"First tell me who you are," she said.

"I'm Frank Compton," I said. "I live here."

"Prove it."

Prove it so that she would put away the gun? Or prove it to confirm that I was the guy she'd come here to shoot? I glanced around the room again, looking for some clue as to what was going on.

It was only then that I noticed that the layer of dust that should have been covering everything was not, in fact, actually there. I took a third, longer, look, this time spotting the fact that the stack of magazines and unanswered mail on the tea table had been subtly shifted since my last brief time at home.

Which suggested that the woman facing me hadn't simply nipped in five minutes ahead of me, hoping I'd show up and play skeet for her. She had, in fact, moved in.

"What, you've been here this long and haven't looked through my photo albums?" I asked, focusing on the woman again.

Her lips compressed briefly. "No, I have," she conceded. "Mr. Compton, I need your help."

I shook my head. "I never discuss business when there's a gun pointed at me."

Slowly, she lowered the weapon. It was my Glock, all right. "My name's Lorelei Beach," she said. "My sister's in trouble."

"Sorry to hear that," I said. "What does that have to do with me?"

"She's trapped on New Tigris," she said. "I need your help to get her out."

"How do you get trapped on New Tigris?" I asked, walking over to the couch and sitting down. My carrybags followed, rolling to a halt by the corner of the tea table.

"I mean she can't get out," she said with a flash of impatience. "There are some bad people trying to find her, and they're watching the spaceport."

And New Tigris had only one spaceport, or at least only one place where torchships were legal to land. "She owe them money?" I asked.

"Of course not," Lorelei said, a bit stiffly.