The next morning, Nigel took Melliblue out for a hot date among the flowers.

Or at least it should have been hot. For one thing, she wouldn't let him blindfold her. And forget putting his hands over her eyes.

"What kind of person doesn't like surprises?" he demanded.

She folded her arms. "Rule 4. Keep your senses sharp and record all you see, hear, and smell in the gardens. Your vigilance will save lives."

Cripes. She'd memorized the manual. Was she Eustace's granddaughter or his clone?

Her outfit, too: army green cargo pants and a button-down shirt, hair in pigtails, bandana, high boots, and a snug cap. Clipped to her belt was an all-purpose knife. Her hand kept drifting to its hilt.

Well. Women had wanted to kill him before, but that was usually after they'd gotten to know him.

They were standing by the flower buggy near the daisy field. He'd brought her here early enough to watch the second sun rise. It was the closest either of them would get to the colors of old Earth.

But her eyes never strayed from him. She watched him take the picnic basket from the car. When he pulled out two guavas, she eyed them like live hand grenades.

He lunged at her. "Boo!"

Stumbling back, she tripped on the field border and fell on her rear in the daisy field.

He burst out laughing and offered his hand to help her up. She ignored it and scrambled to her feet, glaring balefully at him.

Like that marmalade cat he had growing up, Chutzpah. She was forever spitting fire at him. If you reached out to her in that state, she'd claw your arm off.

"I don't suppose you want breakfast?"

She shook her head. "I had a vitablock at watchstation quarters, thanks."

Keeping one eye on him, she removed a palm-sized notebook from her pocket and began writing.

He strolled up behind her and peered over her shoulder. She'd pasted in a page with notes, arrows, and scribbles in Eustace's writing, labeled "The Problem of Thyme."

What in seven hells was that? The old coot had actually passed down the secret in a code so bizarre she'd never break it.

"It's not thyme like the plant," he said impatiently, "it's t-i-m-e time. It's referring to..."

Something moved at the edge of his vision. Grabbing Melliblue, he pulled her to his chest and drew his laser gun at the same time.

The only sound was his tense, quick breaths. A faint pulsing red light betrayed what he'd seen: a surveillance device shaped like a submarine scope that had risen from a pot of lantanas.

The flowers hid the scope from the view of Iaxia's other surveillance cameras. Whoever had planted it there didn't work for the greenhouse.

So the phrase "the flower of time" had activated it, huh? If someone already knew as much, they must know what kind of secret he had to tell her. And would have it as soon as he spoke.

He exhaled heavily--and felt the press of a blade against his neck.

"Let me go," Melliblue said.

He let go so fast she stumbled, then straightened in a fighting pose. She looked so much like his cat trying to intimidate a starbuggy that he had to suppress a laugh.

"Figment of my imagination," he said smoothly.

She frowned at him over her notebook. "It would be helpful," she said coolly, "if you'd tell me what you know about the garden. There are a lot of references to clocks--the layout of the flowerbeds, the clock room in the watch station, all the clocks on the walls here.

"And I noticed that every room is divided into three sections--one for old-Earth plants, one for crops commonly grown in the homeworlds, and one for experimental and mutant strains. In other words, plants past, present, and future.

"So," she concluded, tapping her teeth with the pen, "the theme is ti--"

"That's very interesting," he said loudly, not looking at the surveillance lens. "Why don't we check out the control room? Lots of fun toys for kids like you to try out!"

"Why the control room?" she asked suspiciously. "They're monitoring that remotely already; we're here to look at the plants."

"Because--because--it was Eustace's favorite place!"

"He never came here." She folded her arms.

Seven hells, Eustace and Emily never should have been allowed to reproduce. "Yes, but he designed it," he said desperately. "He always said he wanted to sit with a grandchild on his lap, showing them all the grand vistas of space."

Well, if he didn't say it, he should've.

On cue, the girl's face melted like Atraen snow under a lander. "Let's go investigate it, then."

Eustace had no doubt wanted him to tell her the secret here, the most isolated place in the galaxy.

As the last person alive from the Hunara, Nigel was the only one who could. Someone had to know about that patch of space ... and stop anyone from passing through there again.

But if there was a surveillance scope here, they must be everywhere. Codes were no good either--clearly Eustace's bizarre pictures and word salad had not conveyed much.

Fortunately, she was smart. He just might be able to guide her to the correct conclusion. If the spy came to it first, neither of them were getting out of this place alive.