CHANGE OF COMMAND, by Jean Lorrah

The meeting should have been under way five minutes ago.

It’s not like Edgar Wolfe to be late, thought Lyria Melladin just as the lights went out, to the rumbling accompaniment of the emergency door slamming.

At the stomach-sinking lurch of zero-gee, everyone in the small room grabbed at their chairs. “Just hang on,” said Lyria into the darkness. “Emergency lighting will be on in a moment.”

But it wasn’t. Utter blackness continued, the only light the tricks their eyes played, creating patterns on the retina.

The terminal before Lyria should have been lit, but it wasn’t. The hiss of the ventilators had stopped. There was no sound but six people’s breathing.

With that many people in such a small room, the oxygen supply would soon be depleted. Wrapping her legs around her chair, Lyria said, “I’ll see if I can raise anyone.”

She knew her terminal blindfolded—a good thing at this moment. Playing over the power switches, she expected the screen to glow to life. Nothing happened. She told herself the choking sensation was imagination; not enough time had passed for the air to be running out…or had it?

“Mr. Benrum,” she said to the Vergian navigator, “how much time has passed since the power failure?”

“2.18 minutes.”

“Ms. Welton, how much time do we have?”

“Eight minutes of consciousness, maybe. A few more minutes before brain damage… or death.”

Lyria felt odd, unable to react to the thought. She went on automatically, “We are cut off. If the entire ship is not dead, we have eight minutes to attract attention.” Perhaps I’m going to die, too.

“This room is soundproof and thought-shielded,” said Welton.

“The door?” Benrum suggested.

“If we could bang on it,” said Welton, “the vibration might carry. In fact, if we can pound on anything—”

Vron, the Arcadian chief accountant, said, “I can maneuver in free fall. Stay near the floor, lest we fall if gravity returns.”

Before they could move, however, emergency lighting came on. MacGregor, the second vice-chairman, gave such a start that he floated up from his chair, arms and legs flailing grotesquely. In a fluid motion, Vron rose beside him, captured him, and reseated him, saying, “Hold on. They’ll have gravity back on at any moment.”

The hiss of ventilators began first—then suddenly there was “up” and “down” again, and the world returned to normal. The door slid open to admit Edgar Wolfe, who demanded, “Are you all right? I’ve never seen a failure like that. Everything was out—even the computer!”

“The whole ship?!” asked Welton.

“No—just the board room. When I couldn’t get in, or raise you, I started investigating.”

MacGregor was sweating now, reacting after the fact. “A good thing,” he said shakily. “You saved our lives.”

“Lyria,” said Welton, “I’ll get on it right away. I can’t imagine what could have caused such a failure.”

“Engineering’s working on it,” said Wolfe.

“Then wait please, Jane,” said Lyria. “Our meeting will be brief, and then it will be…all over.”

The meeting had only one order of business: the final report on the death of Captain William Reading. Until the Board appointed a new Captain, who would bring with him his own Secretary, it was still Lyria’s job to verify what went into the log.

No one sat in the Captain’s chair. Ranged around the table were Vron, Chief Accountant and First Vice-Chairman; Benrum, the Vergian Chief Navigator; and the humans who made up most of the officers as their species made up most of the crew: Ian MacGregor, looking more like a grizzled spacer than Second Vice-chairman; Edgar Wolfe, young, energetic, Vice-Chairman in charge of Sales and one of the most successful salesmen the Corporation had; Ship’s Engineer Jane Welton; and Katrina Sharf, Purchasing Agent.

Benrum presented a sheaf of printouts. “Captain Reading was a capable navigator,” he said gravely, his kewpie doll features almost unrecognizable without his usual sunny smile. Vergians were the friendliest, most likable race of intelligent beings known to humans. Their natural buoyancy and love of life made them popular on Corporation starships.

Lyria had never seen Benrum so serious. The usual vivid blue of his skin was gray with sorrow as he said, “I have checked and rechecked the orbit Captain Reading calculated for his shuttle—it could not have resulted in that crash.”

Welton reported, “Engineering studied everything that was left of the shuttle. The malfunction must have been in a part that was completely destroyed in the accident.”

“You conclude that it was an accident?”

“There was no sign of sabotage. Every molecule of substance in the shuttle is accounted for.”

“Is everyone agreed that it was an accident, then?” asked Vron.

Lyria wondered why he stressed that. The evidence had been studied yesterday, after computer enhancement had failed to decipher the flight recording. Today’s meeting was a mere formality. “Do you have new information to offer, Mr. Vron?” she asked.

The Arcadian’s great yellow eyes studied her dispassionately. “No, I have nothing to add.”

Vron spoke Standard fluently, but it was necessary to listen to him carefully, as his voice was designed for song, not speech. His race were telepaths, for whom sound was a medium for abstract art. When Vron spoke, he sometimes allowed melodic considerations to outweigh vocal inflection.

Lyria was glad the Arcadian did not wish to lengthen the discussion. Surprisingly, neither did MacGregor. He usually had some trivial matter to bring up—mostly, Lyria thought, because he would otherwise have nothing to say. Today, though, everyone wanted the painful job done quickly. Probably they also wanted to get out of the board room until Engineering could verify its safety.

They filed out silently. Everyone had offered condolences to Lyria earlier, at the memorial service. This final meeting was an embarrassment as far as the Captain’s Secretary was concerned. They would all be at the next ship’s board meeting. Lyria would not.

Outside the board room, a team from Engineering had torn a panel from the wall. Jane Welton joined them, saying to a rather pretty young woman, “Hardin, what are you doing here? You’re confined to quarters.”

“It’s an emergency,” the woman replied.

“What did she do?” Ed Wolfe asked.

“Hacked her way past the codes into records she’s not cleared for,” Welton told him.

“It was only to reach the ship’s library,” Hardin protested. “What do you care what I read in my leisure time?”

Welton gave Hardin a warning glare and continued, “During the last emergency, we had to page the whole ship for her. She’s a brilliant engineer, but a real discipline problem.”

The young woman in question looked annoyed, but did not miss the opportunity to flash Wolfe a smile. Two of a kind, Lyria thought, although Ed Wolfe seemed to be overcoming his youthful indiscretions and settling into responsibility. Bill had had high hopes for him.

She hurried away from the scene, avoiding a public display of her feelings. The “last emergency” Welton had mentioned was Bill’s death.

Ian MacGregor was standing hesitantly in the corridor, looking toward the scene in front of the board room. He still looked pale. “Are you all right, Ian?” Lyria asked.

“Oh, yes—of course,” he replied brusquely, and turned down another corridor toward the flight deck.

Back in her quarters, Lyria set about packing, another way of postponing having to think. Finally, however, she could put it off no longer. She had to decide what to do now that Bill was dead. For the past five years, neither of them had thought of a future without the other.

She sat quietly staring at the small pile of objects that summed up her life: her contract, voided by Bill’s death; her identification card; her bank card and credit stamp; her stock certificates. That was it, the story of a lifetime.

No…one more thing. Slowly, she removed the stargem ring from her left hand, placing it on the pile. Now that Bill was gone, it no longer symbolized commitment; it was just another asset.

Numbly, she spoke into the computer. “Request value estimate.”

“1038 CR ± 98.”

She could live for a year on that. With her abilities, she would have a new position well before a year was up. She was certain, in fact, that the Corporation would give her a job aboard another starship. A good Secretary never lacked work, and she had been a Ship’s Secretary. Some other executive officer would certainly want someone with her experience.

The door buzzed. “Come in,” she said mechanically.

When the door opened, and she heard no footstep before the sound of it sliding shut again, she looked toward the outer cabin and saw Vron standing there. He moved so quietly because Arcadians could not wear shoes over their claw-like feet.

“Yes, Mr. Vron?” she asked politely. The chief accountant would not intrude on her without a purpose; he was the most private person on board.

“Ms. Melladin.” Lyria concentrated on his melodious tone, seeking something on which to focus her mind. He continued, “I have received a message from the Board. They have placed me in command of this ship.”

Lyria nodded. “An obvious decision; you were second-in-command. Congratulations.”

The Arcadian’s yellow eyes blinked. “The Corporation has never before given a non-human command. I did not expect it.”

“Oh, you’ll manage,” she said casually, wishing he would leave so she could return to her state of numbness.

“No, I do not think so.”

Words and inflection matched in flat-ness. Lyria stared at the Arcadian, but there was nothing to be told from his face. Except for those which opened and shut eyes and mouth, there seemed to be no muscles in it. His head, shaped much like a human’s, was covered with the same velvet fur as the rest of him. Only the fur saved him from appearing reptilian. His large yellow eyes had pupils that opened and shut like a cat’s, closing to an unreadable slit in bright light. Not that they were readable now, even though they were open almost to circles in the subdued light of Lyria’s quarters.

Below the eyes, Vron’s face was a flat ovoid: no nose, no lips, although the slitted mouth could form words. It could not smile or sneer, though. Lyria had heard that telepaths like the Arcadians had no need of facial expressions.

“You…don’t think you will succeed as Captain?” she asked in surprise.

“Not without help,” he replied. “Please, Ms. Melladin, may I consult with you?”

Curiosity—the first feeling to penetrate the lid she had capped over her grief—made her say, “Yes, of course. Please come in. Sit down…Captain.”

Vron took her desk chair, turned it and sat straddling it, facing her, his arms resting on the back. It was the only way an Arcadian could sit comfortably in a contour chair designed for humans. Otherwise, his wings got in the way.

They were not bird or bat wings, but membranes like those of the flying fox, stretching from the outer edge of either hand in great folds of skin, down the arms, the sides of the body, legs, and feet. In the confines of a starship they were nonfunctional and immensely inconvenient—the reason, no doubt, that Lyria had never heard of another Arcadian working in such an environment.

“Ms. Melladin,” said Vron, “I know you plan to leave the Venture. Have you another position waiting?”

“No, but I’ll find one easily enough.”

“Would you consider remaining aboard, as my Secretary?”

“I don’t think that would work out,” she said, not knowing why she refused so automatically until Vron replied.

“Then you do expect me to fail.”

She looked into the unreadable face. “I had not truly considered it.”

“But you know how the Board of Directors thinks. When I received my notice, I had to stop and consider why the Board chose me over the available human officers. You, a human, perceive it without having to reason it out.”

“And how do you think the Board reached its decision?” she asked, curious again.

“There are two human officers who could have been promoted over me. MacGregor was third-in-command, but he is nearing retirement. He has years of experience, yet has never risen beyond third on any ship. He has already realized his full potential. Wolfe, on the other hand, has great potential, but is too young to be given his own ship.

“My executive ability has never been tested, but I am a reliable accountant. The Board undoubtedly expects me to maintain business until Wolfe matures enough for command. If I fail soon, MacGregor can take over temporarily. If I simply do not succeed very well, the Board will phase me out in a year or two, when Wolfe is ready.”

“And what if you should succeed?” asked Lyria.

“You admit that possibility?”

“I didn’t think you understood human thought processes so well, Vron. You just might succeed. What do you think the Board would do then?”

“They have already set a precedent with my promotion. If the Venture turns a profit, I don’t think the Board Members will care who is in command.”

Lyria studied him. “Do you want the job?”

“No.”

“Then…?”

“I do not wish to be phased out. If I refuse the promotion…you know the Board’s opinion of such an attitude.”

“Yes. They would find a way to get rid of you.”

“So I must succeed at command…or leave the Venture. I do not wish to leave.”

Lyria wondered why. Life among humans deprived the Arcadian both mentally and physically. A telepath had to keep constant blocks against the mental static of non-telepaths, while a winged man—

“Aren’t you very uncomfortable on board a starship?”

“Uncomfortable? Ah, you mean being unable to fly. It is inconvenient, but acceptable. I exercise regularly…and I have learned not to go about knocking things over. I have no intention of leaving the Venture if I can avoid it. Ms. Melladin…why this concern?”

“Curiosity,” she explained. “I suppose it is also curiosity that prompts me to agree to remain as Ship’s Secretary.”

Vron’s face showed nothing, but something in his musical voice suggested relief. “Thank you. Please write yourself a generous contract. I shall depend heavily on your expertise. You should be suitably compensated.”

“So that I won’t decide to work against you?” Such was the power of the Ship’s Secretary—and the reason that a new Captain always brought his own trusted Secretary with him.

“Under Captain Reading,” said Vron, “the Venture has seen little infighting. Your reputation for honesty and discretion matches Bill’s. I assume that if you could not accept without reservation, you would tell me so.”

She noticed his use of Bill’s first name. The Arcadian was always studiously formal. Was there a friendship there she had not known of?

“You’re right,” she said. “I would refuse.”

“Then I shall rely on you. You were most efficient when the power failed in the board room today. Your calm command of the situation prevented panic.”

“Thank you…but I wasn’t really calm. I didn’t care that much if I died.”

“I hope you will once more recognize the value of your life, Ms. Melladin.”

“Value,” she said sardonically. “Yes, I can be of value to you, to the Corporation. For the time being, perhaps that will be enough.”

“I did not mean monetary value,” said Vron.

“I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. I haven’t been thinking straight since Bill’s death. Work should enable me to get back to normal.” She thought a moment. “Normally, I would have ordered a scan of the board room after today’s incident, before the Engineering crew were allowed in.”

“A scan of the interior? Except for the terminal operator, no one in the room could have caused the power to be shut off…and you did not cause it, did you?”

“No…but I want to find out what did.”

“Order the scan, then,” said Vron, “and let me know if you find anything unusual.”

* * * *

The board room looked as it had when they left it. As the furniture was immovable, Lyria could not tell if it had been cleaned until she ducked to see the fingerprints across the table’s shiny surface. Good. She was not too late to find any evidence the room had to offer.

Sitting at the terminal, Lyria watched the information play across the screen. Nothing on the ceiling. Oil, sweat, soap, lotions, normal and easily identified substances on the table, chairs, and lower walls. The floor yielded a few more items: a staple, a hairpin, several threads, innumerable hairs, a stylus…and a capsule.

A capsule?

“Identify and scan for fingerprints,” Lyria directed.

It was an oxygen capsule…bearing Ian MacGregor’s fingerprints.

She remembered MacGregor’s startled thrashing when the lights returned. Caught in the act of taking the capsule? Why did he have one? Had he expected the power failure?

Lyria called up MacGregor’s medical records. There it was: emphysema from a compression failure fourteen years ago, not severe enough for a medical pension or to require treatment other than occasional oxygen. Presumably he would always carry capsules, and today fright must have made him feel the same choking sensation she had—especially with his memories of a compression failure.

But the lights had definitely startled him. Guilt? Perhaps, for the capsule would give him—

“How long could a seventy-five-kilo human male survive on such a capsule with no other source of oxygen?” she asked the computer.

“Thirty to thirty-eight minutes,” came the toneless reply.

So he had nervously dropped the capsule, probably hoping no one would notice that he could have had extra time had rescue been delayed.

At that moment, Lyria Melladin wanted more than anything to believe she understood exactly what had happened. The power failure was an accident, just as Bill’s death was an accident. MacGregor’s reactions were due to bad memories.

But she could not let it go at that. Suppose Bill had been murdered?

Benrum had said he checked the orbit Captain Reading calculated. At the meeting, Lyria’s mind had not been working. Now it was. Was the orbit he calculated the one programmed into the shuttle’s console?

She spoke the proper codes to release the information. Her fingers played over the console, seeking the clues to whether the program had been falsified. It had been, very skillfully. Who could do such a thing? Who had the skill? She had. Vron had. Ian MacGregor definitely did not.

Edgar Wolfe. The only ship’s executive who had not been in the board room also had the skill to substitute another shuttle orbit for the one Bill had calculated.

Lyria put the two orbits side by side on the screen. The false one ran so close to the correct one until the last few seconds that the man in the shuttle would have discovered his danger too late for manual override.

Oh, Bill!

Edgar Wolfe had the knowledge, and the motive. With Bill out of the way, he stood a good chance of promotion to Captain. But why today’s incident? To get rid of the other candidates? Again her fingers flew, seeking beneath the carefully coded programming to find out how all power to this one room had failed—including power to the computer, whose source was independent of the life-support systems.

The Engineering crew had found a short circuit where the two systems came together. Now Lyria found that it had been programmed to short out.

Sorrow and anger vying for supremacy, she rose to seek out Vron, to tell him what Wolfe had done. In the corridor, she almost collided with Jenny Hardin. “Sorry,” she said brusquely, ignoring Hardin’s startled look as she hurried past.

Vron’s cabin door opened to her palm, but Vron wasn’t there. She had never been in the Arcadian’s quarters before. They were starkly simple—nothing for wings to knock over or get caught on. The only personal touch was a startling one: the entire back wall was one huge mirror. Then she realized, at least partially, the kind of claustrophobia a man born to fly must feel within the confines of a starship.

As she entered the main area, an angry buzzing arose from off to her right. Startled, she turned to see a glass case full of swarming, insect-like creatures. Definitely not the kind of pets she would want!

Stepping to the desk, she was about to use the intercom to locate Vron when her eye fell on a pile of printouts. The top sheet showed the same two orbits she had gotten from the computer only minutes before. She leafed through them: Vron had recorded her investigation! Not only that; he had made permanent copies.

Why? Did he distrust her?

Or…was Vron the murderer? He, after all, had become Captain through Bill’s death. He had the ability to program the computer to kill. Had he asked for her help to divert suspicion?

Had Vron expected to be the only survivor of the power failure? What was the Arcadian rate of oxygen consumption? She was about to ask the computer when the door opened and Vron swept in. “Lyria! I got a call that you were injured, and then when I got there—”

“I’ll bet!” she said angrily. “Don’t bother to lie, Vron. What’ve you been doing—planting more evidence against Ian MacGregor or Edgar Wolfe? You don’t have to kill anyone else—you’ve got the Captaincy.”

“What are you saying?”

“Are you going to kill me? That would be pretty hard to explain, wouldn’t it? Right here in your own cabin?”

“Why don’t you sit down and tell me what makes you think I would want to kill you?”

For the first time, Lyria found herself able to read the Arcadian’s tone of voice: enforced calm over bewildered hurt. It stopped her panicked tirade, and she began to think more calmly—but remained on her feet.

“You were spying on me.” She gestured at the printouts. “You know I’ve found out Bill was murdered. You anticipated that someone would find it out, so you arranged to divert suspicion with this morning’s power failure. Did you arrange for Wolfe to be late?”

“He was delayed by Ms. Hardin, from Engineering.”

“And you expected him to arrive too late to save the rest of us?”

“Ms. Melladin…had you died, I would have died also. In fact, my rate of oxygen consumption is higher than yours.”

“But you could have taken MacGregor’s oxygen capsule. Is that what was happening when the lights came on? Did you mean to take it from him?”

“How would I have known that he had such a capsule?”

“It’s in his medical records. Besides—you’re a telepath.”

“Mr. Benrum is a telepath. In an emergency, he would drop his shields. He would be obligated to report any such act on my part.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s right. Um. Maybe you can fool another telepath, though. Or else you had Wolfe delayed only long enough to turn suspicion against him. He does have the computer knowledge—”

“Ms. Melladin…are you ready to hear the truth now?”

“I’m ready to hear your side of the story.”

“I did not kill Captain Reading. Until you discovered the evidence, I did not know he had been murdered. I activated my console simply to locate you, and your program came up on my screen. I soon realized what you had found—and made permanent copies that cannot be erased through the ship’s system.”

“You keyed for me and got my program? That shouldn’t happen.”

“The privacy safeties have obviously been tampered with.”

Lyria shook her head. “There was no warning that someone was logging in, either. Changing the security programming is a long, delicate job. Someone planned this murder very carefully.”

“That someone has now jammed the computer circuits,” said Vron. “Forgive me—I assumed that you were emotionally upset, and forgot to set privacy. I thought you jammed the circuits after discovering that I was recording your program. So I started for the board room—but Ms. Hardin called to say you had left there, and been injured.”

“Hardin? I don’t understand. She saw me leave the board room. Now why—?”

“She sent me in a different direction so that we would not meet. That gave her time to destroy the evidence before you could show me. When I didn’t find you, I went to the board room and found it sealed for cleaning.”

Lyria said, “I set it to refuse all such orders before I left. We are dealing with someone with a high level of computer skill.”

“If the motive were promotion,” said Vron, “Wolfe, MacGregor, and I theoretical-ly had such motive. Only Wolfe or I might be able to override the computer’s defaults. Where does Jennifer Hardin fit in?”

“I hardly know her,” said Lyria. “She’s an engineer. Her programming skills are good enough to hack into the restricted areas of the ship’s library. Let’s check her record.”

“The console is jammed,” Vron reminded her.

“Its software is. Let’s try a hardware solution. Where are your tools?”

Vron had his hand on a drawer handle when the door slid open and Edgar Wolfe said, “Hold it right there!”

Lyria turned. Wolfe, MacGregor, and Hardin all held hand weapons trained on Vron and Lyria.

“We know what you’ve done,” said MacGregor, his voice shaking. “You two killed Captain Reading, and today you tried to kill me, and make it look like Ed did it.”

Lyria suddenly knew where Hardin fit in. “It wasn’t your idea, was it, Ian?” she said gently.

“What do you mean? It was your idea. You and that BEM kill off the Captain, then me, stick Ed here with the murder charge, and take over the ship!”

“Vron and I would have died in the board room today,” said Lyria. “We have to breathe, too.”

MacGregor groped for an answer. “You know about my lung problem. They’ve used it as an excuse not to promote me for the past five years. I’d have gone first. If Ed hadn’t been delayed, you would have been unconscious by the time we were rescued—but I’d have been dead.”

“This is a very strange story,” said Vron. “Mr. Wolfe, when did you find out about this supposed conspiracy between Ms. Melladin and me?”

“Just now. Jenny told me.”

“Can you truly believe that Ms. Melladin could have arranged Captain Reading’s death?”

A frown crossed Wolfe’s even features. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but—”

“I heard you fighting,” said Hardin to Lyria. “He was going to fire you—so you came to Vron, and planned the whole thing so you could go on being Secretary.”

Lyria said with sarcastic admiration, “You are really good at spinning lies—a new story for every occasion. What did you tell Ian? I can’t believe he wanted to murder Bill. Ian, look at the way she lies. How could you trust her?”

“Mr. Wolfe,” asked Vron, “who prevented you from getting to the meeting today?”

“Jenny did.”

“And she was very insistent about it?”

“How did you—? Are you reading my mind?”

“No,” replied Vron. “But think—you were not supposed to arrive in time to rescue us. The alert mechanism blew with the power—how likely is that? No one was supposed to know until we were all dead. If Ms. Melladin and I had planned it, then Ms. Hardin must have been in conspiracy with us.”

“Your lies are starting to trip you up, Jenny,” said Lyria. “You convinced MacGregor you’d get him the Captaincy—but how long would he have it before you would be working on Ed Wolfe?” She turned to MacGregor. “Ian—she’s young and ambitious. What would she get from your two or three years as Captain before you retired? Did you promise to make her your Secretary? How could you trust her after she got that position through conspiracy and murder?”

“Wait a minute!” said Wolfe. “Every-body’s accusing everybody else. I don’t know what to believe. Ian, Jenny, give me your weapons.”

“Are you crazy?” demanded Hardin.

“No—I just want all four of you placed under security while I conduct an investigation.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” she retorted. “You’re next in line for Captain. You were the one who falsified Captain Reading’s shuttle orbit!”

“Jenny.” Ian MacGregor spoke slowly, painfully. “Jenny, what are you? I trusted you. I didn’t know you were going to do murder and blame innocent people!”

“Shut up, Ian!”

“No. I can’t stand any more.” Tears slid down his face. “I’ve been a fool. Jenny came to me weeks ago, telling me I ought to be Captain. A young woman flattering an old man. I enjoyed it. She made me promise to make her my Secretary if I ever got my own Ship.” He choked. “It was a game. All in fun.”

“And then Captain Reading died,” said Vron.

“I thought it was an accident!” said MacGregor, his eyes pleading.

“No!” cried Hardin. There was a click as she adjusted her weapon. Wolfe, beside her, saw the red “kill” setting light and grabbed for her arm.

She became a wildcat. Struggling with her, Wolfe could not fire his own weapon—and then hers fired, hitting MacGregor’s right arm. He screamed and dropped his weapon as he fell, clutching burnt flesh.

Lyria ducked after MacGregor’s weapon as it skittered across the floor, planning to stun Hardin—Wolfe too, if necessary. But Hardin would kill if she wasn’t stopped.

Lyria groped for the weapon. Hardin fired again. Sparks sputtered as the shot burned away part of the wall.

The tank full of swarming insects set up a loud buzz. Hardin swung to see what it was, and Wolfe caught her gun arm, twisting it behind her back and wrenching the weapon away from her.

Vron bent over MacGregor. “He’s alive. Call the medics.”

Though the computer was still jammed, the intercom worked. Lyria called for security and a medical team, then turned back to the four figures by the door. Wolfe was holding Hardin, looking stunned. “I still don’t know who did what.”

“It’s all here, Ed,” said Lyria, picking up the sheaf of printouts.

“No!” gasped Hardin.

“Yes, Ms. Hardin—when you removed the privacy safeties you made it possible for Vron to record the evidence without either of us knowing it. Even if we find the program erased when we unjam the computer, we’ve got the printout, Ed—read it. Then you’ll have the whole story.”

“She,” Wolfe shook Hardin, “she was going to kill you all today! And then go to work on me, I suppose!”

“Eventually,” Lyria agreed. “But Ian would have survived today. The oxygen capsule he had with him at the board meeting is what led me to investigate further.”

She looked at the crumpled form on the floor. MacGregor would probably lose his right arm. His involvement in murder and attempted murder would mean the end of his career. She could almost feel sorry for him, except—

Lyria fought down tears. The medical and security teams took MacGregor and Hardin away. Wolfe took the sheaf of printouts. “I’ll study these. Uh, you trust me with them? I’m not sure who to trust anymore!”

Vron said, “We must learn to trust one another again, Mr. Wolfe. If you can unjam a terminal, you might make certified copies, just in case. We will have a hearing at eight hundred hours tomorrow, and send the results to the Board of Directors.”

“Right, Captain.”

When everyone else had gone, Lyria started to leave, too. Vron said, “Ms. Melladin—”

Her control was eroding. “Please,” she whispered, “I must go—” Her tears broke through her control. All her grief over Bill’s death, held under numb disbelief for days, overcame her now. She stumbled toward the door. Vron blocked her way. “Let me go. I don’t want you to see—”

“That you cared about Bill? I knew that. You must express your sorrow, Lyria, but not out there where the crew can see you. Come, sit down.”

He led her to the bed, and pulled up his specially constructed chair beside it. Lyria’s sobs came from the bottom of her soul. Vron handed her tissues, and sat down—watching her, she somehow understood, with sympathy rather than curiosity.

All the burden of her grief poured forth. Bill’s death became a reality, as did the fact that she must live on without him. Such a senseless death—killed by a crazed young woman seeking advancement for herself and entangling a foolish old man in her plot. It was all so stupid!

When she had worn out the storm of her grief, she did not allow herself the luxury of crying for the sake of crying. With a few hard swallows, she dried her eyes, and returned to the knowledge that she was in Vron’s cabin as she saw suspended over the bed a heavy wooden pole covered with claw marks. She remembered hearing that Arcadians rested by hanging from tree branches—

Her new Captain was alien indeed, but not unfeeling, she realized as she sat up and dried her eyes. “I’m all right now. May I wash my face before I leave?”

“Of course.”

When she came out of the lavatory, Vron was saying into the intercom, “I shall be in cargo hold seventeen. Do not disturb me except in case of emergency.”

Hold seventeen was immense—and empty right now, Lyria recalled. Although she suspected the answer, she had to ask, “What are you going to do in the cargo hold?”

“I, too, cared about Bill Reading,” he replied. “He was my friend; I feel sorrow at his death. My outlet for grief is different from yours, Lyria. At this time, I must fly.”

She managed a watery smile. “And you can fly in zero gee in the cargo hold. Go, then. I’m sorry I kept you.”

“No…you needed your release. We must understand such things about one another if we are to work together.”

“Yes,” agreed Lyria. “We can learn, I know. Go, now, and find your release. The Venture will be waiting for you when you return.”