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none. Yet.
    “What did you say?” she said blankly.
    “Whatever name was on the manifest, the dead man is . . . was Kurr di Sarc. And before you ask, yes, he was my brother, Commander Bowman.” Barac faltered, trying to restore calm to his voice. “All I can tell you is what you must have already guessed: Kurr left my name so that I would be contacted. He must have been desperate if he had to rely on Humans to relay his message.” A heavy silence. “When did it happen?”
    Bowman decided to look sympathetic, an effort which fell short of credible, but then Clan never relied on Human expressions. “I had no way of—”
    “When. Where.” Barac had almost succeeded in burying his own emotions under a cold detachment. The discipline of a scout had its uses.
    “Three days ago. He was last seen alive when they went insystem in Acranam. The body was discovered the next day enroute to Letis VI.” She paused. “The ship and all aboard are being held at the Letis Pact facility. Will you want the body?”
    Barac ignored her question, with its Human assumption. To the Clan, what remained after death was a shell, dropped from the M’hir, of no significance to the living. “What killed him? Who?”
    Bowman’s eyes glittered, her sympathetic air discarded. “We don’t know. And that is why you’ll stay and talk with me, Barac sud Sarc, Clansman and focus of trouble. I’ll have no more of your Clan business leaving bodies in Pact territory. I want answers.”
    Barac nodded slowly. “I understand. And in return for passing Kurr’s dying message to me, I’d honestly like to help you. But I haven’t time to search out Kurr’s murderer now.” His handsome face might have been carved from ice, its bruises stones embedded beneath the surface. “I have someone else to find—” And before Bowman could open her mouth to dispute this, Barac’s body shimmered and disappeared. The white blanket slumped flat with a surprised sigh of air.
    “Damn,” Bowman said to the empty bed, annoyed she had driven him away. Then she consoled herself—who’d have guessed the injured man could summon such power? She activated her implanted communicator with a twitch of one eyebrow. “Med-com. Did you get anything unusual just now on your scopes?”
    “Your guest left the room, sir. I don’t have scanners in the hall. Is that what you meant?”
    Bowman sighed. Still, it was always worth trying. “Any more from the prisoner?”
    The whisper in her ear was apologetic. “Just what you know already, Commander.” A pause. “I don’t think we can keep her alive much longer.”
    Bowman tapped her brow with one stubby finger; the new implant was supposedly sensitive enough to control with an unobtrusive twitch of muscle, but she’d rather be sure the wretched thing was really off. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, glancing with approval at the pair waiting patiently for her commands, their composed faces too well-trained to show any reaction to Barac’s startling departure.
    The feathered Tolian, P’tr wit ’Whix, and his partner, the dour-faced Terk, were the most senior of Bowman’s personal staff. They had been together long enough to know when to wait and when to speak. Almost.
    Terk scowled. “So we forget this one, too? Diplomacy.” The word might have been a curse.
    Bowman’s lips curled. It wasn’t a smile. “I forget none of it. What you continue to forget, Terk, is that we’re not law keepers—or diplomats. I know how you feel,” she said more gently. “It’s a thankless task, keeping everyone’s feet, flippers, or whatever, off everyone else’s anatomy.” More sharply. “But as Enforcers, we have nothing to do with justice—get used to that. We enforce the treaty rights of Pact member species. The Clan aren’t Pact, not yet. But so long as they live on Pact worlds we’ll watch them.”
    “What use is watching?” Terk went on, not cowed. His face was all angles and planes, with harsh lines running from