Miles's meditations were interrupted by Dr. Dea's horse, which, taking exception to a branch lying across the logging trail, planted all four feet in an abrupt stop and snorted loudly. Dr. Dea toppled off with a faint cry. "Hang onto the reins," Miles called, and pressed Fat Ninny back down the trail.
      Dr. Dea was getting rather better at falling off; he'd landed more-or-less on his feet this time. He made a lunge at the dangling reins, but his sorrel mare shied away from his grab. Dea jumped back as she swung on her haunches and then, realizing her freedom, bounced back down the trail, tail bannering, horse body-language for Nyah, nyah, ya can't catch me!Dr. Dea, red and furious, ran swearing in pursuit. She broke into a canter.
      "No, no, don't run after her!" called Miles.
      "How the hell am I supposed to catch her if I don't run after her?" snarled Dea. The space surgeon was not a happy man. "My medkit's on that bloody beast!"
      "How do you think you can catch her if you do?" asked Miles. "She can run faster than you can."
      At the end of the little column, Pym turned his horse sideways, blocking the trail. "Just wait, Harra," Miles advised the anxious hill woman in passing. "Hold your horse still. Nothing starts a horse running faster than another running horse."
      The other two riders were doing rather better. The woman Harra Csurik sat her horse wearily, allowing it to plod along without interference, but at least riding on balance instead of trying to use the reins as a handle like the unfortunate Dea. Pym, bringing up the rear, was competent if not comfortable.
      Miles slowed Fat Ninny to a walk, reins loose, and wandered after the mare, radiating an air of calm relaxation. Who, me? I don't want to catch you. We're just enjoying the scenery, right. That's it, stop for a bite.The sorrel mare paused to nibble at a weed, but kept a wary eye on Miles's approach.
      At a distance just short of starting the mare bolting off again, Miles stopped Fat Ninny and slid off. He made no move toward the mare, but instead stood still and made a great show of fishing in his pockets. Fat Ninny butted his head against Miles eagerly, and Miles cooed and fed him a bit of sugar. The mare cocked her ears with interest. Fat Ninny smacked his lips and nudged for more. The mare snuffled up for her share. She lipped a cube from Miles's palm as he slid his other arm quietly through the loop of her reins.
      "Here you go, Dr. Dea. One horse. No running."
      "No fair," wheezed Dea, trudging up. "You had sugar in your pockets."
      "Of course I had sugar in my pockets. It's called foresight and planning. The trick of handling horses isn't to be faster than the horse, or stronger than the horse. That pits your weakness against his strengths. The trick is to be smarter than the horse. That pits your strength against his weakness, eh?"
      Dea took his reins. "It's snickering at me," he said suspiciously.
      "That's nickering, not snickering." Miles grinned. He tapped Fat Ninny behind his left foreleg, and the horse obediently grunted down onto one knee. Miles clambered up readily to his conveniently-lowered stirrup.
      "Does mine do that?" asked Dr. Dea, watching with fascination.
      "Sorry, no."
      Dea glowered at his horse. "This animal is an idiot. I shall lead it for a while."
      As Fat Ninny lurched back to his four feet Miles suppressed a riding-instructorly comment gleaned from his Grandfather's store such as, Be smarter than the horse, Dea.Though Dr. Dea was officially sworn to Lord Vorkosigan for the duration of this investigation, Space Surgeon Lieutenant Dea certainly outranked Ensign Vorkosigan. To command older men who outranked one called for a certain measure of tact.
      The logging road widened out here, and Miles dropped back beside Harra Csurik. Her fierceness and determination of yesterday morning at the gate seemed to be fading even as the trail rose toward her home. Or perhaps it was simply exhaustion catching up with her. She'd said little all morning, been sunk in silence all afternoon. If she was going to drag Miles all the way up to the back of beyond and then wimp out on him…
      "What, ah, branch of the Service was your father in, Harra?" Miles began conversationally.
      She raked her fingers through her hair in a combing gesture more nervousness than vanity. Her eyes looked out at him through the straw-colored wisps like skittish creatures in the protection of a hedge.
      "District Militia, m'lord. I don't really remember him. He died when I was real little."
      "In combat?"
      She nodded. "In the fighting around Vorbarr Sultana, during Vordarian's Pretendership."
      Miles refrained from asking which side he had been swept up on — most foot soldiers had had little choice, and the amnesty had included the dead as well as the living.
      "Ah… do you have any sibs?"
      "No, lord. Just me and my mother left."
      A little anticipatory tension eased in Miles's neck. If this judgment indeed drove all the way through to an execution, one misstep could trigger a blood feud among the in-laws. Notthe legacy of justice the Count intended him to leave behind. So the fewer in-laws involved, the better. "What about your husband's family?"
      "He's got seven. Four brothers and three sisters."
      "Hm." Miles had a mental flash of an entire team of huge, menacing hill hulks. He glanced back at Pym, feeling a trifle understaffed for his task. He had pointed out this factor to the Count, when they'd been planning this expedition last night.
      "The village Speaker and his deputies will be your back-up," the Count had said, "just as for the district magistrate on court circuit."
      "What if they don't want to cooperate?" Miles had asked nervously.
      "An officer who expects to command Imperial troops," the Count had glinted, "should be able to figure out how to extract cooperation from a backcountry headman."
      In other words, his father had decided this was a test, and wasn't going to give him any more clues. Thanks, Da.
      "You have no sibs, lord?" said Harra, snapping him back to the present.
      "No. But surely that's known, even in the back-beyond."
      "They saya lot of things about you." Harra shrugged.
      Miles bit down on the morbid question in his mouth like a wedge of raw lemon. He would not ask it, he would not… he couldn't help himself. "Like what?" forced out past his stiff lips.
      "Everyone knows the Count's son is a mutant." Her eyes flicked defiant-wide. "Some said it came from the off-worlder woman he married. Some said it was from radiation from the wars, or a disease from, um, corrupt practices in his youth among his brother-officers -"
      That last was a new one to Miles. His brow lifted.
      "— but most say he was poisoned by his enemies."
      "I'm glad most have it right. It was an assassination attempt using soltoxin gas, when my mother was pregnant with me. But it's not -" a mutation, his thought hiccoughed through the well-worn grooves — how many times had he explained this? — it's teratogenic, not genetic, I'm not a mutant, not…What the hell did a fine point of biochemistry matter to this ignorant, bereaved woman? For all practical purposes — for her purposes — he might as well be a mutant. " — important," he finished.
      She eyed him sideways, swaying gently in the clop-a-clop rhythm of her mount. "Some said you were born with no legs, and lived all the time in a float chair in Vorkosigan House. Some said you were born with no bones -"
      "— and kept in a jar in the basement, no doubt," Miles muttered.
      "But Karal said he'd seen you with your grandfather at Hassadar Fair, and you were only sickly and undersized. Some said your father had got you into the Service, but others said no, you'd gone off-planet to your mother's home and had your brain turned into a computer and your body fed with tubes, floating in a liquid -"
      "I knew there'd be a jar turn up in this story somewhere." Miles grimaced. You knew you 'd be sorry you asked, too, but you went and did it anyway.She was baiting him, Miles realized suddenly. How dareshe… but there was no humor in her, only a sharp-edged watchfulness.
      She had gone out, way out on a limb to lay this murder charge, in defiance of family and local authorities alike, in defiance of established custom. And what had her Count given her for a shield and support, going back to face the wrath of all her nearest and dearest? Miles. Could he handle this? She must be wondering indeed. Or would he botch it, cave and cut and run, leaving her to face the whirlwind of rage and revenge alone?
      He wished he'd left her weeping at the gate.
      The woodland, fruit of many generations of terraforming forestry, opened out suddenly on a vale of brown native scrub. Down the middle of it, through some accident of soil chemistry, ran a half-kilometer-wide swathe of green and pink — feral roses, Miles realized with astonishment as they rode nearer. Earth roses. The track dove into the fragrant mass of them and vanished.
      He took turns with Pym, hacking their way through with their Service bush knives. The roses were vigorous and studded with thick thorns, and hacked back with a vicious elastic recoil. Fat Ninny did his part by swinging his big head back and forth and nipping off blooms and happily chomping them down. Miles wasn't sure just how many he ought to let the big roan eat — just because the species wasn't native to Barrayar didn't mean it wasn't poisonous to horses. Miles sucked at his wounds and reflected upon Barrayar's shattered ecological history.
      The fifty thousand Firsters from Earth had only meant to be the spearhead of Barrayar's colonization. Then, through a gravitational anomaly, the worm-hole jump through which the colonists had come shifted closed, irrevocably and without warning. The terraforming that had begun, so careful and controlled in the beginning, collapsed along with everything else. Imported Earth plant and animal species had escaped everywhere to run wild, as the humans turned their attention to the most urgent problems of survival. Biologists still mourned the mass extinctions of native species that had followed, the erosions and droughts and floods, but really, Miles thought, over the centuries of the Time of Isolation the fittest of both worlds had fought it out to a perfectly good new balance. If it was alive and covered the ground who cared where it came from?
      We are all here by accident. Like the roses.
 
      They camped that night high in the hills, and pushed on in the morning to the flanks of the true mountains. They were now out of the region Miles was personally familiar with from his childhood, and he checked Harra's directions frequently on his orbital survey map. They stopped only a few hours short of their goal at sunset of the second day. Harra insisted she could lead them on in the dusk from here, but Miles did not care to arrive after nightfall, unannounced, in a strange place of uncertain welcome.
      He bathed the next morning in a stream, and unpacked and dressed carefully in his new officer's Imperial dress greens. Pym wore the Vorkosigan brown-and-silver livery, and pulled the Count's standard on a telescoping aluminum pole from the recesses of his saddlebag and mounted it on his left stirrup. Dressed to kill,thought Miles joylessly. Dr. Dea wore ordinary black fatigues and looked uncomfortable. If they constituted a message, Miles was damned if he knew what it was.
      They pulled the horses up at midmorning before a two-room cabin set on the edge of a vast grove of sugar maples, planted who-knew-how-many centuries ago but now raggedly marching up the vale by self-seeding. The mountain air was cool and pure and bright. A few chickens stalked and bobbed in the weeds. An algae-choked wooden pipe from the woods dribbled water into a trough, which overflowed into a squishy green streamlet and away.
      Harra slid down, smoothed her skirt, and climbed the porch. "Karal?" she called. Miles waited high on horseback for the initial contact. Never give up a psychological advantage.
      "Harra? Is that you?" came a man's voice from within. He banged open the door and rushed out. "Where have you been, girl? We've been beating the bushes for you! Thought you'd broke your neck in the scrub somewhere -" He stopped short before the three silent men on horseback.
      "You wouldn't write down my charges, Karal," said Harra rather breathlessly. Her hands kneaded her skirt. "So I walked to the district magistrate at Vorkosigan Surleau to Speak them myself."
      "Oh, girl," Karal breathed regretfully, "that was a stupidthing to do…" His head lowered and swayed, as he stared uneasily at the riders. He was a balding man of maybe sixty, leathery and worn, and his left arm ended in a stump. Another veteran.
      "Speaker Serg Karal?" began Miles sternly. "I am the Voice of Count Vorkosigan. I am charged to investigate the crime Spoken by Harra Csurik before the Count's court, namely the murder of her infant daughter Raina. As Speaker of Silvy Vale, you are requested and required to assist me in all matters pertaining to the Count's justice."
      At this point Miles ran out of prescribed formalities and was on his own. That hadn't taken long. He waited. Fat Ninny snuffled. The silver-on-brown cloth of the standard made a few soft snapping sounds, lifted by a vagrant breeze.
      "The district magistrate wasn't there," put in Harra, "but the Count was."
      Karal was gray-faced, staring. He pulled himself together with an effort, came to a species of attention, and essayed a creaking half-bow. "Who — who are you, sir?"
      "Lord Miles Vorkosigan."
      Karal's lips moved silently. Miles was no lip reader, but he was pretty sure it came to a dismayed variant of Oh, shit."This is my liveried man Sergeant Pym, and my medical examiner, Lieutenant Dea of the Imperial Service."
      "You are my lord Count's son?" Karal croaked.
      "The one and only." Miles was suddenly sick of the posing. Surely that was a sufficient first impression. He swung down off Ninny, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. Karal's gaze followed him down, and down. Yeah, so I'm short. But wait'll you see me dance."All right if we water our horses in your trough here?" Miles looped Ninny's reins through his arm and stepped toward it.
      "Uh, that's for the people, m'lord," said Karal. "Just a minute and I'll fetch a bucket." He hitched up his baggy trousers and trotted off around the side of the cabin. A minute's uncomfortable silence, then Karal's voice floating faintly, "Where'd you put the goat bucket, Zed?"
      Another voice, light and young, "Behind the woodstack, Da." The voices fell to a muffled undertone. Karal came trotting back with a battered aluminum bucket, which he placed beside the trough. He knocked out a wooden plug in the side and a bright stream arced out to splash and fill. Fat Ninny flicked his ears and snuffled and rubbed his big head against Miles, smearing his tunic with red and white horse hairs and nearly knocking him off his feet. Karal glanced up and smiled at the horse, though his smile fell away as his gaze passed on to the horse's owner. As Fat Ninny gulped his drink Miles caught a glimpse of the owner of the second voice, a boy of around twelve who flitted off into the woods behind the cabin.
      Karal fell to, assisting Miles and Harra and Pym in securing the horses. Miles left Pym to unsaddle and feed, and followed Karal into his house. Harra stuck to Miles like glue, and Dr. Dea unpacked his medical kit and trailed along. Miles's boots rang loud and unevenly on the wooden floorboards.
      "My wife, she'll be back in the nooning," said Karal, moving uncertainly around the room as Miles and Dea settled themselves on a bench and Harra curled up with her arms around her knees on the floor beside the fieldstone hearth. "I'll… I'll make some tea, m'lord." He skittered back out the door to fill a kettle at the trough before Miles could say, No, thank you.No, let him ease his nerves in ordinary movements. Then maybe Miles could begin to tease out how much of this static was social nervousness and how much was — perhaps — guilty conscience. By the time Karal had the kettle on the coals he was noticeably better controlled, so Miles began.
      "I'd prefer to commence this investigation immediately, Speaker. It need not take long."
      "It need not… take place at all, m'lord. The baby's death was natural — there were no marks on her. She was weakly, she had the cat's mouth, who knows what else was wrong with her? She died in her sleep, or by some accident."
      "It is remarkable," said Miles dryly, "how often such accidents happen in this district. My father the Count himself has remarked on it."
      "There was no call to drag you up here." Karal looked in exasperation at Harra. She sat silent, unmoved by his persuasion.
      "It was no problem," said Miles blandly.
      "Truly, m'lord," Karal lowered his voice, "I believe the child might have been overlain. 'S no wonder, in her grief, that her mind rejected it. Lem Csurik, he's a good boy, a good provider. She really doesn't want to do this — her reason is just temporarily overset by her troubles."
      Harra's eyes, looking out from her hair-thatch, were poisonously cold.
      "I begin to see," Miles's voice was mild, encouraging.
      Karal brightened slightly. "It all could still be all right. If she will just be patient. Get over her sorrow. Talk to poor Lem. I'm sure he didn't kill the babe. Not rush to something she'll regret."
      "I begin to see," Miles let his tone go ice cool, "why Harra Csurik found it necessary to walk four days to get an unbiased hearing. 'You think.' 'You believe.' 'Who knows what?' Not you, it appears. I hear speculation — accusation — innuendo — assertion. I came for facts, Speaker Karal. The Count's justice doesn't turn on guesses. It doesn't have to. This isn't the Time of Isolation. Not even the backbeyond.
      "My investigation of the facts will begin now. No judgment will be — rushed into, before the facts are complete. Confirmation of Lem Csurik's guilt or innocence will come from his own mouth, under fast-penta, administered by Dr. Dea before two witnesses — yourself and a deputy of your choice. Simple, clean, and quick." And maybe I can be on my way out of this benighted hole before sundown."I require you, Speaker, to go now and bring Lem Csurik for questioning. Sergeant Pym will assist you."
      Karal killed another moment pouring the boiling water into a big brown pot before speaking. "I'm a traveled man, lord. A twenty-year Service man. But most folks here have never been out of Silvy Vale. Interrogation chemistry might as well be magic to them. They might say it was a false confession, got that way."
      "Then you and your deputy can say otherwise. This isn't exactly like the good old days, when confessions were extracted under torture, Karal. Besides, if he's as innocent as you guess— he'll clear himself, no?"
      Reluctantly, Karal went into the adjoining room. He came back shrugging on a faded Imperial Service uniform jacket with a corporal's rank marked on the collar, the buttons of which did not quite meet across his middle anymore. Preserved, evidently, for such official functions. Even as in Barrayaran custom one saluted the uniform, and not the man in it, so might the wrath engendered by an unpopular duty fall on the office and not the individual who carried it out. Miles appreciated the nuance.
      Karal paused at the door. Harra still sat wrapped in silence by the hearth, rocking slightly.
      "Mlord," said Karal. "I've been Speaker of Silvy Vale for sixteen years now. In all that time nobody has had to go to the district magistrate for a Speaking, not for water rights or stolen animals or swiving or even the time Neva accused Bors of tree piracy over the maple sap. We've not had a blood feud in all that time."
      "I have no intention of starting a blood feud, Karal. I just want the facts."
      "That's the thing, m'lord. I'm not so in love with facts as I used to be. Sometimes, they bite." Karal's eyes were urgent.
      Really, the man was doing everything but stand on his head and juggle cats — one-handed — to divert Miles. How overt was his obstruction likely to get?
      "Silvy Vale cannot be permitted to have its own little Time of Isolation," said Miles warningly. "The Count's justice is for everyone, now. Even if they're small. And weakly. And have something wrong with them. And cannot even speak for themselves — Speaker."
      Karal flinched, white about the lips — point taken, evidently. He trudged away up the trail, Pym following watchfully, one hand loosening the stunner in his holster.
      They drank the tea while they waited. Miles pottered about the cabin, looking but not touching. The hearth was the sole source of heat for cooking and wash water. There was a beaten metal sink for washing up, filled by hand from a covered bucket but emptied through a drainpipe under the porch to join the streamlet running down out of the trough. The second room was a bedroom, with a double bed and chests for storage. A loft held three more pallets; the boy around back had brothers, apparently. The place was cramped, but swept, things put away and hung up.
      On a side table sat a government-issue audio receiver, and a second and older military model, opened up, apparently in the process of getting minor repairs and a new power pack. Exploration revealed a drawer full of old parts, nothing more complex than for simple audio sets, unfortunately. Speaker Karal must double as Silvy Vale's com link specialist. How appropriate. They must pick up broadcasts from the station in Hassadar, maybe the high-power government channels from the capital as well.
      No other electricity, of course. Powersat receptors were expensive pieces of precision technology. They would come even here, in time; some communities almost as small, but with strong economic co-ops, already had them. Silvy Vale was obviously still stuck in subsistence-level, and must needs wait till there was enough surplus in the district to gift them, if the surplus was not grabbed off first by some competing want. If only the city of Vorkosigan Vashnoi had not been obliterated by Cetagandan atomics, the whole district could be years ahead, economically…
      Miles walked out on the porch and leaned on the rail. Karal's son had returned. Down at the end of the cleared yard Fat Ninny was standing tethered, hip-shot, ears aflop, grunting with pleasure as the grinning boy scratched him vigorously under his halter. The boy looked up to catch Miles watching him, and scooted off fearfully to vanish again in the scrub downslope. "Huh," muttered Miles.
      Dr. Dea joined him. "They've been gone a long time. About time to break out the fast-penta?"
      "No, your autopsy kit, I should say. I fancy that's what we'll be doing next."
      Dea glanced at him sharply. "I thought you sent Pym along to enforce the arrest."
      "You can't arrest a man who's not there. Are you a wagering man, Doctor? I'll bet you a mark they don't come back with Csurik. No, hold it — maybe I'm wrong. I hope I'm wrong. Here are three coming back…"
      Karal, Pym, and another were marching down the trail. The third was a hulking young man, big-handed, heavy-browed, thick-necked, surly. "Harra," Miles called, "is this your husband?" He looked the part, by God, just what Miles had pictured. And four brothers just like him — only bigger, no doubt…
      Harra appeared by Miles's shoulder and let out her breath. "No, m'lord. That's Alex, the Speaker's deputy."
      "Oh." Miles's lips compressed in silent frustration. Well, I had to give it a chance to be simple.
      Karal stopped beneath him and began a wandering explanation of his empty-handed state. Miles cut him off with a lift of his eyebrows. "Pym?"
      "Bolted, m'lord," said Pym laconically. "Almost certainly warned."
      "I agree." He frowned down at Karal, who prudently stood silent. Facts first. Decisions, such as how much deadly force to pursue the fugitive with, second. "Harra. How far is it to your burying place?"
      "Down by the stream, lord, at the bottom of the valley. About two kilometers."
      "Get your kit, Doctor, we're taking a walk. Karal, fetch a shovel."
      "M'lord, surely it isn't needful to disturb the peace of the dead," began Karal.
      "It is entirely needful. There's a place for the autopsy report right in the Procedural I got from the district magistrate's office. Where I will file my completed report upon this case when we return to Vorkosigan Surleau. I have permission from the next-of-kin — do I not, Harra?"
      She nodded numbly.
      "I have the two requisite witnesses, yourself and your," gorilla,"deputy, we have the doctor and the daylight — if you don't stand there arguing till sundown. All we need is the shovel. Unless you're volunteering to dig with your hand, Karal." Miles's voice was flat and grating and getting dangerous.
      Karal's balding head bobbed in his distress. "The — the father is the legal next-of-kin, while he lives, and you don't have his -"
      "Karal," said Miles.
      "M'lord?"
      "Take care the grave you dig is not your own. You've got one foot in it already."
      Karal's hand opened in despair. "I'll… get the shovel, m'lord."
 
      The mid-afternoon was warm, the air golden and summer-sleepy. The shovel bit with a steady scrunch-scrunchthrough the soil at the hands of Karal's deputy. Downslope, a bright stream burbled away over clean rounded stones. Harra hunkered watching, silent and grim.
      When big Alex levered out the little crate — so little! — Sergeant Pym went off for a patrol of the wooded perimeter. Miles didn't blame him. He hoped the soil at that depth had been cool, these last eight days. Alex pried open the box, and Dr. Dea waved him away and took over. The deputy too went off to find something to examine at the far end of the graveyard.
      Dea looked the cloth-wrapped bundle over carefully, lifted it out, and set it on his tarp laid out on the ground in the bright sun. The instruments of his investigation were arrayed upon the plastic in precise order. He unwrapped the brightly-patterned cloths in their special folds; Harra crept up to retrieve them, straighten and fold them ready for re-use, then crept back.
      Miles fingered the handkerchief in his pocket, ready to hold over his mouth and nose, and went to watch over Dea's shoulder. Bad, but not too bad. He'd seen and smelled worse. Dea, filter-masked, spoke procedurals into his recorder, hovering in the air by his shoulder, and made his examination first by eye and gloved touch, then by scanner.
      "Here, my lord," said Dea, and motioned Miles closer. "Almost certainly the cause of death, though I'll run the toxin tests in a moment. Her neck was broken. See here on the scanner where the spinal cord was severed, then the bones twisted back into alignment."
      "Karal, Alex." Miles motioned them up to witness; they came reluctantly.
      "Could this have been accidental?" said Miles.
      "Very remotely possible. The re-alignment had to be deliberate, though."
      "Would it have taken long?"
      "Seconds only. Death was immediate."
      "How much physical strength was required? A big man's or…"
      "Oh, not much at all. Any adult could have done it, easily."
      "Any sufficiently motivated adult." Miles's stomach churned at the mental picture Dea's words conjured up. The little fuzzy head would easily fit under a man's hand. The twist, the muffled cartilaginous crack — if there was one thing Miles knew by heart, it was the exact tactile sensation of breaking bone, oh yes.
      "Motivation," said Dea, "is not my department." He paused. "I might note, a careful external examination could have found this. Mine did. An experienced layman" — his eye fell cool on Karal — "paying attention to what he was doing, should not have missed it."
      Miles too stared at Karal, waiting.
      "Overlain," hissed Harra. Her voice was ragged with scorn.
      "M'lord," said Karal carefully, "it's true I suspected the possibility."
      Suspected, hell. You knew.
      "But I felt — and still feel, strongly" — his eye flashed a wary defiance — "that only more grief would come from a fuss. There was nothing I could do to help the baby at that point. My duties are to the living."
      "So are mine, Speaker Karal. As, for example, my duty to the next small Imperial subject in mortal danger from those who should be his or her protectors, for the grave fault of being" — Miles flashed an edged smile — "physically different. In Count Vorkosigan's view this is not just a case. This is a test case, fulcrum of a thousand cases. Fuss…" he hissed the sibilant; Harra rocked to the rhythm of his voice, "you haven't begun to see fussyet."
      Karal subsided as if folded.
      There followed an hour of messiness yielding mainly negative data: no other bones were broken, the infant's lungs were clear, her gut and bloodstream free of toxins except those of natural decomposition. Her brain held no secret tumors. The defect for which she had died did not extend to spina bifida, Dea reported. Fairly simple plastic surgery would indeed have corrected the cat's mouth, could she somehow have won access to it. Miles wondered what comfort this confirmation was to Harra. Cold, at best.
      Dea put his puzzle back together, and Harra re-wrapped the tiny body in intricate, meaningful folds. Dea cleaned his tools and placed them in their cases and washed his hands and arms and face thoroughly in the stream, for rather a longer time than needed for just hygiene Miles thought, while the gorilla re-buried the box.