The news of his partner’s death had come as a shock.

He had not known Brown long, but he had enjoyed his company and his intelligence—regardless of his young age.

What was left of the body had been recovered from the wreckage, and an autopsy was underway. The glider itself was being analyzed as well... but at first glance, everyone agreed it had been an accident—albeit an odd and unfortunate one.

But Ward was not convinced. The coincidence was just too great.

They were getting closer to catching Rosenkrantz’s killer, and all of a sudden Brown died? It just felt too convenient.

Well, he would not change his plans for the morning. If anything, the dramatic news had reinforced his determination to see this investigation through.

He would catch the people behind Rosenkrantz’s murder—and Brown’s, if he turned out to be a victim as well.

His glider dropped him off at the entrance to the Moonrise building. It stood high in the heart of Keddah, reaching for the sky as if trying to pierce it with the antennas that covered its roof.

He walked through the main gate, showed his badge, and asked to see whoever was in charge.

The man was tall, thin, and looked to be in his fifties. He shook Ward’s hand and offered him a seat.

“How can I help you, detective?”

His name was Adam Horton, and he held the title of president—as evidenced by the plaque on his desk.

“I am investigating the murder of a man named John Rosenkrantz. What can you tell me about him?”

He watched Horton’s facial expression as he sat down, but the man only seemed intrigued.

“I remember him, yes. A journalist. He came to interview me about a month ago. I saw on the news that he was killed. I was sorry to hear that. He seemed like a good person.”

“What did he want to know?”

“Nothing very exciting. He asked about our company’s history. I remember being puzzled, because journalists are usually more interested in the technologies we work with...”

“Did you ask him about it?”

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“I did. He said it had been overdone, and while he found the topic interesting, he wanted a different angle.”

“Did he talk to anyone else here?”

“Of course. I’ll give you a list, if that can help?”

“I would be grateful, thank you.”

The man took a sheet of paper and started jotting down names.

“Though I should warn you,” he said as he wrote, “that most of these people have gone back to our headquarters.”

Ward frowned. “I thought these were your headquarters?”

“Oh no!” laughed Horton. “Not at all. Our main base of operations is on Qojja.”

He finished making the list and handed it to the detective. There were two dozen names on it.

After spending an hour interrogating various members of the company, it became obvious that the more prominent persons on the list had all either been visiting from or were later transferred to Moonrise’s homeworld.

While driving back to the station, Ward grew convinced he would not find the answers to his questions here...

But he might find them on Qojja.

***

Jack stared at the threatening letter as he rubbed his throbbing forehead.

It was the fifth one in a month.

Enough was enough.

Instead of burning it, like he had the previous, he took it into the adjoining room he used as a study. He grabbed a magnifying glass and sat down at the desk.

Using the magnifier, he looked closely at every inch of the note.

He had noticed something in one of the previous ones, something peculiar. He might have seen it again later, but hadn’t thought much of it.

But now, he wondered...

Would he find it on this one, too?

And there it was!

Some worlds, like Qojja, still relied heavily on antiquated printing machines. Jack wasn’t sure why—it seemed to him so outdated and limited. Not to mention, they would often let imperfections slip through.

All the notes he’d received had been printed with red ink, but there were spots where the pigmentation was faded... it always happened on the same two letters. It must be a flaw in the machine used to print the letters.

He suddenly grimaced as he went into a coughing bout. It lasted a couple of seconds, after which he rubbed his throat and groaned.

His attention returned to the paper with the distinctive print marks.

“Well, let’s see... there has to be a way I can trace this back to its source.”

He swiped the screen of his wristpad and brought up a list of features. With a tap of his finger, a beam lit up. He ran it over the surface of the letter and the scanned document appeared on the mini-screen.

With a few more swipes and taps, he ran a search for other Qojjan documents with similar printing flaws.

It did not take long for a flood of results to show up.

He cursed.

“That’s just too damn many...”

With another few taps, he restricted the listings to documents printed within the last couple of months.

Only a dozen hits were displayed this time.

He looked at the origin of each one and noted that they all shared a common printing press.

“Gotcha!” he grinned.

He grabbed his coat and rushed out, even as he brought up the address on his wristpad.

It never occurred to him to leave a message for his friends.

In his mind, this would just be a brief confrontation with whoever was sending those notes. Let them know they were wasting their time. That he wasn’t going anywhere. That they should accept this and move on. Find somebody else to bug. Get a life or something. He had better things to do with his time than throw their messages into an incinerator—let alone go look them up.

He was fortunate that the address did, in fact, lead him to the people responsible.

He was less fortunate that, upon seeing him, they hit him on the head and locked him up in a dark room.