Free The Third Lynx by Timothy Zahn

deal with. I merely stopped here to pick up my messages and arrange the transfer of Mr. Kün—Mr. Smith’s body.”
    I felt my ears prick up. “So you’ve identified our victim?”
    “Good day, Mr. Compton.” Turning on his heel in an almost military-precise about-face, he stalked away, his bags trailing behind him.
    And as he headed through the streaming travelers, three well-dressed Halkas casually turned in unison and set off after him.
    Bayta touched my arm. “It looks like we want the express to—”
    “Hold on,” I told her, watching the procession. The Halkas were still following Morse, but with an air of leisure and unconcern that even professional Intelligence agents had trouble counterfeiting when they were on the hunt.
    Only in this case, it wasn’t an act. The Halkas genuinely didn’t realize they were following anyone.
    Walkers.
    Beside me, Bayta inhaled sharply as she spotted the procession. “Frank—”
    “I see them,” I growled, handing her my leash control. “Wait here.”
    I headed into the flow of passengers, trying to look as casual as the three Halkas. There was a lot about Morse I didn’t like, but that didn’t mean I was going to just stand off to the side and let the Modhri have a free poke at him. Especially since there was at least half a chance that it was Morse’s contact with the late Mr. Smith that had drawn the Modhri’s attention to him in the first place.
    The Modhri had bounced Bayta and me out of the Lynx investigation once. Maybe this was our chance to get back in.
    A dozen meters ahead of Morse were a pair of Juriani with long hard-sided golf cases rolling along behind them. They paused, and one of them reached down and picked up his case. He tucked it under his arm and they continued on their way, their path now shifted subtly onto an intercept course with Morse’s.
    The pursuing Halkas, meanwhile, were steadily closing the gap. At current speeds, I estimated, the three of them and the two golfers would converge together on Morse in about ten seconds. Keeping an eye peeled for anyone else the Modhri might decide to throw into the mix, I picked up my pace.
    Abruptly, one of the two Juriani who’d blocked Bayta at the Helvanti Station loomed in front of me. “Ah—my Human friend from last night,” he said cheerfully, raising his arms wide in welcome.
    I ducked beneath one of the outstretched arms and kept going. So the Modhri had spotted me, too. I thought about shouting Morse a warning, decided it would just distract him—
    “Mr. Morse!” one of the Halkas behind Morse shouted. Morse half turned, slowing but not stopping.
    And in that split second of inattention, the Modhri struck.
    It was, from a professional standpoint, beautifully done. The two Juriani cut directly in front of Morse with no more than half a meter to spare, and the golf case still trailing behind them rolled into position just in time for Morse to trip over it. As he thrust out his hands to break his fall, the other Juri spun a hundred eighty degrees around, ostensibly to see what was going on, and slammed the end of his case solidly against the side of Morse’s head.
    Morse went down like a lassoed calf, rolling half over as he sprawled across the rolling case and slammed the back of his head solidly on the Tube floor.
    The three trailing Halkas were there in an instant, dropping to their knees around him like solicitous Good Samaritan bystanders at an accident scene. Their positioning, probably not coincidentally, managed to block my view of Morse and anything they were doing with him. “Someone get a Spider!” the Halka whose shout had distracted Morse at the fatal moment called to the station in general. “We must find a Human doctor.”
    Cue for Compton. “I’m a doctor,” I said, striding up. I dropped to one knee at Morse’s side, deftly elbowing the nearest Halka out of my way.
    And as I did so. out of the corner of my eye I saw his hand dip briefly inside his own inner vest