he banked and headed there. He saw a laborer walking through the field—the tomatoes were too delicate for a machine to harvest them—and he landed a few feet away, only to discover that the worker was a robot.

It stopped and stared at him, as if waiting for a command.

"Who’s in charge here?" asked Cole, removing the jet pack.

"You must be more explicit, sir," replied the robot. "Are you referring to the farm, the city, the planet, the sector, or the Republic?"

"The farm."

"The McDade Corporation, headquartered on Far London, sir."

"Let me try it a different way," said Cole. "Who gives you your orders?"

"Dozhin, sir."

"Dozhin," repeated Cole. "Man or alien?"

"He is not a Man, sir."

"And is he on the premises?"

"Yes."

"Then, to coin a phrase I’ve always wanted to use, take me to your leader."

"I do not understand your directive, sir," replied the robot. "I am alone. No one is leading me."

"Take me to Dozhin."

"Follow me, sir."

The robot set off at a fast walk, and Cole fell into step behind it. When they had gone almost half a mile they came to a small domed structure, about twenty feet on a side.

"In there, sir," said the robot, stepping aside.

"Why don’t you go in first and tell him he has a visitor?" suggested Cole, stashing the jet pack under a bush.

"Robots are not permitted in Dozhin’s personal quarters, sir," answered the robot.

"Okay, I’ll take it from here," said Cole. "And thanks for your help… have you got a name?"

"I do not know, sir. Dozhin calls me HT23. Most humans call me Boy or Robot."

"Well, then, thank you, HT23."

"You are welcome, sir. May I return to my work now?"

"Yes."

The robot turned and headed back to the fields, and Cole approached the door to the structure. It sensed his presence, a holo camera came out of a wall, and Cole knew it was transmitting his image to the occupant of the little domed building.

"Come in," said a sibilant alien voice.

"Thank you," said Cole, entering the place. He found himself facing a tall, very slender, red-brown being, humanoid but never to be mistaken for human. Its eyes were horizontal slits, its nose so long it almost seemed prehensile, its mouth absolutely circular. Its skin was covered with a rust-colored fuzz that looked less like hair the closer Cole got to it. "My name is Leslie Ainge," he said. "My vehicle broke down, and I need some directions—or better still, transportation to the spaceport if you can provide it."

"I can provide it," said Dozhin. "But not to Leslie Ainge, who doesn’t exist, at least not on Piccoli III."

"I can show you my ID and passport."

"I’m sure you can," answered the alien, "and I’m equally sure that they’ll pass muster on all but two or three worlds out here, Captain Cole."

Suddenly Dozhin found himself looking down the barrel of Cole’s burner.

"Put it away, Captain Cole," said Dozhin. "I have no animosity toward you and no love of the Republic."

"What makes you think I’m Cole?"

"I know from message transmissions that the Navy matched someone’s DNA to the notorious Wilson Cole, and that he escaped from the Chambon system three hours ago. I know no ship has landed at our spaceport today. And I know you are a stranger to Piccoli III. What other conclusion can be drawn?" He stared at Cole. "Will you lower your weapon now, please?"

Cole bonded the laser pistol to his right thigh again. "All right," he said. "What now?"

"Now I offer you sanctuary for as long as you want it," said Dozhin. "I am here because the Republic decimated Cicero VII, which, though a human colony, was also my home world, since it is the world I was born on."

"I remember hearing about it back when I was serving in the Republic," said Cole. "They say it was pretty bad. You’re lucky to be alive."

"I lost my parents, my wife, my children, and my home," replied Dozhin. "I could have done without such luck."

"I’m sorry to hear it," said Cole.

"I was sorry to experience it. That is why I will offer sanctuary to any enemy of the Republic."

"But you’re working on a Republic world."

"My specialty is agriculture. They destroyed my fields. If I am to work, it must be on worlds where things still grow. They have provided me with this domicile. I am happy to share it with you."

"I appreciate the offer, but I can’t stay on Piccoli. The ship I used to get here is no longer operative. I need to find a ship that can get me back to my own vessel, or at least to the Inner Frontier."

"That may be difficult," said Dozhin. "I know the Navy followed you to Piccoli III. Whatever you did with your ship to make them think you are dead, they will soon discover that there is no corpse—or if you thoughtfully provided them with one, it will not match your DNA. They will doubtless send teams down to the planet to search for you, and more importantly, they will be patrolling from orbit and will doubtless be under orders to shoot down any ship whose pilot, crew, or cargo is in any way questionable."

"And knowing the Navy, the mere act of leaving the planet makes a ship questionable," said Cole.

"So it is possible that I may take you to a ship, or a ship owner, or a ship renter," concluded Dozhin, "but it is every bit as likely that the Navy is already in position to shoot that ship down."

"I can’t spend the rest of my life here," said Cole. "I’ll take my chances once I find a ship."

"I don’t think you realize the gravity of your situation," said Dozhin. "The rest of your life could very well be measured in hours, or even minutes, if you try to leave the planet in the face of the Navy’s opposition."

"It’s a chance I’ll have to take. I’ve got to get back to my ship. I have vital information. I didn’t have a chance to transmit it when I acquired it, and I don’t dare try to send it from here. They’d intercept it, learn the scramble codes, and send the Teddy R and the rest of my fleet a phony message that would lead them into a trap."

"Did you say a fleet?" asked the alien.

"Yes."

"How many ships do you have under your command?"

Cole shrugged. "A little over four hundred."

"Four hundred?" repeated Dozhin. "That is very interesting."

Cole stared at him expectantly.

"I know a man—a human—who might be able to help. He might not. There’s a huge reward on your head. He may decide to turn you in for it instead. But if he doesn’t, he might be able to help."

"You don’t sound too sure of him," said Cole.

"I am not. But you have very limited choices. You can take the chance of stealing a ship without being shot down, you can take the chance of hiding here and hoping the building-to-building search never reaches this farm—or you can take the chance of meeting a man who, if he is so inclined, is in a position to help you. What is your decision?"

"What do you think it is?" said Cole wryly. "Let’s go men your friend."

"He is not my friend," replied Dozhin. "I do not like him." He paused thoughtfully. "In fact, I don’t think anyone on Piccoli III does." Great, thought Cole. I’ll say this much for my luck: It’s consistent.