Lieutenant Rembrandt checked her communicator. Its readout showed Galactic Standard Time as 21:29-half an hour until the shuttle carrying the last of Phule's legionnaires was scheduled to leave. So far, everything had gone as well as anyone could have expected-she was almost tempted to describe it as having been done with military precision, except she knew the military far too well. The company's heavy equipment was already in transit, and would be waiting in orbit when they arrived at Landoor. And almost all the Legion personnel were already on the transport ship.

            It was the "almost" that had her worried.

            She had a very good idea which members of the company would show up at the last minute. The captain was one of them-no surprise there at all. He was still at the casino, settling the last details of the withdrawal. Nor was she particularly disturbed to see that the captain's butler had not checked in. As a civilian, Beeker was of course not subject to Legion discipline or rules. Most likely, the butler was with his employer-or on an errand for him. Still, he was normally punctuality itself; it would be a real surprise if he missed the shuttle.

            On the other hand, the absence of Sushi and Do-Wop was some cause for concern, predictable though it was. Whenever there was trouble, one or the other was likely to be in it up to his ears. This time it looked as if both were involved. They'd never missed a ship, to her knowledge-not yet, at least. But they were an excellent bet to come racing up at the last possible second, with someone or another in hot pursuit. She hoped she wouldn't have to slam the shuttle door in a security officer's face. She'd spent so much time building a positive image for the company, it'd be a shame to leave the station on that sort of note.

            But with half an hour to go, she might as well spend the time doing something other than worrying. She pulled out the art history book she'd been reading. She'd never had much interest in the old twentieth-century "moderns"-it seemed curious to call them that, so long after they were all dead and gone-but the author was making a good case that Picasso was, after all, a very talented draughtsman. She turned to where she'd left off and began reading...