"I wonder what she tucked away inside you? Somehow I can't quite picture the woman who headed the original Descartes Team not tinkering a bit once she'd figured out Central had 'lost' her. She did continue the project on her own, didn't she?"

"Affirmative, Commander," the Bolo confirmed calmly.

"Well, well, well, well," he murmured. "I can see this assignment is going to be lots more interesting than I expected. And-" a devilish twinkle had replaced the cold weariness in his eyes "-I don't see any reason to share my discoveries with Central just yet. After all, they knew where you were and forgot about it, so why remind them? They'd just send out rafts of specialists to take you away from me. They might even decide to take you apart to see just how you tick." He shook his head and gave the armored hull another pat. "No, Nike. I think you can just go on being our little secret for a while longer."

5

"Well?"

The silver-haired woman behind the immense desk was perfectly groomed, and her face was the product of the sort of biosculpt available only to people for whom money truly was no object. Unlike the nondescript, somehow subliminally seedy man in the uniform of a Sternenwelt Lines purser, she was perfectly suited to the elegant office, yet there was a coldness in her eyes, and her smile held a honed duralloy edge that beaded the purser's forehead with sweat.

"I'm sorry, Madam Osterwelt," he said, "but they won't sell." The woman said nothing, only gazed at him, and he swallowed. "I upped the offer to the maximum authorized amount," he said quickly, "but only three or four of them were even interested."

"You assured us that your local knowledge of the sector suited you for the job. That we could rely upon your good offices to attain success." The woman's mild tone was conversational, and he swallowed again, harder.