e without being spotted."

"The message?"

"Narval's instructions to me. Everything we learned
at the meeting off Neptune, especially the Order of
Battle capsule with the options on formations for
the combined fleet. List the types of weapons and
warheads installed on each INOR ship of the line
and the coordinates for rendezvous and launch
at the depot as the target.

"That'll get them as suspicious as we are. Crank
in what the coordinates might be if Narval makes
last minute switches. Point Icarus is the designated
code name for the INOR rendezvous. Include that.
Tell Ram I said to get his fighting folks off their
butts and earn their keep."

Brad shifted, stepped over to a slower lane, and
from there off the strip. He disappeared among
the pedestrians. Zolan remained where he was for
a distance, disembarked and strolled about near
an air lock as he mind-impressed his message on
a comm capsule.

Colonel Hanno will be surprised, Zolan mused
as he pushed his way into the suiting-up room.
Contemplating his mission, it might take a bit of
time for Hanno to respond and track the code,
interpret the instructions, and acknowledge what
they required of him. He would need to push Hanno
hard.

He selected and checked a suit for fit, fresh
fluids, air and communications. Climbing in and
closing up, he stepped under a helmet rack, drew it
down, rotated mating surfaces, closed and locked
the seals. The automatic self-test devices hummed
pressure checks, and indicators glowed as the
life support systems balanced internally. The suit
inflated, held for several seconds, and subsided to
normal. A tiny light above the inside visor glowed
green to show status as ready.

Passing through the outer air lock Zolan turned
toward a line of flitters. A guard watched him
approach, rifle held casually across his chest.

"OK," said the guard when Zolan was within five
meters. "Hold it there. What's on your mind?"

"Name's Zolan. I need a long range flitter for a
hop into the outback."

"Let's see your authorization."

"What authorization?"

The guard's head wagged in his helmet.

"Y'gotta have authorization for a distant
destination, buddy. That's orders. Otherwise,
take a taxi."

"Orders, hell," Zolan growled. "I can't get where I
have to go using a taxi. I can't do my work with you
security types puttin' the chocks to me for 'orders'
each time I need to check a work site." His tone
became scathing. "Get your super