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27.

They touched down at Solio II's single spaceport, about ten miles outside the planet's major city, which was also called Solio. Unlike many Frontier worlds, Solio II was large enough and busy enough to have a Customs department, and their documentation was given its initial test, as they were ushered into separate booths.

"Please insert your passport, sir," ordered the Customs computer.

Nighthawk did so.

"Thank you. Please sit down."

Nighthawk sat down opposite the holographic screen.

"Name?" asked the computer.

"Vince Landis."

"Your passport says Vincent Landis."

"Vince is a shortened version of Vincent."

"Checking . . . verified. Home planet?"

"Silverblue."

"Your passport says you live on Aristotle."

"I do live there now, but I am a student and that is a temporary residence. My permanent residence is with my parents on Silverblue."

"Considering . . . accepted. Age?"

"Twenty-one."

"Purpose of visit?"

"Research."

"What is your area of study?"

"As you see," answered Nighthawk, "I am majoring in ciphers. My doctoral thesis will concern the use of ciphers by security forces on the Inner Frontier. I intend to visit a number of worlds on the Frontier, questioning the security forces about the use of ciphers in their daily work."

"Where will you stay while on Solio II?"

"I have no idea," said Nighthawk. "Can you recommend a good hotel?"

"I will append a list of all hotels and room rates to your visa," said the computer. "Have you any weapons to declare?"

"I'm just a student," said Nighthawk with a smile. "What would I do with a weapon?"

"You did not answer the question."

"No, I don't have any weapons."

"Have you any existing medical conditions?"

"None."

The machine returned his passport, along with a thirty-day visa and a list of hotels.

"You have cleared Customs, Vincent Landis," it announced. "Welcome to Solio II."

"Thank you."

Nighthawk got up and walked out of the booth, and found Father Christmas waiting for him.

"How'd it go?" asked the older man.

"No trouble. And you?"

"Nothing to it."

"Let's get out of here," said Nighthawk, heading toward an exit. They followed the departing crowd to an airbus and rode into the city. When they reached a street that seemed to have lots of hotels, they got off.

"What now?" asked Father Christmas.

Nighthawk studied the area carefully. "I'm trying to remember where the Security Division is." Finally He shrugged. "It doesn't make any difference. We'll find it later. Let's go get a couple of rooms."

They registered at one of the hotels, and met a couple of hours later for dinner.

"Did you locate it?" asked Father Christmas.

"The Security Division?" said Nighthawk. "Yeah, it's about half a mile away."

"And teeming with armed men?"

"It is now," said Nighthawk. "We'll walk by and see how it looks after dark."

They ate dinner in the hotel's restaurant, and Father Christmas spent most of the meal complaining that the meat seemed insipid next to a cut of Redbison. They waited until dark, then walked outside and headed over toward the large building that housed Hernandez's office.

"I'm nervous," said Father Christmas.

"Why?" asked Nighthawk.

"I don't know. Maybe because it's been so easy to get this far. I keep thinking someone's watching us and is getting ready to pounce."

"Won't do 'em much good," said Nighthawk with a grim smile. "I must be walking around with thirty Maria Theresa dollars in my pockets."

"You mean you've already assembled the gun?" asked Father Christmas.

"I thought I'd attract less attention assembling it in my room than in front of the Security Division," said Nighthawk wryly.

Father Christmas kept looking nervously off to his right and left. Finally Nighthawk stopped and turned to him.

"Look, if you'd be happier robbing a church, I'll point a couple out to you and—"

"I don't want to rob a church."

"Well, you sure as hell need something to do with your hands," said Nighthawk. "You're even making me nervous."

"Sorry," said Father Christmas, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

"All right," said Nighthawk, giving his companion a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Let's keep going."

They walked another two blocks, and finally found themselves staring at a large building.

"This is it?" asked the older man.

"This is it."

"Well, how do you approach it—from the front, the rear, the side?"

"The front," answered Nighthawk. "Isn't that why I'm a student from Aristotle? Tomorrow I'll just walk up and make an appointment."

They were about to leave when a window on the third floor opened, and a sleek figure stepped out onto a balcony. It was Melisande, dressed all in gold.

"It's her!" whispered Nighthawk.

"I knew those ID's were too good to be true," muttered Father Christmas.

"What are you talking about?"

"They know we're here, son, or at least they expect us any moment," said the older man. "Look at her, dressed in gold and glitter and leaning out over the edge of the balcony. They're using her as bait."

"For me?"

"Who else?"

"And they think I'm going to burst into the building and shoot my way up to the third floor because she's standing there?" continued Nighthawk.

"Yeah," said Father Christmas. "Pretty damned foolish, aren't they?"

"Sure are."

"So what do we do now?" asked the older man. "Go back to the hotel?"

"You can go if you want."

"What about you?"

"Me?" repeated Nighthawk. "I'm going to burst into the building and shoot my way up to the third floor."

"I thought I just explained: That's exactly what they're expecting," said Father Christmas.

"They're expecting a man," replied Nighthawk, checking his ceramic pistol and thrusting it back into a pocket. "What they're getting is the Widowmaker."

He turned and began climbing the ornate stairs to the main entrance.

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Framed