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fact, my people were watching out for just such an incident.” Bowman hadn’t lost her smile. “You see, I communicate regularly with the High Councillor of Camos Cluster, Jarad di Sarc. A familiar name, I’m sure, since he also happens to be your uncle— and Spokesman of the Clan Council.”
    Barac felt a familiar frustrated anger. How typical of the Council to include this—this Human!—in its intricate web of strategy while leaving the true risk-takers in the dark. “We are not under your authority, nor do I claim your aid,” he snapped, finished with evasions. This Human pet of Jarad’s was the last straw.
    “Ah, but these devices were stolen from this facility before you arrived on Auord. Someone else was expecting you, Clansman. Someone with a healthy respect for your— abilities.”
    “Your toys are your problem, Commander Bowman,” Barac said testily. “Not mine. I object to your insistence that the Clan has some strange mental power. This kind of rumor-mongering is why we refuse to join your Pact.”
    Bowman’s smile tightened. “You may decide differently, Clansman Sarc. You see, I also want to talk to you about something that has nothing to do with last night—at least as far as I know.” She stood and walked ponderously to the end of Barac’s bed, her movements giving the impression of someone finding planet gravity a nuisance.
    Bowman produced a compact image box and aimed it midway between them. “What do you know about this, Barac sud Sarc?” she asked, activating the device.
    Barac craned his head forward, staring at the image hovering above his waist. It showed the interior of a standard stateroom, the type common on intersystem transports. A figure in blue and yellow lay upon the floor in a hunched, tormented position. Barac heard the sudden roar of blood in his ears as a distant thing, a sign of the body’s ability to react to pain before the mind dares admit the truth.
    He drove a questing thought into the M’hir, seeking a familiar channel through its nothingness, the effect close to draining his reserve of energy, heedless of all but the contact he sought. There was no answer, no anchor drawing him to the comforting strength of that other mind. There was nothing at all.
    With all the disinterest he could muster, Barac shrugged and lay back against the pillows. “Why do you expect me to know anything about this? I’ve never seen that man before.”
    Bowman pressed another control. Instantly the image shifted, spun dizzyingly larger until only the left hand of the dead man and a portion of the deck showed. “I expect you to tell me something about this, Barac sud Sarc,” she said, her eyes never leaving his face. The carpet beneath the hand had been burned away down to the dull shine of metal. The metal itself was incised with tiny, irregular but plain letters. “That is your name, isn’t it?” Bowman added unnecessarily, just as the door to the room opened.
    Barac ignored the too-convenient return of the two Enforcers, meeting her gaze steadily. “I do not have to answer your questions, Human,” he said. “Or are you planning to hold me here?”
    “That won’t be necessary, Clansman Barac.” Bowman’s voice held a hint of smugness. “Let’s say, for once, our interests may run together. I have a murder to solve, a murder which took place on Pact commercial shipping. I can’t imagine how your name was written by that man—suffice it to say that it’s one of your kind’s more interesting secrets. But I intend to learn how he died—and your involvement.” She paused, her expression hardening.
    “The room was locked from within,” the commander went on. “The crew of the ship have been thoroughly mind-searched by our people, and are innocent. My willingness to oblige the High Councillor or the Clan will not extend to unknown lethal weapons—or to Clan wars in my space.”
    “Kurr.” Saying the name made it real. His power ached for a target, but there was