The Third Lynx

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. Kunstler'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 Kunstler'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 Kunstler worked out with his manager before Daniel was born.'

'Mr. Kunstler 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 Kunstler.'

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.'

'You might be surprised,' Fayr said thoughtfully. 'According to the official numbers, there are over eight thousand Humans on this planet.'

'Eight thousand?' I asked. I'd been ready to guess no more than a few hundred.

'That is correct,' Fayr said. 'There are also twelve hundred Bellidos, if you were wondering.'

'What in the world are they all doing here?' I asked. 'The Humans, I mean?'

'Most are skilled workers,' Fayr said. 'Humans have a manual dexterity beyond that of Tra'ho'seej, especially for detail work. There are also many artists.' He cocked his head to the side, one of those gestures the Bellidos had picked up from us. 'Many of that group are right here in Magaraa City.'

I thought about the hotel lobby where the Modhri and I had had our brief fight. The place had been literally strewn with cheap art. 'Working for the local trade, I take it?'

'Indeed,' Fayr confirmed. 'In Ancient Seejlis, Magaraa means Labor of Artisans, and the residents take that title quite seriously. They cherish all levels and forms of artwork, from inexpensive wall mountings and table settings to masterpieces designated specifically for contemplation rooms.'

And Stafford had come here to buy a piece of alien sculpture. 'I don't suppose there's a particular restaurant or tavern where these artistic types hang out?'

Fayr smiled. 'We think along the same path,' he said. 'In fact, I can do even better than that. Come; I'll show you.'

He lifted the edge of the cloakcloth and climbed out from under it. The lights on the display strip had gone out, I noted, apparently indicating that the police patrol had moved on. 'You think it's safe to travel?' I asked as Bayta and I also climbed out.

'I believe so,' he said, refolding the cloakcloth onto the edge of the couch, ready for its next use. 'I've spent some time studying Tra'ho police procedure. Once they've swept an area, they seldom return to it. Not unless a serious crime has been committed.'

'You don't call a double killing a serious crime?'

'Not in this case.' Fayr rumbled deep in his throat. 'The victims weren't Tra'ho'seej.'

I grimaced. Sometimes I forgot how much specism there was lurking beneath the surface civility of the Twelve Empires. 'And neither were the killers.'

'Exactly,' he said. 'Disputes between aliens are hardly a matter of importance unless they also threaten the local citizens.'

'What about the sunburst?' Bayta asked. 'It specifically targeted the oathlings.'

'All of whom will do everything in their power to downplay the effects and the investigation,' Fayr said. 'The last thing the Modhri wants is for the Lynx to fall into official hands not directly under his control.'

He stepped over to the other couch and pulled another of the ubiquitous hooded rain ponchos from beneath it. 'Still, we don't wish to make it too easy for them,' he said. Handing it to me, he bent down again and busied himself with something else beneath the couch.

The poncho was a shade on the small side, and I had to work a little to get it over my head. By the time I finished settling it into place and could see again, I discovered that Fayr had pulled out a new gun.

Not one of his usual shoulder-holstered handguns this time, but a Rontra 772 submachine gun, a large military snub-nosed multiple repeater with double-clip magazine, midline cooling chamber, integrated underslung grenade launcher, and a sensor-click sighting capability that could pinpoint a target at two thousand meters. The thing looked about the size of the cannon Gargantua had been talking about earlier, and could probably make nearly as much of a mess of anyone who happened to be standing in its way. 'Still not wanting to make it too easy for them?' I asked.

'Exactly,' Fayr said. Hiking up his poncho, he slung the Rontra's strap over his right shoulder, letting the weapon hang down alongside the holster there. He hesitated a moment, then drew the handgun from that holster and handed it to me. 'Lest it be in my way,' he added.

'Thanks,' I said, checking the safety. 'Killrounds?'

His nose twitched a bit. 'Clip two has snoozers.'

I found the selector and switched it over. Fayr may have worked out the difference between Modhran walkers and soldiers, but I wasn't nearly so ready to make that kind of delicate distinction.

Besides, I didn't need anything else for Bayta to be mad at me about.

I stuck the gun into my belt. Fayr and I both resettled our ponchos—his was barely long enough to conceal the Rontra's muzzle—and then I turned to Bayta.

She was watching us with a mixture of disbelief, distaste, and disapproval. It was the same look I remembered my mother giving me when I used to play soldier with my friends when I was six. 'Would you like one, too?' I offered.

'Whenever you're ready,' she said, not even bothering to answer the question.

'We're ready,' Fayr said. 'Follow me.'

SIXTEEN :

The rain had increased in intensity while we'd been inside, but the lack of wind kept it from blowing beneath our hoods into our faces or otherwise being particularly unpleasant. The neighborhood immediately around us