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on death."
    "How about the fat man, there?" Maro asked. "Next to the wall, in the shade."
    "Ah, that's Berque. A slaver and organrunner. Ran a meat market on one of the wheelworlds, Jicha Mungo, I think, in the Bibi Arusi System. Bought and sold men, women, children, mues, standards—you name it. He's had a full round of implants himself: new liver, heart, lungs, spleen, kidneys, eyes, testicles. I understand he also developed a taste for long pig. His own best customer, before they caught up to him."
    "Nice," Maro said.
    "Yeah, don't say anything to him that you want kept secret from the warden.
    We're fairly sure he's a dip for the guards, but we can't pin him."
    "A lot of fun people here," Maro observed.
    Scanner laughed again. His voice took on a mock serious tone: "Yeah, this place is full of criminals!"
    "What about you, Scanner. Can I ask?"
    "Sure. I'm a circuit-rider; I do the electron dance. Sometimes you can get real deep into systems; you find out things you didn't want to know. Everybody's got secrets, and some of the worst ones belong to those with the most power. The only reason I'm alive is they know that when I die a White Radio relay clicks shut and some of those secrets get transferred to public places. But they want me out of the way until they can figure a way to dig out what I know and wipe it clean."
    "Nothing more than that?"
    Scanner grinned again, and tapped the droud. "Well, I also stole a few million standards here and there."
    Maro returned the grin. He liked Scanner; the man had a lot of rogue in him, just like his old mentor Vickers.
    The two of them moved toward the hard shade; the sun was too hot to endure any longer. Over near one wall Maro noted a small group of people—even through the shimmer of heat waves from the packed dirt he could see that their skins were covered with scales.
    Scanner noticed the direction of his gaze and said, "You'll want to watch out for the mue gangs. Probably they won't bother you once word gets out that you're tight with Sandoz, but accidents happen. They don't much like standard terran stock. There are three main gangs: the Wets, from Aqua; the Squats, from Vishnu; and the Scales, from Pentr'ado. The Scales are the worst, so stay clear if you see more than two of them together. They have a taste for blood, literally, and a couple of guys have been found real dry after a round with them."
    "I'll remember," Maro said.
    Standing in the shade helped somewhat, but it was still hot. The air was unstirred by any breeze, and there was little movement from the inmates as the sun passed directly overhead. Mostly everybody stood around marking time until it got cooler. There were perhaps three hundred men and women in the yard, and, according to Scanner, twice that many more doing work or freetime elsewhere in and around the prison. Fewer than a thousand souls, held in check by about a hundred guards. But those guards were well-armed and brutal, and led by a warden who had, according to Scanner, been responsible for the deaths of more than six dozen inmates in the last year.
    It was a good place to leave in a hurry, Maro thought. As soon as he could figure out how, he was gone.
    The sunlight dimmed. He glanced up in relief, only to see dark, angry clouds massing overhead. He felt a splash of warm water on his neck. It was beginning to rain.
    The new cooler arrived, and Stark inspected it as the technician stripped the packing away. A heavier model, this one, designed for tropical use, or so it was advertised. Once activated it would follow him any time he went outside, circulating streams of cool air around him in an attempt to combat the incessant heat. He could, he supposed, have bought a climatesuit, but they were bulky, expensive, and prone to malfunction even more so than coolers. No, the cooler would work well enough. And this one had an umbrella field built in that could be polarized to keep out both light and rain.
    Speaking of which, it was beginning to come