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colonists had down in the dorms.
    A body followed the voice. It drifted sideways into the open door, bumped into the frame, and bounced off. Paxton was a lanky man with short black hair and even features. He adjusted his gun belt and smiled.
    "Well, if it isn't Rex Corvan, reop extraordinaire, and part-time crime buster. I liked your work on the computer coup story. You were lucky to survive."
    Corvan shrugged. "I was lucky, period."
    The other man shook his head. "Not so. Not entirely anyway." His eyes took on a faraway look. "Let's see . . . Rex Corvan, thirty-eight years old, six feet one inch tall, and one-ninety, no, make that one ninety-five."
    Paxton patted a flat stomach. "You've been packing it on, my friend—time to slim down. Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Born and raised in Seattle. The only child of Tom Corvan, now deceased, and Dr. Lisa Kelly-Corvan, controversial journalism professor. A recipient of a masters in communications from the University of Washington, a commission from the Army, and journalistic awards too numerous to mention. You're quite a guy. And that's my point. People like you make their own luck."
    Corvan raised an eyebrow. "Do you memorize all of your files? Or just certain ones?
    Paxton grinned. "Just the ones associated with potential troublemakers."
    "And I qualify?"
    Paxton's grin grew even wider. "You were the first person to spend time in my brig."
    Corvan laughed. "Touche."
    "So," Paxton said, pushing himself out into the office, "you're working the murder."
    Corvan nodded. "Trying anyway. Not that I've made much progress."
    Corvan gestured towards the monitors. "Which reminds me. What about all these security cams? Surely you have one or two tucked away in the medical section. Did they capture anything?"
    The security man shook his head ruefully and pointed toward two screens. They were labeled C-14 and C-15. Both were blank. "We checked right away. As luck would have it both of them were down."
    Corvan looked from the screens to Paxton. "As luck would have it? Or as the killer wanted it to be?"
    Paxton shrugged. "It's a reasonable question. But the cameras that cover C-16, C-17, and C-18 were down as well. Some sort of localized power failure. The tech heads are checking to make sure. The truth is that about ten percent of our cameras are on the fritz at any one time."
    Corvan took another look at the monitors and saw Paxton was correct. There was a scattering of darkened screens on every deck. Just another manifestation of the ship's maintenance problems.
    A deep booming sound echoed through the ship's air conditioning ducts. The same one that had plagued the ship for weeks now. The two men looked at each other and laughed.
    Paxton opened a storage unit, removed a radio, and jacked the lead into the side of his head. He paused for a moment as if listening to something, nodded, and attached the device to his belt. He looked at Corvan.
    "This could be your lucky day. Word came in about ten minutes ago. An F-dormie went bonkers. Beat some poor slob half to death. The M.O. fits. Want to come?"
    Corvan smiled, "Does Jopp eat nails for breakfast?"
    Paxton nodded soberly. "Damned right she does. Hang on a sec."
    The security officer rapped on the front of a large storage unit. The door popped open and Corvan saw a strange-looking device. It consisted of a cylindrical tank with nozzles mounted at both ends, a set of handle bars, and the word "SECURITY" stenciled along its side. There was no gravity to hold it down so the contraption bobbed up and down in the air-conditioned breeze. Paxton grinned.
    "What's a cop without a police car? Slide underneath, grab the rails, and hang on."
    Corvan did as he was told and discovered that the rails came equipped with O-rings that would make it rather easy for the security chief to handcuff someone to his vehicle. A vehicle that was large enough to double as a rather unwieldy anchor.
    Paxton twisted the motorcycle-style throttle, released a stream of