"Another, ser?" the guard asked, appearing by Jordan's seat.
"I could stand it," Jordan said. "Paul?"
"Yes," Paul said. And after the guard had walked down the aisle toward the bar: "You can't complain about the service."
"Sun off the right," Jordan observed. They were reaching cruising altitude again, after refueling at, he supposed, Pytho. In the dark. But the dawn-glow was visible ahead of the plane; and ever so slightly to the right.
From Pytho the plane could have gone to Novgorod or to Reseune. If it held course as they bore, it was Reseune—which was not, he was sure, any sort of good news.
Paul took his meaning. Paul was steady as ever, his support through the years; and now.
He wanted to see Reseune: it was strange that he could feel that way. But it was part of his life; it was civilization; and he was in some part glad to be going home. He hoped to see Justin.
He feared—much worse things.
"We've picked up a tailwind," one of the guards had said, in his better-than-average hearing. "We're going to beat our schedule."
The tunnels afforded few hiding places, only nooks, the dim recess of the news-shop; that took money to enter but the crowded doorway offered Justin a brief refuge and a vantage to scan the tunnel up and down. Then another public restroom, and a quick shave: he had kept the shaving kit and left the damned keycard; but he was afraid to stay there long—
The crowd in a restaurant, the general drift toward another corridor—another appeal to a shopkeeper: "Can I use your phone? I was robbed: I need to call my office—"
"Better call the police," the shop-owner said.
"No," Justin said; and seeing the look of suspicion on the man's face: "Please."
"Police," the man said into the receiver.
Justin turned and left, moving quickly into the crowds, dodging away, heart pounding. The strength the breakfast had lent him was gone. He felt the stiffness and the sprains, and his skull ached. He found himself farther down the corridor than he had thought, found another gap in his memory; and looked behind him in panic.
There were police at the intersection. He saw them look his way.
He turned back again and dived down a stairs: Subway, it said. He jostled past other walkers, came out at the bottom.
"Hey," someone yelled behind him.
He ran, out onto the concrete rim, evaded a headon collision and dodged around a support column.
People dived away from him, scrambled out of the way in panic: the whole strip was vacant. "Stop right there!" a voice thundered behind him, and screams warned him of a weapon drawn.
He dodged wildly aside and something slammed like a fist into his back; but he saw safety ahead—saw the black of Reseune Security, a man yelling: "Don't shoot!" and a gun in that man's hand too, aimed toward him.
But a numbness was spreading from his shoulder across his back, and balance went. He fell on the concrete, conscious, but losing feeling in his limbs.
"I'm Justin Warrick," he said to the black-uniformed officer who knelt down to help him. "Call Ari Emory."
And: "No," he heard the officer say, not, he thought, to him: "This man is a Reseune citizen. He's under our authority. File your complaints with my captain."
They wanted to take him to hospital. They wanted to take him to the Novgorod police station. They told him that it had not been a bullet but a high-velocity trank dart that had penetrated his shoulder: "I'm very glad to know that," he said, or tried to say, past the numbness of his mouth. And was equally relieved when the agent told him they had reached Ari, and that RESEUNE ONE, already on the runway, had turned back to hold for him.