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were going to take him somewhere from there?"
    "Yes. Somewhere." She shrugged.
    "What did you know about your destination? You must have had some information. Range.
    How long you'd be gone. Something. Were you leasing a ship?"
    She glanced down at the statement she'd written out for me. "Is there going to be any quarrel about money?"
    "No," I said.
    "Okay." She smiled roguishly. "I'd already arranged for a ship. I asked where we were going, but he said he'd tell me when he got there. To Saraglia, that is."
    "Did he expect to leave Saraglia immediately on arrival?"
    "Yes," she said, "I think so. I had instructions to have the ship ready to go. It was an old patrol boat, by the way. Hell of a ship." She shook her head sadly. "He also told me we'd be out five to seven months."
    "How far does that put the target?"
    "It's hard to say. If he's going to abide by the regulations, less than half that time would actually be spent in stardrive. Say three months, going both ways, the destination is about eight hundred light years. But if he's going to ignore the regs—which aren't really applicable anyhow out there—and make the jump as close as he can get to his target, then we're talking, say five months in hyper, a maximum of fifteen hundred light years."
    "What did you find out about the Tenandrome?"
    "Not much. Other than that it's a spooky business."
    "How do you mean?"
    "The Survey ships, the big ones, usually go out for four- or five-year missions. The Tenandrome came back after a year and a half. And nobody got off."
    "Is Saraglia the first stop on the return flight?"
    "For that sector, yes. They traditionally stop there, and the captain files a report personally with the port director. They tend to logistical details, submit to Hazard Control inspections, and then turn everyone loose for a few days. It's a carnival atmosphere. But when the Tenandrome came in, things were different.
    "The official report, according to the one or two port officials who would talk to me, was beamed in. Nobody got off; nobody got on. Crowds came down, the way they always do, and stood off the exit ramp. I don't know whether you know anything about Saraglia or not, but the ships come right into downtown bays. The walls are transparent, so the people who'd brought their kids for the holiday could stand in the street and see the Tenandrome, floating on its cables.
    The ship's interior lights were on, and it was possible to see the crew moving around inside. But nobody ever came down the tubes. That had never happened before.
    "Everyone was upset, especially the business community. They felt they'd been snubbed. It's a big part of local income, when the ships come in."
    "But not that time," I said.
    "Not that time." She shivered a little. "Eventually, rumors started."
    "Like what?"
    "That it was a plague ship. But if that were the case, they wouldn't have let them off at Fishbowl, which is the second stop."
    "And they did disembark at Fishbowl?"
    "According to Gabe. He said they cleared the ship routinely."
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    "That was the final destination?"
    "Survey maintains its regional headquarters there. Yes: that's where they go for general refitting, debriefing, and mounting new expeditions."
    "How many were on board?"
    "Crew of six. Eighteen on the research teams." Chase's expression grew thoughtful. "The Westover came in while I was on Saraglia, and they all had a pretty good time. Stayed a little over a week, which I understand is about average. Lot of women and alcohol running loose: it's a wonder to me anyone ever goes home. The Tenandrome was gone within a day."
    "Did Survey explain why the mission was aborted?"
    "They said there was a flaw in the Armstrong drive, that the problem was beyond the repair capabilities on Saraglia—not an unreasonable assertion, by the way—and that nobody got off because time was of the essence."
    "Maybe they were telling the truth."
    "Maybe. The ship went into maintenance at Fishbowl, and Gabe told me the