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until we make it to the next street." He saw the doubt on her face. "Trust me. I've gotten out of worse scrapes than this."
           He walked to the airlift.
           "What are you doing?"
           "I've got to get the manuscript."
           "Five boxes? Do you know how heavy that will be?"
           "Then you can help me carry it."
           "What if we have to run?" she persisted. "I know what you think it's worth—but it's not worth a thing to us if they throw us in jail."
           "I'm not leaving without it. Look through the closets and see if there's something we can carry it in. Most of the boxes it's in now are falling apart."
           He returned a moment later, and found her waiting for him with a small overnight bag.
           "You're going to look damned silly walking through our neighbor's yard and down the street carrying that," she noted.
           "Not as silly as I'd look carrying three thousand pages in busted boxes," he replied, transferring the manuscript to the bag. "One thing I've learn over the years: act as if whatever you're doing, no matter how aberrant, is normal, and nobody will give you a second glance." He examined the bag. "Has this thing got a strap?"
           "I didn't see one."
           "Then let me rig something with one of our host's belts. I'll be a lot happier if I can sling it over my shoulder and have both hands free."
           "Why bother? As you pointed out, you're unarmed."
           "Don't get too melodramatic," he said. "I'm more likely to need my hands to solve a computer lock or even hold a sandwich than to shoot anyone."
           She walked to a closet, found a belt, and tossed it to him. "You got me into this," she said. "I hope to hell that you can get me out."
           "Just don't lose your head and you'll be fine."
           He connected both ends of the belt to the bag, slung it over his shoulder, was surprised at how heavy it was, and walked to the back door.
           "Okay," he said. "Take one last look to make sure they haven't moved, and then we'll leave."
           She walked to the window, peered out, then turned to him. "They're in the same place," she informed him.
           "Good," he said. "It's less than one hundred feet to all that shrubbery our neighbor planted at the back of his yard. See the tallest bush there? Just walk to it in a straight line from the back door, and I guarantee that no one on the street will be able to see you."
           "And when I get there?" she asked, staring at the bush.
           "I think there's room to walk around it on the left without getting tangled up in any thorns. Then walk straight through, and if anyone sees you just act like you've got a perfect right to be there. I promise no one will challenge you."
           "What if someone does?"
           "Not to worry—I'll be right behind you."
           "Then what?"
           "Then we walk to the nearest public conveyance, take it to the spaceport, and figure out a way to get the hell off this dirtball."
           "Have you got any money?"
           "You know I do. You saw me getting paid at the Golden Fleece."
           "Then let's take a private aircab to the spaceport," she said. "For all you know, our faces are plastered all over the public transports."
           He considered her suggestion, then nodded his assent. "Yeah, probably we're safe either way, but there's no sense taking chances."
           "If we're safe, why are the police watching the house?"
           "If they thought there was even a one in a hundred chance that Danny Briggs was in the house, they'd have blown the door away and come after me," answered Dante confidently. "They're the crime prevention unit, not the criminal catchers." He opened the back door. "Now let's go."
           The Duchess walked out into the warm dry air and he followed her. They made it to the