So, is Greyla's father going to be friend or foe? Will John and Rodney be helped or hindered in their quest to return to Atlantis? Read on to find out!

The gold bar sat silently between them, dully lustrous, weighty with consequence.

"There were two of these hidden amongst your possessions."

"Yeah, you see, there's a good reason for that."

"I'd be delighted to hear it." Hefferen reached around the end of his desk and pressed a black button that was set into the woodwork.

John sprang to his feet and his eyes flew to the window, to the door behind him, to a large statue on a shelf.

"If you're planning to dash my brains out with a heavy object, I can recommend the picture of my wife and daughter as the nearest to hand. The frame is made of polished stone." Hefferen gestured to an ornate frame that stood toward the front of his desk.

John released the sudden tension in his body and let the adrenaline seep away; whatever was going on in this man's head, it was not the obvious hasty dispatch to the nearest Agent.

Hefferen smiled. "I merely rang the bell to summon refreshments. But, I confess, I was hoping that your response might confirm a suspicion. Do you hold a high rank? You have the look of one used to command."

"A high rank?"

"Come now, do not be obtuse, Mr Sheppard. As you entered you assessed the exits, the fingers of your right hand constantly curl, as if round a trigger, and your reaction to my ringing for my servant was highly reminiscent of a vrax caught in a trap. You would fight your way out at the slightest provocation. Don't bother to deny it."

John said nothing. With this man, one small piece of information might easily lead to the inference of so much more.

"You should also recall that your friend spoke during his delirium. And that, although a lot of what he said was garbled and unintelligible to my servants, there were certain references reported to me that told me you are no common outlaws. Tell me your rank."

The battleground shifted under John's feet. What did this man know or guess? He shrugged, unable to resist an air of insolence. "Lieutenant Colonel."

"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. Sit down, please."

John sank into his chair once more. He slouched down into the seat and crossed one leg over the other. Hefferen smiled slightly.

A female servant entered and placed a tray on the desk. It held a tall, spouted pot and a plate of small cakes. She poured a cup of latcha for John and passed it to him.

"Thank you, Meriel, we can manage."

Meriel bobbed a curtsey and departed.

Hefferen passed the plate of cakes to John. He took one.

"My daughter tells me that you're 'nice' and that I should trust you. You and your friends."

"Smart kid." John took a bite of his cake. It tasted of almonds.

"But trust needs to be built."

"We brought her home."

"You did. But it's possible you expected a reward for doing so."

"We didn't need a reward. We had those." John nodded at the gold bar.

"Indeed. But a bar of gold is not an easy thing to dispose of and you had little negotiable currency in your belongings."

"It might be little to you. We thought we were doing okay."

Hefferen took a sip of his latcha and replaced it carefully on its saucer. "I have a fancy to take my daughter's advice and trust you," he said. "I think it's possible you need a lot more help than the hospitality and sanctuary of my home. And I think it's also possible that you might be of service to me."

"How so?"

"Ah, well, you see the trust that Greyla's so keen to extend will have to be earned by a mutual exchange of information. One that you, I must insist, will begin."

"What do you want to know?"

Hefferen pushed his cup away and sat back in his chair, linking his fingers over his stomach, his gaze drifting away from John to follow the line of the book-filled shelves. "Well, now, it may be that I am too influenced by my daughter, because I find myself wanting to indulge in a small guessing-game first." His eyes narrowed. "You are clearly not of this world. We have no military apart from the Gate complex guard up in the City. The Wraith ensure that military force is not needed to keep the populace in line."

John couldn't work out whether this was spoken with approval or bitterness. He'd have to tread extremely carefully.

Hefferen continued. "A high military rank argues for a relatively advanced society, but Sateda is long gone and Lieutenant Colonel is not a rank that they used. I have not heard that the Genii use such a rank either, and besides, you have not their air of deceit or ruthlessness, although I sense that you are capable of both qualities. You are not here by choice, that is certain. It is also obvious that you are not allies of the Wraith. This leads me to thoughts of the recently-established Coalition of Planets and from there it is but a short, rather obvious hop to the City of the Ancients. You are from Atlantis."

oOo

Rodney was losing track of all of the servants that were attending to his needs. A woman had shown the doctor into his room, who had greeted Rodney as if he was supposed to remember the guy, and then proceeded with all the usual voodoo nonsense which appeared to amount to the fact that he was on the mend. He'd already known that.

Another member of staff came in with some soup and a hot drink, and why, when you'd been ill, was it intergalactically assumed that you could only consume liquids, when what you really wanted was a good plateful of something solid with meat and big chunks of potato or whatever root vegetable was available?

Then, just when he was getting annoyed with the weight of the tray on his lap and had spilled enough soup down his front to make him worried that John or Morla would come in and laugh at him (although, would Morla laugh?), another woman he hadn't seen before came in and took the tray. And yet another, a man, thank God, helped him to the bathroom and to get changed out of the soup-splattered garments and washed and into clean clothes.

Perhaps it was a deliberate strategy, Rodney thought, as he sank gratefully into the soft mattress once more; so that he didn't bond with any of them and find out the dark secrets of the household, whatever they were. Probably a mad ex-wife locked in an attic, or a monster in the basement or just really poor energy efficiency, which, he felt would be far more reprehensible than either of the former.

The door opened and he groaned in anticipation of another unfamiliar face.

"Rodney? Are you alright? Do you want me to get someone?" It was Morla.

"No! Please, no. I'm fine. Happy to see you, in fact. Why haven't I seen you before? Where have you been all this time?"

"I was here. You just don't remember." She flopped down on the couch, reclining on the thick cushioning. "You look better. Much better."

"I am. I think. I suppose that doctor must have known what he was doing." Morla was wearing some kind of elaborate outfit. Should he say something about it? Women seemed to expect that kind of thing, if they were wearing anything out of the ordinary or even if they weren't. Although maybe he shouldn't say anything because Jennifer might not like it. Jennifer wasn't here, of course, but did that make it even worse that he should be trying to think what to say to an attractive woman when Jennifer was so far away?

And now he'd thought of Morla as attractive, so that was even worse. Although he probably wasn't in the least bit attractive to her, so it wouldn't make any difference what he thought, added to the fact that he was much older than her and he was with Jennifer. But Morla was certainly no younger than Jennifer. Rodney's head started to hurt again. John's voice was in his ears: 'Just say any old thing!' "Er… You look very, er… shiny."

Morla smoothed down the rich blue satiny fabric of her dress and shook out the lace at her sleeves. "Hmm… It's very pretty, but it's not really me." She tugged impatiently at the bow at her waist and kicked her legs in the air; the fabric covered her feet. "You couldn't run in it, and you never know when you'll need to run."

"Yes," agreed Rodney, reflecting that he tended to judge clothes on their ease of movement for running and fighting purposes, imperviousness to burns and stains and, obviously, the distribution of pockets for convenient withdrawal of snacks.

"Will we need to?" she asked.

"What, run?"

Morla nodded.

"As in, are we prisoners and will we have to effect a daring escape?" He closed his eyes and sighed. "Probably." Rodney breathed deeply and his arm twinged. There was a rustle of fabric, a thud and a curse. He opened his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I thought you were going to sleep."

"Hum, yes, well, you can add 'stealthy tip-toeing' to the list of things you can't do in that dress. I'm not sleeping, anyway."

Morla hitched up her trailing skirts, wrapped them round one arm and strode to the window, swinging her legs and revealing long white, frilly underwear, which was interesting and in some way alarming.

"What?"

"I can see your er… What do you call those things?"

"Drawers. Knickers. Unmentionables." She held her skirts up to her waist. "You like 'em?"

Rodney gulped. "Um…" The underwear's bagginess made it less revealing even than a Marine's uniform, except for Morla's slim calves, and they were encased in thick stockings. Nevertheless, the whiteness and the frills gave her legs an aura of forbidden fruit and he recalled that in Victorian society sometimes even table legs were covered, to prevent men's ardour getting the better of them. He wondered how many uncovered table legs had been brutally ravished and how exactly Victorian men had gone about that uncomfortable task, and then he remembered that that was a myth anyway and perhaps Victorian men weren't so sexually frustrated as all that.

"Rodney?" Morla let her skirts fall. "Are you alright?" She placed a cool hand on his forehead.

"No. Yes. Maybe." He closed his eyes. The hand remained on his forehead and he should tell her to move it. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

Her hand retreated and he wanted to tell her to put it back. "For being pathetic. I should be up and figuring out a way of getting us out of here. I could cut the power to the lights, or lock all the doors, while leaving a clear route for us to escape. Are the door locks powered?"

"No, I don't think so. Rodney -"

"Oh. Bang goes that plan, then. But I'll come up with something else! Just give me a minute. A few minutes. But don't ask me how many, because that's incredibly annoying!"

"Rodney, you're not pathetic and you don't have to come up with anything."

His eyes flew open again and he winced at the white snow-reflected light. "Yes, yes I do, because that's who I am, the guy who uses science and math to get my team out of trouble, or to get the whole city out of trouble, or maybe the world or the galaxy or -"

"No. No, you're not."

"Yes, yes, that's what I do!"

"I'm sure it is, but that's not who you are."

"Isn't it?"

"No. See, I haven't known Rodney McKay for very long, and for some of that time he's been a respectable man called Buzz Aldrin, and for a while he was the desperate outlaw, Butch Mckay. But so far, I've learned that you're… let me see... " She held up a hand and checked off points on her fingers. "You're easily embarrassed, although you're not afraid to speak your mind, not to anyone. You're sometimes grumpy and impatient."

Rodney's chin flew up into defensive mode, but Morla was smiling.

She continued, "You're practical and sometimes you're funny; you're kind and helpful when it really matters; you've seen some bad things and sometimes you get scared, but you're brave - you'll protect and defend the honour and the lives of people you barely know."

She made him sound like a pretty cool guy. He'd never been a cool guy. That was Sheppard.

Morla laughed. "And you like food and don't much care what it is as long as there's plenty."

"Citrus," he said. "I can't eat citrus."

"I don't know what that is."

"There's probably a different word for it here."

"We can find out. In the library. There's books on everything."

"Oh. And it's not just that I like food. I get low blood sugar if I don't eat regularly."

"I'll remember that." She placed her hand on his forehead again and combed her fingers back through his hair. "You're tired. Close your eyes."

Rodney let his heavy eyelids droop.

"She's a lucky woman, your Jennifer."

Rodney made a questioning noise, but couldn't raise the energy to make actual words.

"John told me," said Morla. "She sounds nice. A doctor. Clever, like you."

"Hmm." Rodney wasn't sure whether he was smugly agreeing or being modest.

"I'll leave you to sleep."

Morla must have hitched her skirts up to her waist again, because there were no more thuds or inventive unfamiliar curses. Rodney drifted away.

oOo

"Have I guessed correctly?"

John said nothing. He would say nothing under torture, so why should he freely give information to this stranger?

"I see that I will have to reveal a little more of my intentions, though I risk much in doing so; it is possible, even now, that you are a spy, sent by my political rivals."

Hefferen abandoned his lounging pose and poured himself another cup of latcha, gesturing with the pot toward John's cup. John shook his head.

"As you know, this world is controlled by the Wraith, sometimes directly, but in the main via a small number of ruling families, of which the Hefferens are one." He sipped his latcha and then continued. "There are certain elements on the Council of Clans, as we call it, that are perfectly satisfied with this arrangement; they have the power to control society as well as protection for themselves and their families. There are other factions on the Council, however, that see the need for change. You have been out in this world, Colonel, out amongst its people; I am certain that you have witnessed many injustices and inequalities, many wrongs that should be righted."

"You could say that."

Hefferen leant forward in his chair and, for the first time, John could see beyond the slick, sophisticated exterior, to the determination of the man below. "I see the need for change. I would right those many wrongs. But to do that, I, we, that is the dissenters on the Council, need help from an outside source. We cannot do this alone. We need the help of the Coalition. We need Atlantis."

This man was wary of him, but had put his neck on the line, spreading his intentions out before John. The wariness worked both ways; this could still be a trap. But what would be the purpose of such a trap, on a world where minor infractions were answered by the scaffold?

"You want to ally with us against the Wraith."

"We want allies, yes."

John shifted in his seat and the leather creaked beneath him. He was growing stiff, but he wouldn't show weakness, not at this point when he was still so unsure of this potential ally. He and Rodney and Morla were isolated in this man's power, in his territory; his territory, which displayed luxury so far beyond the reach of the average citizen as to be unimaginable. "Why do you need help? Why haven't you done anything before?"

"An attempt was made. It was before my time, and my family was not involved. If they had been, I would not be here now." He stood up and turned his back on John, gazing out at the snow-covered grounds. The sky was grey and a few flakes drifted down. "The rebellion was rapidly quelled and those clans convicted of treason were culled; a ceremonial culling, in Teksa'corani.

In the centre of the city, there is a heavily-guarded complex, a citadel, into which the general public is not permitted except on occasions of state. The Ring of the Ancestors stands within, on a large expanse of snow-white marble. There, as an example to others, the most notorious criminals are culled, the reapers flying straight through the Ring to sweep the platform clean. It is also there that, in the rare event of any of the ruling families falling from grace, the entire clan - men, women and children - are devoured by the culling beams. That is what happened to those that last challenged the rule of the Wraith over this world." He turned away from the window. "So, you see what I risk in revealing to you my intentions. Not just my own life, but my wife's, my child's and all of the others of my family down to the last distant connection."

The man seemed genuine. "You want help from Atlantis, that's fine," said John. "But we're not exactly in a position to negotiate. We're stuck here, with no way of getting in touch."

"What if I was to help you return to your City?"

"Could you do that? Can you get us through the Gate? Or on a ship?"

Hefferen grimaced and lowered himself into his seat. "It would be difficult," he said slowly. "But there is a possible way. It is not generally known, but a certain proportion of criminals are sent through the Gate as slaves for the Wraith."

"Sounds like fun," said John, apprehension crawling over his skin.

"It is a way off the planet. And, as far as I am aware, the only way."

"Okay, well, maybe we can come up with something better."

"You must take care."

"Yeah, I think it's probably impossible to take care when you're dealing with the Wraith."

"You misunderstand. Myself and my wife employ many people from the surrounding area, more than we need and at a good wage, in an attempt to redress some of the inequalities of our society."

"I'd noticed a lot of different faces."

"Then you will understand what I mean when I tell you to take care. You must do your best to appear no more than my daughter's rescuers, gratefully receiving my hospitality as your reward; because it is very possible, even likely, that some of my servants are spies."

oOo

"Slaves? Oh, that's going to end well. That sounds like a fantastic plan. Send us through the Gate in a party of slaves and then expect us to be able to escape. In what way would we be better off as slaves of the Wraith than we are here?"

"Yeah, that's what I said." John stretched out his arms along the length of the couch and let his head fall back.

"And? His response?"

John shrugged.

"Great. Just great. We finally meet someone who might be in with a chance of getting us off this rock and the best he can come up with is to sell us into slavery."

"I don't think there's any selling involved."

"That makes it even worse. He'd just give us to the Wraith. Perhaps you could explain to me how exactly that makes this Hefferen guy any different from someone who isn't trying to help us? He might just as well call the Agents right now and save us all a lot of time and suffering. And speaking of time and suffering, if I ever get my hands on that Spy Kid teen-Wraith, I'll have more than a few choice words to say. What was his expectation of our chances of getting off this planet? 'Snowball's chance in hell - that'll do'?" Rodney jerked the blankets up to his chin and turned away, which put pressure on his half-healed arm. "Ow. Dammit."

"Here, let me." Morla, who had been sitting on the end of the bed, arranged Rodney's pillows to make him more comfortable.

"We have to try something, McKay, and I know it's not the best idea, but -"

"Shut up."

"Rodney, come on -"

"No, shut up, I'm thinking." Rodney closed his eyes and cudgelled his convalescing brain into action. "Number of ways off the planet, not counting the extremely unlikely scenario of being rescued: two, those being, on a ship or through the Gate. Ships: darts. Can we steal one?"

"It doesn't sound like they ever land," said John.

"You mean the reapers? I've never heard of one landing, even in the City," said Morla.

"Okay, fine, so it's the Gate or nothing. Likelihood of access to the Gate: nil, unless you're bound for a short life of no doubt cruel slavery."

"That's about the size of it."

"So, we need to find a way of getting ourselves sent through the Gate, but make sure we don't go where they want us."

"I don't think they'll let you play with the DHD, Rodney."

"No." Rodney rubbed his unshaven jaw. "No. But."

"But?"

"That's the only place I can see where there might be some wiggle-room in the whole 'sold into slavery' scenario."

"Wiggle-room?"

"Hmm. For example, it's possible to cross-wire the chevrons, so that the address dialled actually sends you to a different place altogether."

"You'd need access to the DHD."

"Well, yes, but that depends on the set-up, doesn't it? In Atlantis, we have the control level and so there's all kinds of variations on the way Gate-function can be messed up, either intentionally or through sheer, gross ineptitude. If they have anything like that, then there are bound to be possibilities for a genius such as myself to indulge in a little hacking."

"That's a big if, Rodney. But it's nice to hear that your ego's on the mend."

"There was never anything wrong with my ego, it was just damped down for a while by extreme pain and sickness." Rodney's mind ran on, pointing out to him all the errors and possibilities in his plan. "Look, you're missing the point. What we need now is more information about the location of the Gate. A central complex, Hefferen said; has that been built up round the Gate by the locals? The Wraith? What are we talking about here, a temple with a lot of incense-burning and chanting primitives, or something more useful, like an actual Ancient outpost with systems that I can infiltrate?"

"Morla?" John looked at their companion. "Do you know anything about Teksa'corani? What the citadel might be like?"

Morla jumped and blushed. "Oh, er, sorry, you were asking about the city?"

"Yes, the city, come on, chop-chop!" Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently.

"Aw, your first finger snap." Sheppard was grinning like an idiot. He held out his hand and shook Morla's vigorously. "Congratulations."

"Er, thanks," she said.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh, ha ha."

"Give the girl a break! She's not seen you in full-on Rodney McKay mode before. What's the verdict, Morla?"

"Uh, I guess it's a bit like when you jump into a creek. Kinda takes your breath away for a bit."

"Yes, yes, very amusing. Now, back to the matter in hand? Teksa'corani?"

"Well, I've never been there," she said. "There are plenty of stories, though. They say -" she leant forward, conspiratorially. "They say the streets are paved with gold!"

Rodney felt a face-palm was in order. "Oh God, don't they always?"

Morla pouted and gave an offended snort.

"Yeah, let's not argue about this, guys" said John. "We'll see what we can find out from Hefferen, then we can come up with a plan of action."

"Oh, is he coming to visit us in our thinly-disguised cells?"

"C'mon, Rodney, he's treated us pretty well. You haven't seen the games room yet."

It was Rodney's turn to snort but before he could embark on any kind of satisfying rant, John interrupted.

"Anyways, if you're up to it, he's invited us all to dinner tomorrow evening."

"Dinner? Hmm." Rodney considered his delicate convalescent state. "Out. Both of you. Now."

"What? Why?"

"Because if I'm going to make the most of what I'm sure will be a sumptuous repast, I'll need to build up my energy reserves."

"Oh. Nighty-night, then, Rodney. Sleep tight. Shall I tuck you in?"

"I will. And no. Respectively. Draw the curtains before you leave."

oOo

John was concerned that a formal dinner would be too much for his recently recovered friend. He hid his concern by baiting Rodney about his Buck Rogers style blue shirt and tight black pants, but Rodney didn't rise to his efforts.

"I think it suits me," he said. "And Jennifer would say the blue matches my eyes."

"Your sweetheart'd say more than that if she saw those pants," Morla giggled. She took Rodney's free arm, his other resting in a black sling, and John could tell that she was discreetly steering Rodney and allowing him to lean on her. It crossed John's mind that his friend seemed very relaxed in Morla's presence, without that slight edge of panic that sometimes crept into his eyes and the slant that occasionally made his mouth more than usually crooked when he was with Jennifer.

They were led by a servant to the dining room where the family was waiting. Greyla took great delight in introducing her friends to her parents in a rapid and largely unintelligible rush of names and words, which her father stemmed with a laughingly upraised hand.

"Gently, Greyla. Don't overwhelm our guests!"

"So we are guests now, are we? Rather than prisoners, I mean."

"McKay." There was an awkward moment and suddenly John wanted to be back out in the snow, battling against the elements, his physical strength tested to its limit, his survival dependent on his own resources, rather than feeling his way through the subtleties of this privileged family and their precarious political situation.

Morla continued to hold Rodney's arm, her direct green eyes openly questioning. "I'd like to know where I stand too," she said.

"I'm sorry."

John looked up from his contemplation of the patterned carpet.

Mrs Hefferen held out her hand. "I'm sorry that we have had to confine your movements. We really are most truly grateful to you for returning our daughter. And you are our guests."

John took the offered hand and shook it. She smiled as she took Morla's hand and then Rodney's.

"Please, call me Rosenta," she said. "And you must sit down, Dr McKay. You're not fully recovered yet and we shouldn't be keeping you standing." She led him to a chair.

Greyla climbed up next to Rodney. "We should have dessert first!" she announced. "Don't you think that's a good idea, Buzz? 'Cause what happens if you get to dessert and you can't fit it in?"

"I like your thinking," he approved.

John sat, and the whiteness of the cloth and the complexity of the table settings reminded him of his family home and all those stilted meals after his mother had died and it had just been himself, his father and Dave. His father would have sat to his right, at the head of the table, just where Lorentik Hefferen was sitting now. Which of these implements would John be expected to use first? Would he sink beneath the Hefferen's contempt if he used the wrong one? Why was he even thinking about such things when they were stranded on a Wraith-controlled planet?

"I guess we'll have to eat our vegetables first," said Greyla, with grim stoicism.

John caught the glimmer of a mischievous grin on his host's face, which would never have sprung from his father's lips.

"Well, now, why don't I just have the whole lot brought in at once and we can all make our choice?"

"Really?" Greyla bounced up and down in her chair.

"Lorentik Hefferen, you're more of a child than Greyla is!"

John found himself grinning. Perhaps this family was less stilted than his own.

The meal was brought in, the dishes all crowded onto the table at once, and such was the unfamiliarity of the food that John had no idea which were entrees and which desserts. And in the atmosphere of casual geniality, if not developing chaos, he decided he didn't care.

They ate and drank and Lorentik and Rosenta laughed; John found himself relaxing and laughing with them. Greyla and Rodney ate desserts with dedicated competitiveness. Morla looked younger, as if she could have been Greyla's older sister. But how different had her life been from Greyla's? How young had she been when she'd had to start earning her living?

John noticed that Rodney had been silent for a while and had stopped eating. "Rodney? Are you okay?"

He could see a snappish answer being bitten back. Rodney was tired and probably in pain.

Rosenta pushed back her chair. "We'll retire to the drawing room."

They left the scant remains of the meal and were led across a wide hall by the main entrance and into a large, but cosy room, where there were soft seats and couches and a huge fireplace in which coals were gently glowing.

Greyla ran to the hearthrug, pulled out a box from beneath a nearby chair and tipped out a slew of wooden animals. John remembered the Satedan creature that had been in his pocket when they'd arrived on the planet; what had happened to it? And his mother's bracelet. The old man had said he would keep it until the snow fell. Snow had fallen, here at least. Was his precious memento now sparkling on the wrist of someone's wife?

He realised Rosenta was speaking to him. "It's been too much for him. We should have waited a day."

"Rodney?" He saw that his friend was lying full length on one of the couches. He appeared to be asleep. "No, he'll be fine. We wanted to talk to you both, anyways."

They sat. He was given a small glass of a rich ruby-red liqueur.

"We need to know more about the City, about how the Gate's protected, how it's controlled. McKay has a few ideas for our escape plan."

"I can't tell you much," said Lorentik. "It's difficult to get access, even for us."

"Do you know how the Gate's controlled? Is there a DHD? A ... a thing like a round control panel that sticks out of the ground like a mushroom? It'd be near the Gate."

The husband and wife looked at each other. Rosenta spoke. "The Ring stands on a featureless platform," she said. "There's no 'mushroom'."

"Right, so where's it controlled from?"

"There's a building at one end of the platform; a broad, tower, octagonal in cross-section." Lorentik rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "It houses the formal council chamber on the upper floors, but there are lower storeys, below the level of the Gate platform. The Wraith go down there, but won't permit access to any of us, not even the Senior Council members. Not that I've ever heard, at least."

"That sounds hopeful." Rodney eased himself upright, blinking and pulling his sling back around his arm where it had slid off. "What can you tell us about the architecture of the place? When was it built? By the Wraith?"

"No. It is said that the tower has stood, along with the Ring, since the time of the Ancestors, but I don't know if that's true."

"Well, that sounds even more hopeful," said Rodney. "Some kind of outpost?"

"Maybe." John took a sip of his drink. It was rich and sweet and fruity. "Could the Wraith use the controls if it's all Ancient tech, though? Wouldn't they need the gene?"

"Not necessarily. Think about what we've done on Atlantis - interfaced our own technology with Ancient, so that anyone could use it. Although we had me, which is obviously an important factor if genius is needed. What we really need is a set of plans. With your gene, my genius and a set of plans, I might just be able to pull off one of my usual miraculous saves."

"There may be plans," said Lorentik doubtfully. "Possibly in the university archives. Study of our history isn't encouraged."

"I'm surprised anyone's allowed to study anything," said Rodney. "The Wraith don't need their food educated. Can you get us a copy of the plans?"

"I will try. As an alumnus of the university I should be allowed access to its library." His hand crept into his wife's. "Though even such an innocuous request may be regarded with suspicion."

"We must risk what we have, Lorentik." Rosenta squeezed his hand. "We've agreed on this."

He nodded. "We have."

oOo

Rodney's arm was aching. It felt wrong to let his head slide down onto one of the soft cushions, but nobody seemed to mind. Morla and John were playing with Greyla's animals while the little girl giggled at their sound effects and voices. John's vrax attacked Morla's grennet and they fought. Rodney yawned.

"Time for bed, McKay."

Rodney opened his mouth, only mildly interested in whether agreement or sharp denial would emerge. Then there were raised voices outside the room and a cold draft blew under the double doors. Lorentik rose from his seat. The doors flew open and into the room strode an Agent, flanked by two deputies, a flustered servant in their wake.

"I'm sorry, Mr Hefferen, Mrs Hefferen, they wouldn't let me announce them."

"That's alright, Meriel. You can go."

The servant backed out and closed the doors. Greyla jumped up and went to her mother, regarding the Agent's mutilated face with wide, horrified eyes.

"Agent Wingrel. This is a hard night to be out. What can I do for you?"

"Hefferen," the Agent acknowledged Lorentik with a sharp nod, but his eyes travelled slowly over Rodney, John and Morla.

John stood up.

"These are your guests?"

"They are."

"Who are they?" The Agent's manner was abrupt, his voice hard.

John stepped forward but Lorentik gestured him back.

"They are my guests and, as such, neither I, nor they need to explain their presence."

The Agent squared up to Lorentik, his hands tucking into his gun belt, parting the folds of his duster and revealing a Wraith hand-stunner. The deputies mirrored his actions. "Don't try it with me, Hefferen. You know fine well that I have the right to check up on any new folks in my area."

"You do not have the right to disturb my family, however. A discreet request during working hours would have sufficed to set your mind at rest."

The Agent sneered, his crudely-cut spiracles gaping open. "You high-ups is all the same, with your pretty words and your 'working hours'. Us Agents don't stick with working hours. We're always on the job."

"How tiresome."

"I want their names and their travel permits right now, Hefferen. I heard tell some low-lifes had brought Miss Greyla back and I guess this is them."

"Ah, but you are labouring under a misapprehension, Agent." Hefferen smiled, gently. "My daughter has indeed been returned, but those admittedly suspicious characters moved on almost immediately. These are merely business associates of mine."

"Business associates?"

"Yes." Lorentik gestured at John. "This is Mr Hayal Travven. And this is Mr Antiok Peel and his wife Ferina." His sweeping hand took in Rodney and Morla. Morla looked at Rodney and smirked. "Mr Travven and Mr Peel are on their way from my mines in the south to my works in the north. They are going to investigate the reason for certain accounting discrepancies and inefficiencies in production."

Rodney tried to look like an accountant. John's glowering brows would have had potential fraudsters running for cover.

The Agent narrowed his eyes. "I'll see their permits."

"Of course." Lorentik smiled pleasantly. "In the morning."

"Now."

They had permits, of course, forged by one of Ferdan's men, in the names of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin and registered at the stage office in Teller's Gap. They might have satisfied this Agent. Why had Hefferen made up new identities for them?

"As you wish. They are in my office safe. Please, come with me." He ushered the men toward the door.

The Agent turned to one of his deputies. "Go with him, Brin. I'll have a few words with Mr Travven and Mr Peel here."

oOo

Lorentik had said there might be spies amongst his employees. Was that why the Agent had arrived? Had someone reported their presence? And if so, what had they said? The staff knew that they had arrived out of the blue, bringing Greyla home. And now Hefferen was trying to pass them off as some kind of mining administrators. Had he had more false papers made?

The Agent glared at John, but his eyes fastened on Rodney. "What happened to you?"

"An accident. On our journey," said Rodney.

"What kind of accident?"

"My grennet slipped in the snow and I fell off. Happy?"

The Agent sneered and loomed closer, so that Rodney would have to crane his neck to look up at him. Rodney ignored him, his eyes tracking the leaping flames.

"Back off."

The green-stained skin and scarred face turned toward John and looked him up and down with slow deliberation. "So you're an accountant?" His lip curled.

John allowed a maddening smirk to emerge. "Yeah. That's me. I'm all about the numbers."

"Really."

"Really."

"How much did Hefferen's southern mines make last year?"

What would be a convincing figure? John had no idea of the mines' extent or likely production.

"Gross or net? Either way, more than you're paid in a lifetime." Morla sat beside Rodney, one hand on his knee, which he didn't appear to have noticed.

The Agent sneered down at her. "How much is he worth?"

"Annual income, or d'you want my husband to include disposable assets?" Morla shot back. "Or shall he just list everything in order of liquidity starting with petty cash?"

The Agent snorted with disgust and turned away. John smirked and Morla winked at him.

Hefferen entered with the deputy, who held some papers out to the Agent.

"It's like he said, boss."

The Agent snatched the papers and skimmed over them quickly.

"You can see that everything is in order," said Lorentik, smoothly.

The Agent thrust the papers back into his deputy's hands who passed them back to Lorentik.

"I'll be watching." He raised a finger and pointed threateningly around the room. "I'll be watching."

They left.

"Nasty man," commented Greyla.

Her mother held her close. "I would say he's just doing his job," Rosenta said. "But it's a hateful job and he's a hateful man."

"He's a dangerous man." John looked down at Morla. "Nice accounting spiel," he said.

She shrugged. "I used to do the accounts at Madam Frey's. One of the boys from the bank taught me a few things because he liked to hear me talk about disposable assets and capital gains and such when we were, er…"

"I get the picture," said John.

"We had papers already," said Rodney. "Why did you make us new ones?"

"Ah, yes, I had intended to tell you of my plan. It will take time for me to travel to the university in Teksa'corani and find the information you seek, and meanwhile, I find there is a relatively accurate portrait of 'Johnny Sundance' in circulation and a rather less accurate one of 'Butch McKay'. There is also the mystery of the disappearance of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin somewhere between Teller's Gap and Tychor, and various unexplained deaths at the waystation between those places."

"So you made up two employees," said Rodney.

"I did."

Morla frowned. "What happens when the Agent finds out we haven't gone to investigate your mine?"

"He won't."

"I dunno. He seems like the kind of guy who would."

"No. He won't. Because when he investigates your onward journey he will find that you are exactly where I said you would be. At the mine."

"Oh." John scrubbed his hands through his hair. "Right." His eyes met his friend's.

"Hi ho," said Rodney.

Off to the mines? Sounds dangerous! You never know what dark secrets a mine might hold…

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