To Janie and Dan Armel,

with pleasant memories

of crustacea craft,

artillery practice,

slushes, bicycles,

lots of Crocketts,

roads that went nowhere

and never on Sunday.

On the night he had chosen months before, Malacar Miles crossed the street numbered seven, passing beneath the glowglobe he had damaged during the day.

All three of Blanchen's moons were below the horizon. The sky was slightly overcast, the few visible stars tiny and weak.

Glancing up and down the street, inhaling another puff of lung-conditioner, he moved forward. He wore a black garment with slit pockets, stat-sealed up the front. While crossing, he tested his pockets for access to the side-pacs. Having dyed his entire body black three days before, he was nearinvisible as he moved among shadows.

Atop the building across the street numbered seven, Shind sat, a two-foot ball of fur, unmoving, unblinking.

Before proceeding to Employee Entrance Four, he located three key points in the durrilide wall and deactivated their alarm devices without breaking the circuits. The door at Entrance Four took him longer; but within another fifteen minutes he stood inside the building. The darkness was complete.

Donning goggles and lighting his special torch, he moved ahead, passing through aisles containing identical pieces of machinery. In recent months, he had practiced dismantling and reassembling the proper sections of this particular piece of equipment.

_A human guard is passing in front of the building_.

_Thanks, Shind_.

After a time, _He is turning up the street you took_.

_Let me know if he does anything that seems unusual_.

_He is just walking, shining his light into shadows_.

_Tell me if he stops at any of the places I stopped before I came in_.