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several levels beyond their sensitivity. As previously stated, the sybfile in question has been deleted—but the echo of the procedure strongly suggests that the transfer string that was employed is counterfeit.”
    Eyes half shut, Flinx frowned at the screen. “I don’t understand.”
    “The removal was not carried out by an authorized government agency. Residue within the syb ghost suggests the utilization of a renegade probe.”
    Flinx’s heart sank. “Then the information was destroyed.”
    “No. Transferred. The syb was removed, leaving only an echo behind. This is highly illegal. I must generate a report.”
    “Yes, yes,” Flinx commented hurriedly, “but first—can you trace the transfer? Can you find out where the information originally contained in the syb was sent?”
    “The echo has been very skillfully fabricated. Anyone attempting to access the sybfile would be fooled into believing that a legal transfer had taken place, or would activate the replacement alarms.”
    “But not you,” Flinx observed.
    “I am the Monitor. I am the Terran Shell. Counterfeits do not escape me. I shall examine the residue.”
    Flinx was left to ponder furiously. Who would want access to the kind of information the syb under investigation was likely to contain? And if these persons unknown had succeeded in accessing it successfully, why go to the trouble of removing it from the Shell? The fact that it was under Edict should be enough to discourage anyone else from tampering with the structure of the sybfile itself. Yet someone had gone to the trouble not only of circumventing the powerful prohibitions against accessing, but of removing the information and leaving alarms in its stead. Who would do such a thing? Who had the need, the desire, and the resources?
    The Meliorares? But the last of them had been selectively mind-wiped long ago. Their disgraced organization was but a memory, their intentions dishonored, their members scattered. Had the authorities missed unregistered disciples who were even now wandering about the Commonwealth, intent on resurrecting that long quiescent, notorious research? Who else would go to such trouble?
    “There is a trail. It is very faint,” the AI declared.
    “Can you trace it?” Flinx felt his hopes evaporating in the intangibility of cyberspace.
    “Not only faint,” the Shell AI continued as if it had not heard, “but cleverly disguised. There are many false echoes. However,” it added briskly, “while these have been fashioned with skill, they employ known commercial technology. I am reviewing options. This will take a few seconds.”
    Words appeared on the floating screen.
LARNACA NUTRITION.
Flinx stared at them. They were not supplemented.
    “This restricted sybfile that supposedly doesn’t exist, that was placed under Edict and was subsequently illegally lifted and replaced by sophisticated alarms, it was done by a
food company
?”
    “Do you wish me to examine the totality of the commercial concern identified as the transfer site?”
    “Yes, dammit!”
    “This will take a few nanoseconds. Yes—Larnaca Nutrition is a specialty foods concern with multiworld interests. Rated moderate to moderate-small within its industry. Makers of Caszin Chips, Havelock Power Bars, Poten . . .”
    An impatient, frustrated Flinx interrupted.
“What happened to the syb?”
    “The illegally removed information under discussion was transferred to the headquarters offices of the company in question and absorbed by its confidential industrial shell.”
    It was difficult for Flinx to imagine outlawed Meliorares working in the commercial food business. He decided to hypothesize motives later. “Where in the company shell is the file now? Can you access it?”
    “Processing.” After a pause that lasted longer than the customary few seconds, the AI replied. “The stipulated sybfile is not there. It was, but was almost immediately retransferred out.”
    Was there ever to be an end to this