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prison planet, and Pegasus was returned to the navy. Now she was McCade's. According to official records, he'd made a down payment of five hundred thousand credits for her. Money supposedly paid him for killing Cadien. The same records indicated that a final payment of twenty-five thousand credits was due in six Terran months. Just Walt's little way of keeping a handle on him.
    McCade smiled crookedly as he walked up the ramp and palmed the panel next to the entry port. The lock cycled open and then closed behind him. Inside he paused for a moment as the inner hatch opened, allowing him to enter the ship.
    An hour later he sat relaxing in the small lounge just aft of the ship's four cabins. He'd toured her from bow to stern and liked what he'd found. She was strong, fast, and well armed. Thanks to her previous owner, she was also quite comfortable. Just the kind of ship a successful bounty hunter would choose. Plus, he'd requested additional equipment from Lieutenant Lowe, and was pleased to see she'd granted about half of it. He'd been kidding about the swimming pool anyway. He reached over and punched a request into the ship's well-stocked bar. As he settled back with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other, McCade asked the ship's computer for an update on the first assassination attempt.
    After considerable effort, he'd convinced Lieutenant Lowe to grant him direct access to the Naval Intelligence computer. She'd finally agreed— but restricted his access to those matters directly related to Bridger's disappearance. He wondered idly if the computer would consider her personnel file to be directly related or not. A soft tone chimed as information flashed onto the screen opposite him. For some reason the ship's previous owner had preferred text, and programmed the ship's computer to use voice only in emergencies. McCade saw no reason to change that policy.
    He wasn't surprised to find the report contained little more than a garbled account of the action. However, he was relieved to learn that, in spite of his fears, all the bystanders had survived, though some would be hospitalized for some time. The section leader's name was Amos Van Doren, and he was doing well. Judging from the nurse's notes, McCade guessed he'd be released soon. He got the feeling the nurses couldn't wait. Van Doren was evidently a difficult patient. As McCade read on, he learned that routine autopsies hadn't revealed anything useful about the three assassins. Each bore prints, retinal patterns, dentition and vocal cords they hadn't been born with. All standard for assassins. Inquiries to the Assassin's Guild had been met with the usual refusals on grounds of Guild-client confidentiality.
    A request for the most recent report on the bombing in Swanson-Pierce's office was met with a notice reading "Investigation in Progress." With a snort of derision he asked for the intelligence summary on Bridger's disappearance. It wasn't very helpful either. They didn't know why Bridger went, where he went, or how he got there. They thought Cadet Votava was with him . . . but they couldn't prove it. The only thing they seemed sure of was where Bridger wasn't. According to "reliable sources," which McCade doubted, Bridger wasn't on any Imperial planet enjoying regular interstellar commerce. All arrivals and departures from such worlds had been carefully screened since Bridger's disappearance. They'd even checked the records of arrivals and departures for the last standard month. Nothing. Of course that didn't mean much, McCade reflected as he ordered another drink. He'd arrived on and departed from more than one planet without bothering to notify customs. Plus there were all the frontier worlds to consider. And to top it all off, Bridger had a six-week head start. But still . . .
    He requested Bridger's service file and sipped his drink as it came up on the screen. Most of it was boring and routine. "Lieutenant Bridger was transferred to such and such a