What
had happened could not be changed. He should join his passengers. He
rose, giving his instrument panel an automatic scan as he rose. Urrr--
the proximity alarm! He'd forgotten to turn it on, a mistake he'd not
have made but for Corina's defection. He sat back down and corrected
his error, wondering if there were any others he'd made in his chagrin
over Corina's betrayal.

* * * * *

Corina was thinking in rapid, frightened bursts as she left Thark's
home. She was certain he would lose no time in sending the
executioners after her, probably Sanctioners. She was not particularly
optimistic about making it safely to the Planetary Palace and the
Imperial authorities.

Thark's home was ten kilometers north of the capital city, MacLeod's
Landing. It would be a long, time-consuming walk, but what choice did
she have? With Sanctioners on her trail, using her identification to
call for public transportation at one of the hailing posts would be a
fatal mistake.

The occasional clumps of bushes bordering the street's short-cropped
grass gave her an idea. She was fairly conspicuous; there were few
pedestrians this far from the city, and as Thark had told her often
enough, she did dress rather gaudily. She made her way into one of the
clumps, took off her kilt, turned it inside-out, and put it back on.
It was a youngling's trick, but . . . She surveyed the results. Not
good, she decided. Still, it might help; at least the solid maroon
lining was a little less gaudy than red and gold plaid.

She returned to the street, glad for the soft grass that had replaced
pavement when null-grav craft came into common use, and resumed her
walk toward the city. As small as MacLeod's Landing was by human
standards, it was already large by Irschchan, and still growing. If
she made it that far, there was at least a chance she could avoid the
Sanctioners in the crowds, and reach the Palace.

She had been walking for perhaps five minutes when a Sanctioner patrol
cruiser sped past her, toward Thark's home. The wind of its passage
ruffled her fur as well as her kilt, but they seemed to pay no
attention to her, for which she was grateful.

Still, it was what she had hoped. If she were obvious enough, the
Sanctioners should think she had nothing to hide. Between that and her
kilt-flipping, unless she ran into a Sanctioner who knew her well
enough to identify her by the pattern of her mind-shield,