"Better than me?" "Everyone is, diGriz, everyone. Report to me when you learn anything." He hung up, and knowing him, was probably already back to sleep. At flank speed a Special Corps cruiser can outrun—or catch—anything else in space. Time still dragged. I kept busy for some hours as I hacked my way into the local police computer network, a terribly simple job. Once this was done we had no trouble discovering the identities of the church—goers that we had photographed. Nor, after cracking into their totally secret bank records, were we surprised to discover that all of them were filthy rich. The Seekers of the Way, like the followers of the Temple of Eternal Truth, were expected to part with a good few credits if they were to get the blessing of the church and peek in at the joys of the hereafter.

We took turns at the monitor screen and tried not to drink too much when we weren't watching it. I had just returned from doing forty laps in the pool when Bolivar jumped to his feet and shouted "Wow!"

James and I cracked our heads together as we jumped to look at the screen.

"Wow is indeed right," I said. "Even double—wow. Not only is he not of the female persuasion but he looks very familiar."

"Starkey—Fanyimadu?"

"None other."

"He has his right hand in his pocket," Bolivar said.

"So would you," James answered with cold lack of compassion, "if your arm ended at the wrist."

As if in reply the subject lifted his right arm to wave to a parishioner. "Pretty good prosthetic," I said.

"And done pretty fast as well," Bolivar added with more than a trace of suspicion in his voice. "First chance I have I would like to shake hands with that particular villain."

Something caught my attention, a movement of air—a sound perhaps. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the hail door, securely locked and bolted, was now standing open. A woman stepped through and closed it behind her.