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sketchy outlines of an arm. A clawed avian foot rings an intact human forefinger. The bird is no place in sight.
    “Tinkerbell. Was that a parakeet?”
    Beagle’s smile is whimsical. “Ah, you see, when Harold arrived, their good air/bad air counter was on the fritz. Couldn’t tolerate the idea of turning around and going home. Didn’t have the balls to try the air themselves. So over Mimi’s squeaks of alarm, we must assume, Harold threw the parakeet out the ship’s door, cage and all. Tinkerbell continued breathing. I like to imagine that it continued to squawk, ‘I’m a pretty bird,’ in its brainless parakeet way. Thus Tennyson colony.”
    I laugh. A wad of dust lodges in my throat. I sit on a broken piece of Permacrete to catch my breath. A whitish-blue hand is sticking out from under the rock. I get to my feet quickly.
    “Why don’t you call me by my name?” Beagle asks.
    I step away from the rock. I’m careful not to look back. Murder should be intimate. Up close and personal. Victims should leave a mark on their killers.
    “My name’s Hoad. You may call me Dr. Taylor.”
    “Hoad Taylor’s dead.”
    He fastidiously straightens the cuffs of his uniform. Like a murderer, there are smears of blood on his sleeve. A cautious man, but not careful where he puts his hands. “Did Colonel Yi tell you to call me that?”
    The question brings me up short.
    “Being named as your subordinate is obviously a demotion. An insult. A way to keep me in line. Was it Colonel Yi who asked you to call me ‘Beagle’? Or did your instructions go higher?”
    What happened between him and HF? “No. I thought of it.”
    He laughs. “I see. Is that your way of dehumanizing me? Do I intimidate you that much?”
    “It’s — that sad-eyed face. A hound’s face.” I can’t really explain. What he reminds me most of is Toby, the dog in the Sherlock Holmes stories, even though that dog, as I remember, was a mixed breed. The first time I looked into Beagle’s eyes I knew that he was a single-minded, predatorial thing. Yes, he intimidates me that much. Beagle is a mixed-breed Hound of Heaven.
    He cocks an eyebrow. “You’ve just described a damned basset.”
    “Oh.”
    “I’ve decided to play along for now. But I can outsmart you. Remember that.”
    “You don’t have to remind me. I know,” I say.
    I’ve surprised him. But why? “Well. You don’t like the team very much. Is it because I’m not human and Szabo and Arne are gay?”
    Impossible. They can’t be gay. They would have never been allowed on the Tennyson team. Yi was so worried about sexual impropriety that he even excluded women.
    “They were lovers once. Didn’t you know?”
    Absolutely impossible. Why is Beagle lying about this? “That wasn’t in their files.”
    “Of course it was.”
    But I read the files carefully. There’s no way I could have missed something like that.
    A clatter. I look around. Sound in the huge hall is deceptive. From nearly fifty yards away I can hear the clicks of falling stones as Arne works his way through the rubble. The demolitions expert is whispering breathily to himself.
    “Look what I found.” Beagle takes a piece of bubbled black plastic from his pocket. “The bomb was in this, I think. Go ahead, Major. Arne’s got all his measurements. Take it. There aren’t any fingerprints to ruin.”
    From my right, a series of small taps. Arne has started a minor avalanche. Through the dark of the tunnel Szabo emerges. The psychic’s bald head is streaked with dirt. He’s remembered to bring his mask, but the dust must be bothering him. He wipes his eyes. The two meet in the ruins and converse in low tones.
    I take the plastic. Turn it over and over in my hands. There’s a sliver of copper wire embedded in it.
    “We need to get Szabo out of here,” Beagle says.
    I look up. Szabo’s crying. Arne has his arm around him.
    I quickly give Beagle the bomb casing and pick my way through the debris. “Let’s go. Right