I scratched thoughtfully at my cheek. That certainly jibed with the low status accorded to Ghonsilya by my encyclopedia's planetary info listing. There was a local government, of course, but I'd already noted how many of the walkers were government oathlings.
It also jibed with the Modhri's known urgency regarding the Lynx. He'd had several hours to collect his troops, and there was no particular reason for him to have kept any of them in reserve. Especially since being stingy that way might enable me to slip away from him. "If you're right, it would just leave Gargantua and his remaining Halkan buddy in relative working order," I said.
"And they won't be of much use to him for at least the rest of the night, either," Fayr considered. "Of course, when it comes time for us to leave the system, it will be a far different story. He'll have time to alert walkers from other worlds and bring them to the Quadrail station long before you can return there by torchliner."
"One problem at a time," I said. "What's so interesting at the art museum?"
"You'll understand when you see it," he said. "In the meantime, who are Daniel Stafford and Daniel Mice?"
"Daniel Stafford is a person of extreme interest," I said. "Both to the Modhri and to Earth's EuroUnion Security Service."
"How so?"
"I told you I met the late owner of one of the Lynx sculptures, a Mr. Rafael Künstler. The general consensus is that Daniel Stafford is probably the one actually in possession of the Lynx at the moment."
The color in Fayr's facial stripes seemed to deepen. "And Daniel Mice?"
"Mr. Künstler's dying words," I told him. "The Modhri believes that's the alias Stafford is running under at the moment."
"You don't think it is?"
"I know it isn't," I assured him.
"Do you know the correct name?"
"Very likely," I said. "I'm not entirely sure, but I think so."
Fayr pondered a moment. "Perhaps we won't need a name," he said. "You know what this Human looks like?"
I nodded. "Unfortunately, so does the Modhri."
"The Modhri is not particularly good at distinguishing between Human faces," Fayr said thoughtfully. "At any rate, for the moment at least we have the initiative. We must do our best to reach the Lynx before he does."
"For whatever that'll gain us," I said. "Best guess at the moment is that he's already picked up all the other sculptures."
"No," Fayr murmured. "Not all of them."
I was about to ask what he meant by that when the draped fabric on the other couch gave a soft ping. "Someone approaches," Fayr said, his voice suddenly clipped and professional as he bounced to his feet. "Quickly—under the cloakcloth," he continued, pointing to the drape with one hand as he drew one of his guns with the other. "I'll get Bayta."
He was only a couple of steps along the path when the door opened and Bayta slipped hurriedly back into the room. "There's a police car coming this way," she announced tightly.
"Under the cloakcloth," Fayr ordered her, reversing direction back to the couch. Taking the edge of the cloth from me, he pulled it over and up. Bayta sat down beside me and he sat down on her other side, draping the cloth over all three of us.
And a taut silence descended on the room. "What is this?" Bayta whispered, gingerly touching the inside of the cloth.
"Cloakcloth," Fayr told her, his voice low, his eyes on a row of small red lights built into his edge of the cloth. "It absorbs our infrared signatures and shifts them so that detectors will read us as Tra'ho'seej."
"Clever," I murmured. Of course, these particular Tra'ho'seej were supposed to be out of town. I hoped this wasn't one of those areas where citizens had to register their travels with the local police database. "What about your own sensors?" I asked, nodding toward his row of lights.
"Passive detectors only," he assured me. "Slender wires pressed into the ground in various places around this neighborhood. Virtually undetectable."
The uncomfortable silence resumed. I looked sideways at Bayta's profile, at her tight cheek muscles and her eyes focused on the piece of cloakcloth directly in front of her.
Make the time, Fayr had all but ordered me. And he'd been right. Conflict between allies was potentially disastrous. "Bayta—"
"He wouldn't have hurt her," she interrupted me, her voice as stiff as her expression. "He wouldn't risk losing the advantage she gives him. You should have just kept quiet."
I sighed. So now we had two problems to deal with. "You're mad at me for caving in so easily?" I asked, deciding to deal with the simpler one first.
"The oathlings have already begun the search," she said. "The effects of Korak Fayr's sunburst grenade won't interrupt that. By now probably hundreds of nonwalker oathlings will have joined the effort."
"Good for them," I said. "The more of Ghonsilya's official attention is tied up looking for a mythical Human named Daniel Mice, the less they'll have left to focus on us."
Her eyes flicked reluctantly sideways toward me. "Are you saying Mr. Stafford's not on Ghonsilya?"
"Oh, he's here, all right," I assured her. "Or at least, he was—it's possible he's flown the coop. But he's not traveling under the name Mice."
"A modification of the word, then?" Fayr suggested.
I shook my head. "I don't think Künstler was trying to give me Stafford's traveling name," I said. "I think he was going for something else."
"What?" Bayta asked.
"Think about it," I said. If the Chahwyn were going to kick me out, Bayta needed to work on her detective and deduction skills. "Stafford's supposedly been spinning his wheels through umpteen years of college, taking every class in the catalog, refusing to graduate, and meanwhile spending buckets of money along the way. What sort of parents put up with that?"
"Rich ones," Bayta said. She still sounded cross, but I could hear a growing interest in her voice. "Agent Morse's report said his father was one of Mr. Künstler's business managers."
"Who undoubtedly has better things to do with his money than support a lazy professional student," I said. "But the report also said Stafford continues to have a good relationship with his parents, with no indication they've ever given him any graduate-or-else ultimatums."
"Someone else is funding his education," Fayr said suddenly.
"Exactly," I said. "And once we have that, we can look at his course work with a new eye. Bayta, do you remember the list of the majors Stafford's gone through?"
"Agent Morse's report listed business, economics, electronics, medical technology, history, psychology, art appreciation, alien sociology, and advertising," Bayta said, frowning in concentration.
"What do all those taken together add up to?" I prompted. "Considering especially that Künstler's business empire includes medical equipment and a wide range of electronics products and services."
"That Mr. Stafford is being prepared to be a manager of an interstellar business?"
"Bingo," I confirmed. "Only he isn't being prepped to be a manager. He's being prepped to be the manager."
Bayta swiveled around to look at me. "Are you saying …?"
"I am indeed," I said, nodding. "The whole Stafford name and family identity have been a scam right from square one. Probably a deal Künstler worked out with his manager before Daniel was born."
"Mr. Künstler wasn't saying Daniel Mice," Bayta said, her voice tight. "He was trying to say Daniel, my son."
"You've got it," I said. "Daniel Stafford is, in reality, Daniel Künstler."
There was a long moment of silence as Bayta and Fayr did their individual siftings through the potential implications of that revelation. "We must make certain the Modhri never learns that truth," Fayr said at last.
"Absolutely," I agreed. Whenever the Modhri decided to make a full-bore move against humanity, the young heir to a trillion-dollar estate would be high on his list of potential targets. "A more immediate concern at the moment is that it will eventually occur to him that all he has to do is get the cops to haul in every Human on Ghonsilya for a visual check against Morse's picture. There can't be that many of us here."