"More time we save the better, Cragin. Here it is. You were recalled because your records show you know your way around in Deep Space better than anybody in the whole Arm. HQ figured it'd be a better bet for this job to rely on what Intelligence training a regular Patrol officer gets than to try teaching a specialized Intelligence officer how to handle himself out where only yourself and Lin Griffin have ever flown and gotten back to tell about it. Except that so far, you're the only one who's told anything."
"Not sure I follow that all, sir. I take it Miss Griffin—"
"She's getting along all right. Ready to leave the station hospital in a day or two. Only she won't talk. Just mumbled something about an Ecliptic X when she finally started coming around, cried a little, and then shut up tight. Doctor says it's extreme shock. I don't think so. You can't do reams of mathematics that nobody else can make head or tail of when you're suffering shock. She not only won't talk, but after she finishes each sheet of calculations, she tosses it in the bedside incinerator tube. So I'm making guesses."
Cragin let a little smoke dribble from his nostrils and tried reading Kirkholland's penetrating look.
"The market, sir? There wasn't a gram of water crystal in her ship when—"
"The report's been read phonic by phonic, Cragin. We've had the market pretty well under our thumbs up to now, and we can't go taking any chances. Setting up clay pigeons to lull us into a false sense of security is as old as the Martian ridges but it's worth thinking about if they've found a way to operate outside the Barrier."
"What about the flight plan she and her father had to file, sir?"
"In order, of course. Maybe just a clever part of the scheme. And who would suspect a man of Griffin's caliber and position?"
"I see. She's a definite suspect, then, and—"
"Can't say that. Officially. But because of the circumstances surrounding her return, she's certainly subject to observation."