Tin Woodman by David Bischoff, Dennis R. Bailey

out without argument or—”
    “Of course,” said Norlan quietly, relinquishing his ground. “You are the captain, as you’ve said.” He was startled by Darsen’s loss of control, by his dictatorial response to what was surely a justifiable challenge to his procedure. The only explanation for it was that he was hiding something. He had falsified the report in some way—perhaps even altered the orders from Galactic Command. But why?
    Darsen seemed to have calmed himself. “Our first priority must be to determine Tin Woodman’s intended course when it left the vicinity of this system. Genson.”
    Lieutenant Genson, the Chief Sensor Monitor, stood. “Captain, I’m sure you realize that this is not possible with our equipment. Begging your pardon . . .” She paused nervously. Darsen’s outburst had unnerved them all.
    “. . . but when a ship drops into non-relative space, it doesn’t leave a trail of any kind in this universe. No ionization, neutrinos from fusion exhaust-nothing. Tin Woodman would have had to have told us—”
    “Yes.” And Darsen began to smile. “This is true. I believe, though, that we still might be able to question Tin Woodman, after a fashion.”
    But that’s crazy! thought Norlan.
    “This is why I wish Dr. Kervatz present. Mora Elbrun might—” The briefing room door slid open just then, and Jin Tamner stalked back into the room, his expression disconcerted. Kervatz was not with him. “Well?” Darsen said, obviously impatient.
    “Elbrun is gone,” Tamner announced.
    Darsen’s expression grew blank. “What?”
    “I just talked to Kervatz. She’s not in her cubicle.”
    “Impossible,” Darsen growled. “She couldn’t even move!”
    “She must have had help. A nurse was found unconscious in the room. He can’t identify his attacker other than the fact the guy was wearing a MedSec uniform.”
    “Order a search immediately. Alert Security at once!” It was an alarmed order; a yell.
    Norlan noticed, however, that Executive Officer Coffer wore a very small smile on her face. He decided that he would have to have a private conversation with her soon concerning this madness.

SEVEN

    “Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;
    The thief doth fear each bush an officer.”

    Ston Maurtan had a fondness for Shakespeare; the lines from Henry VI flashed readily to mind now, assuming personal, ominous meaning. A guilty mind?—no, still not guilty. But in the last hours he had come to know suspicion quite well. Suspicion and fear.
    Glancing over his shoulder warily, he stepped into the lift just outside his cabin door. The bundle of clothing he tightly clasped under one arm seemed dreadfully conspicuous. Surely the first security guard who got a glimpse of it would know they were intended for the fugitive esper. He was braced for the sudden hand on the shoulder, the weapon pressed against his back . . .
    He focused on the deck lights as they rushed upward past the translucence of the lift-tube walls. He tried to shove his trepidation out of his head.
    The search had been in progress ten hours now, and he had yet to be questioned. A good sign. Crew quarters were still being scrutinized, the work areas and storage rooms of Engineering ransacked for the merest clue. No one had checked sleeper deck yet. No doubt it was assumed that the ship’s computer would alert them to abnormalities there. Most reassuring were the facts that the nurse he had clobbered evidently was unable to identify him, and that Norlan had apparently forgotten him. Or maybe he was withholding the information. If so, that was very good. Norlan knew Mora; perhaps Ston was not the only person on the Pegasus who cared about her fate.
    The lift hushed to a halt. Ston stepped out on sleeper deck and strode to Mora’s Henderson capsule.

    Mora dreamed.
    Amid the fuzzy contours that bordered this faintly blurred yet strangely stark vision, she crawled, inching along a floor somewhere in the Pegasus. All the sights