his hand. The hatch closed quietly behind him.
Gallow threw down his spoon. It caught the edge of his bowl and splattered Keel with stew. Gallow dabbed at Keel's tunic with his cloth, leaning across the rickety table.
"My apologies, Mr. Justice," he said. "I'm generally not so boorish. You ... excite me. Please, relax."
Keel nursed the ache in his knees and folded them under the short table.
Gallow tore a piece of bread from the loaf and handed Keel the rest.
"You have Scudi Wang prisoner?" Keel asked.
"Of course."
"And the young Islander, Norton?"
"He's with her. They are unharmed."
"It won't work," Keel said. "If you hinge your leadership on stealth and prisoners and murder then you set yourself up for a long reign of the same thing. No one wants to deal with a desperate man. Kings are made of better stuff."
Gallow's ears pricked at the word "king." Keel could see him trying it on his tongue.
"You're not eating, Mr. Justice."
"As I said before, I have a stomach problem."
"But you have to eat. How will you live?"
Keel smiled. "I won't."
Gallow set his spoon down carefully and dabbed at his lips with his cloth. He knit his smooth brow in an expression of concern.
"If you choose not to eat, you will be fed," Gallow warned. "Spare yourself that unpleasantry. You won't starve yourself out of my care."
"Choice has nothing to do with it," Keel said. "You snatched inferior merchandise. Eating causes pain, and the food merely passes undigested."
Gallow pushed himself back from the squat table.
"It's not catching, Mr. Gallow."
"What is it?"
"A defect," Keel said. "Our bioengineers helped me up to this point, but now the Greater Committee takes matters out of our hands."
"The Greater Committee?" Gallow asked. "You mean that there is a group topside more powerful than yours? A secret clan?"
Keel laughed, and the laugh added frustration and confusion to Gallow's otherwise perfect face.
"The Greater Committee goes by many names," Keel said. "They are a subversive bunch, indeed. Some call them Ship, some call them Jesus - not the Jesus Lewis of your school-day histories. This is a difficult committee to confront, as you can see. It makes the threat of death at your hands not much of a threat at all."
"You're ... dying?"
Keel nodded. "No matter what you do," he said, smiling, "the world will believe that you killed me."
Gallow stared at Keel for a long blink, then blotted his lips with the napkin. He extricated himself from the table.
"In that case," Gallow announced, "if you want to save those kids, you'll do exactly as I say."
***
... it comes to pass that the same evils and inconveniences take place in all ages of history.
- Niccolo Machiavelli, Discourses, Shiprecords
From his position at the foil's controls, Brett watched the late afternoon sun kindle a glow in the cloud bank ahead of him. The foil drove easily across deep storm swells, picking up speed on each downslope, losing a bit on each advancing wave. It was a rhythm that Brett had come to understand without conscious attention. His body and senses adjusted.
A gray wall of rain skulked a couple of hundred meters above the wavetops to the right. A line storm, it appeared to be rolling away from them.
Brett, his attention divided between the course monitor above him and the seas ahead, abruptly throttled back. The foil dropped off its step and moved with minimal headway beside a kelp bed that stretched away into the storm track.
The change in motion aroused the others, who, except for Bushka and the captive Merman, whom Bushka had locked in the cargo bay with the survivors of the LTA, were sprawled around the cabin catching what rest they could. Bushka sat in regal isolation on the couch at the rear of the cabin, his eyes oddly indrawn, his face a mask of concentration as he stroked a fragment of kelp that lay across his lap. The bit of kelp had come up from the sea on Twisp's rescue line and had attracted little attention until Bushka plucked it off and kept it.
Panille spoke from the copilot's seat as he came abruptly alert. "Something wrong?"
Brett indicated the green glow of their position on the course monitor. "We're only a couple of klicks out." He pointed at the line squall. "The outpost is in there."
Twisp spoke from behind them: "Bushka, you still going through with this?"
"I have no choice." Bushka's voice carried a distant tone. He stroked the fragment of kelp, which had begun to dry and crisp. It rasped under his