It was a most effective attack, without danger for the man or men behind it. Twice he had seen something that wasn't there, and there were witnesses to testify against him. It would be enough to remove him from the ship. The subsequent treatment wouldn't harm him, but the ship would be gone and he'd never get back on. Tag ships were just too unpredictable; they came and they went as they pleased, and no one could say where they would next arrive.
Baffled, he tried to catalogue the crew. Not Larienne. She'd live with him if he wanted, more readily now than before. Ordinary rules didn't apply to her; sympathy counted for most.
Nor was it Franklan. Bluntly he'd given his opinion, but that didn't mean he was responsible for this. The person who was behind it was keeping well hidden.
Alsint went wearily down the line, adjusting and readjusting.
On one of the handles was—a tiny red feather.
He stared at it, relief forming nebulously in his mind. A bird had been there. How it had gotten in and then out again through closed doors, he didn't know. That part was unimportant. It had been there.
It wasn't a hallucination, though for a time he'd almost believed it himself. Now he knew.
Gingerly he picked up the feather. It was no proof, except to himself. That was enough. He could do something about it.
The trap for him was set, but wouldn't be closed immediately. The ship would not go out of the way except in extreme emergency. In another four months it would run low on fuel and material for the tagging operation, assuming normal conditions. The ship would then return to the nearest inhabited planet.