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told you…”
    Their signal. He followed her into the bathroom. She knelt over the toilet, he knelt beside her, and she whispered into his armpit, “You think Stefanak himself might have kidnapped Tom.”
    “How do you do that?” he blurted, before he caught himself. You’d think by now he’d have learned. She couldn’t explain the minute changes in body language, facial tone, eyebrow movement—all of it—that she intuitively read, and when she did try to explain it, Kaufman couldn’t follow. Her skill was wholly nonverbal.
    He whispered, “Yes, I think it’s possible that Stefanak himself might have had Tom kidnapped.”
    “Why?”
    From the holoscreen in the hotel room Stefanak said “—my personal appeal for any information leading to the recovery of Dr. Capelo and—”
    Kaufman said, “A way to discredit the antiwar movement, to use Life Now as an excuse to appropriate more power to himself.… I’m not sure. If so, it’s a clumsy technique. More what amateurs would do.”
    “So you think Life Now abducted Tom?” And louder, “Oh, God, Lyle, I’m so dizzy…”
    He said, “I don’t know. If Stefanak wanted it to look like a Life Now operation, he might deliberately make a clumsy move … That’s it, darling, just let it come…”
    Marbet stuck her finger down her throat, retched violently, and sat up woozily. Lyle ran cold water on a cloth and handed it to her. Surveillance now had bona fide vomit to record.
    When she rejoined him, he said, “Better now?”
    “Yes, thank you. But let’s not eat at Katouse again.”
    “Affirmative. Marbet, I’m going to call Carol.”
    “I doubt you’ll get through.”
    He didn’t. Kaufman left a message for Tom’s second wife, offering whatever aid he could, whatever hope he could manage. Carol would have cops with her, UAF federal agents, family, and friends. Kaufman knew she and Amanda and Sudie would be safe; by now there would be enough soldiers ringing the Capelo household to form a company by themselves.
    He took Marbet’s hand. The two sat quietly, thinking about Tom Capelo, that brilliant and difficult and complicated man. His two daughters adored him. They’d lost their mother in a Faller raid years ago, and if their father was also murdered …
    The terminal sounded. Without a house system, it merely rang a bell. The screen flashed INCOMING RECORDED MESSAGE , and Marbet punched her handhold to bring it up. An unfamiliar woman, dressed in not-very-expensive business attire and with an unfortunate haircut, appeared on the screen.
    “Colonel Kaufman, Ms. Grant, the Civilian Travel Section of the Martian Space Tunnel Administration, State Department, Solar Alliance Defense Council, is pleased to inform you that your application for a privately funded trip to the nonproscribed planet Osiris, Isis System, Space—”
    “But we don’t want to go to Osiris!” Marbet said. “Futile to interrupt,” Kaufman could have said. It was a one-way recording.
    “—Tunnel Number Eighty-nine has been approved. Flight plan, tunnel itinerary, and Tunnel Administration regulations follow. Be advised that the itinerary requires you to enter Space Tunnel number one between October sixteen and October nineteen of this year. Note also that this approval is not legally binding upon the Martian Space Tunnel Administration, may be withdrawn at any time without notice, and does not include any responsibility for the course or outcome of your expedition.
    “The Administration wishes you a good trip.”
    Kaufman and Marbet looked at each other. Osiris was nowhere near World. It would take time to correct the bureaucratic “mistake”—weeks, months. Never.
    Kaufman’s clear brown eyes remained steady. A steady man , Marbet thought for the hundredth time. Calm. Not easily diverted. No one but she knew the calm, steady guilt, not easily diverted, that lay underneath. He gazed at her, and she read him clearly: He was done with official requests.
    She said aloud,