And the front door locked for good.

many frozen centuries to come. The jacket was fastened by a central button. I undid it, saw nothing except a curious thin leather strap running across the chest, undid a shirt button, another, and there it was, the same deadly little hole, the same powder-ringed evidence of point-blank firing staining the whiteness of the singlet. But in this case the powder marks were concentrated on the upper part of the ring, showing that the pistol had been-directed in a slightly downward angle. On a hunch, but still like a man in a dream, I eased him forward, and there, less like a bullet hole in the jacket than an inconsequential rip one might easily overlook, was the point of exit, matched by an equally tiny tear in the padding of the upholstered seat behind. At the time, that carried no special significance for me. Heaven knows that I was in no mental frame of mind at the moment, anyway, to figure anything out. I was like an automaton, the movements of which were controlled by something outside me. I felt nothing at the time, not even horror at the hideous thought that the man's neck might well have been cold-bloodedly broken after death to conceal its true cause. The leather strap across the man's chest led to a felt-covered holster under the arm. I took out the little dark snub-nosed automatic, pressed the release switch and shook the magazine out from the base of the grip. It was an eight shot clip, full. I replaced it and shoved the gun into the inside pocket of my parka. There were two inside breast pockets in the jacket. The left-hand one held another clip of ammunition, in a thin leather case. This, too, I pocketed. The right-hand pocket held only passport and wallet. The picture on the passport matched the face, and it was made out in the name of Lieut.-Colonel Robert Harrison. The wallet contained little of interesta couple of letters with an Oxford postmark, obviously from his wife, British and American currency notes and a long cutting that had been torn from the top half of a page of the New York Herald Tribune, with a mid-September date-mark, just over two months previously. For a brief moment I studied this in the light of my torch. There was a small, indistinct picture of a railway smash of some kind, showing carriages on a bridge that ended abruptly over a stretch of water, with boats beneath, and I realised that it was some kind of follow-up story on the shocking train disaster of about that time when a loaded commuters' train at Elizabeth, New Jersey, had plunged out over an opened span of the how to use slr digital camera bridge into the waters of Newark Bay. I was in no mood for reading it then, but I had the obscure, unreasonable idea that it might be in some way important. I folded it carefully, lifted up my parka and thrust the paper into my inside pocket, along with the gun and the spare ammo clip. It was just at that moment that I heard the sharp metallic sound coming from the front of the dark and deserted plane. CHAPTER FIVEMonday 6 P.M.7 P.M. For maybe five seconds, maybe ten, I sat there without moving, as rigid and motionless as the dead man by my side, bent right arm frozen in the act of folding the newspaper cutting into my parka pocket. Looking back on it, I can only think that my brain had been half numbed from too long exposure to the cold, that the shock of the discovery of the savagely murdered men had upset me more than I would admit even to myself, and that the morgue-like atmosphere of that chill metal tomb had affected my normally unimaginative mind to a degree quite unprecedented in my experience. Or maybe it was a combination of all three that triggered open the floodgates to the atavistic racial superstitions that lurk deep in the minds of all of us, the nameless dreads that can in a moment destroy the tissue veneer of our civilisation as if it had never been, and send the adrenalin pumping crazily into the bloodstream. However it was, I had only one thought in mind at that moment, no thought, rather, but an unreasoning blood-freezing certainty: that one of the dead pilots or the flight engineer had somehow risen from his seat and was walking back towards me. Even yet I can remember the frenzy of my wild, frantic hope that it wasn't the co-pilot, the man who had been sitting in the right-hand pilot's seat when the telescoping nose of the airliner had folded back on him, mangling him out of all human recognition. Heaven only knows how long I might have sat there, petrified in this superstitious horror, had the sound from the control cabin not repeated itself. But again I heard it, the same metallic scraping sound as someone moved around in the darkness among the tangled wreckage of the flight deck, and as the touch of an electric switch can turn a room from pitch darkness to the brightness of daylight, so this second sound served to recall me, in an instant, from the thrall of superstition and panic to the world of reality and reason, and I dropped

On a bedstead striped with bright-blue paint,

who's supposed to be on watch. . . . Anything on your mind, Captain?" "Yes. What were your instructions for to-night?" "Just to set you blokes down in Castelrosso when it was good and dark." The pilot paused, then said frankly, "I don't get it. A ship this size for only five men and a couple of hundred odd pounds of equipment. Especially to Castelrosso. Especially after dark. Last plane that came down here after dark just kept on going down. Underwater obstructiondunno what it was. Two survivors." "I know. I heard. I'm sorry, but I'm under orders too. As for the rest, forget itand I mean forget. Impress on your crew that they mustn't talk. They've never seen us." The pilot nodded glumly. "We've all been threatened with court-martial already. You'd think there was a ruddy war on." "There is. . . . We'll be leaving a couple of cases behind. We're going ashore in different clothes. Somebody will be waiting for our old stuff when you get back." "Roger. And the best of luck, Captain. Official secrets, or no official secrets, I've got a hunch you're going to need it." "If we are, you can give us a good send-off." Mallory grinned; "Just set us down in one piece, will you?" "Reassure yourself, brother," said the pilot firmly. "Just set your mind at ease. Don't forgetI'm in this ruddy plane too." The clamour of the Sunderland's great engines was still echoing in their ears when the stubby little motorboat chugged softly out of the darkness and nosed alongside the gleaming hull of the flying-boat. There was no time lost, there were no words spoken; within a minute the five men and all their gear had been embarked; within another the little boat was rubbing to a stop against the rough stone Navy jetty of Castelrosso. Two ropes went spinning up into the darkness, were caught and quickly secured by practised hands. Amidships, the rust-scaled iron ladder, recessed deep into the stone, stretched up into the star-dusted darkness above: as Mallory reached the top, a figure stepped forward out of the gloom. "Captain Mallory?" "Yes." "Captain Briggs, Army. Have your men wait here, will you? The Colonel would like to see you." The nasal voice, peremptory in its clipped affectation, was far from cordial. Mallory stirred in slow anger, but said nothing. Briggs sounded like a man who might like his bed or his gin, and maybe their late visitation was keeping him from either or both. War was hell. They were camera digital pc usb back in ten minutes, a third figure followIng behind them. Mallory peered at the three men standing on the edge of the jetty, identified them, then peered around again. "Where's Miller got to?" he asked. "Here, boss, here." Miller groaned, eased his back off a big, wooden bollard, climbed wearily to his feet. "Just restin', boss. Recuperatin', as you might say, from the nerve-rackin' rigours of the trip." "When you're all quite ready," Briggs said acidly, "Matthews here will take you to your quarters. You are to remain on call for the Captain, Matthews. Colonel's orders." Briggs's tone left no doubt that he thought the Colonel's orders a piece of arrant nonsense. "And don't forget, Captaintwo hours, the Colonel said." "I know, I know," Mallory said wearily. "I was there when he said it. It was to me he was talking. Remember? All right, boys, if you're ready." "Our gear, sir?" Stevens ventured. "Just leave it there. Right, Matthews, lead the way, will you?" Matthews led the way along the jetty and up interminable flights of steep, worn steps, the others following in Indian file, rubber soles noiseless on the stone. He turned sharply right at the top, went down a narrow, winding alley, into a passage, climbed a flight of creaking, wooden stairs, opened the first door in the corridor above. "Here you are, sir. I'll just wait in the corridor outside." "Better wait downstairs," Mallory advised. "No offence, Matthews, but the less you know of this the better." He followed the others into the room, closing the door behind him. It was a small, bleak room, heavily curtained. A table and half a dozen chairs took up most of the space. Over in the far corner the springs of the single bed creaked as Corporal Miller stretched himself out luxuriously, hands clasped behind his head. "Gee!" he murmured admiringly. "A hotel room. Just like home. Kinda bare, though." A thought occurred to him. "Where are all you other guys gonna sleep?" "We aren't," Mallory said briefly. "Neither are you. We're pulling out in less than two hours." Miller groaned. "Come on, soldier," Mallory went on relentlessly. "On your feet." Miller groaned again, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and looked curiously at Andrea. The big Greek was quartering the room

If in this heart a hope be dear,

was perturbed. Hed been deliberately tempting her, with as subtle a brand of flattery as shed ever been subjected to. Her respect for the Administration Officer reached a new level for she would never have thought him so devious. He was so completely devoted to Guild and Lanzecki. Youre asking me without Lanzeckis knowledge? She did not miss the sudden flare of Trags nostrils nor the tightening of his jaw muscles. Why, Trag? Your name was first on the list of qualified available singers. Stuff it, Trag. Why me? The interests of the Heptite Guild are best served by your acceptance. A hint of desperation edged Trags voice. You object to the relationship between Lanzecki and me? She had no way of knowing in what way Trag had adapted to Ballybrans symbiont or in what way he expressed thought that such respect required additional outlets. If jealously prompted Trag to remove a rival No. Trags denial was accompanied by a ripple of his facial muscles. Up till now, he has not allowed personal consideration to interfere with his judgment. How has he done that? Killashandra was genuinely perplexed. Trag was not complaining that Lanzecki had awarded her another valuable assignment. He was perturbed because he hadnt. I dont follow you. Trag stared at her for such a long moment she wondered if the screen had malfunctioned. Even if you just go to Rani, it will not be far enough away or long enough. Lanzecki is long overdue for a field trip, Killashandra Ree. Because of you. Your body is so full of resonance hes been able to delay. But your resonance is not enough. If youre not available, he will be forced to cut crystal again and rejuvenate his body and his symbiont. If you have a real regard for the man, go. Now. Before its too late for him. Killashandra stared back at Trag, trying to absorb the various implications foremost was the realization that Lanzecki was genuinely attached to her. She felt a wave of exultation and tenderness that quite overwhelmed her for a moment. Shed never considered that possibility. Nor its corollary: that Lanzecki would be reluctant to cut crystal because he might forget his attachment. A man whod been in the Guild as long as he had would be subject to considerable memory loss in the Ranges. Had he learned his duties as Guild Master so thoroughly that the knowledge was as ingrained in him as the rules and regulations in a crystal-mad brain like Moksoons? It was not Lanzeckis face long range digital camera that suddenly dominated her thoughts, but the crisscross tracings of old crystal scars on his body, the inexplicable pain that occasionally darkened his eyes. Antonas cryptic admission about singers who could not break crystal thrall echoed in her head. She puzzled at the assortment of impressions and suddenly understood. She sagged against the back and arms of her chair for support. Dully she wondered if Trag and Antona had been in collusion. Would the subject of crystal thrall have come up at that lunch hour even if Rimbol had not arrived? There was little doubt in Killashandras mind that Antona knew of Lanzeckis circumstances. And she did doubt that the woman knew about their relationship. She also doubted that Trag would mention so personal an aspect of the Guild Masters business. Why couldnt Lanzecki have been just another singer, like herself? Why did he have to be Guild Master and far too valuable, too essential to be placed in jeopardy by unruly affection? Why, the situation has all the trappings of an operatic tragedy! A genuine one-solution tragedy, where hero and heroine both lose out. For she could now admit to herself that she was as deeply attached to Lanzecki as he was to her. She covered her face with both hands, clasping them to cheeks gone chill. She thought of Antonas advice, to put down everything including love Killashandra writhed in her chair. Antona couldnt have known that Killashandra would so shortly be faced with such an emotional decision. Which, Killashandra realized with a flicker of ironic amusement, was one to be as deeply and quickly interred and forgotten as possible. One thing was sure no matter how long the journey to Optheria, it wouldnt be long enough to forget all the wonderful moments she had enjoyed with Lanzecki the man. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain of encountering him when she returned, and, perhaps, finding no recollection of her in his dark eyes. Nor feel his lips again on her hand Killashandra? Trags voice recalled her to his watching presence on the viewscreen. Now that I know the ramifications of the assignment, Trag, I can hardly refuse it. Her flippant tone was belied by the tears rolling down her cheeks. Do you go with him to break the thrall? she asked when her throat opened enough to speak again. At any other time, she would have counted Trags startled look as a signal of victory. Maybe if she found someone to sing with, she