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HUMANITY'S LAST HOPE It begins when a man delivers a message for former government agent Frank Compton--only to fall dead at his feet. The message is a summons from the Spiders, the exotic and mysterious creatures who run the Quadrail, an incredible transportation system connecting civilizations across the galaxy. The Spiders believe that someone or something is preparing to attack their entire network and the worlds it serves, by smuggling battleships through the Quadrail--something that should be impossible to do. Compton, with the aid of a beautiful but enigmatic agent of the Spiders, is their last hope. Because nobody else has been able to find the elusive enemy who seeks to enslave the entire galaxy…and Earth is its next target.
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Night Train to Rigel Timothy Zahn ATOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book." This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. NIGHT TRAIN TO RIGEL Copyright © 2005 by Timothy Zahn All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. Edited by James Frenkel A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. ISBN-13: 978-0-765-34644-5 ISBN-10: 0-765-34644-3 First edition: October 2005 First mass market edition: October 2006 Printed in the United States of America 0987654321 For Pastor Rick House who has helped keep me on the rails ONE : He was leaning against the side of an autocab by the curb as I walked through the door and atmosphere curtain of the New Pallas Towers into the chilly Manhattan night air. He was short and thin, with no facial hair, and wore a dark brown overcoat with a lighter brown shirt and slacks beneath it. Probably no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, I estimated, me sort of person you wouldn't normally give a second look to if you passed him on the walkway. Which was why I gave him a very careful second look as I headed down the imported Belldic marble steps toward street level. I had no doubt there were plenty of nondescript people wandering the streets of New York this December evening, but their proper place was the nondescript parts of the city, not here in the habitats of the rich and powerful. There was already one person out of his proper social position in this neighborhood me and it would be unreasonable to expect two such exceptions at the same place at the same time. He watched me silently from beneath droopy eyelids, his arms folded across his chest, his hands hidden from view. A beggar or mugger should be moving toward me at this point, I knew, while an honest citizen would be politely stepping out of my way. This character was doing neither. I found myself studying those folded arms, wondering what he might have in his hands and wishing mightily that Western Alliance Intelligence hadn't revoked my carry permit when they'd cashiered me fourteen months earlier. I was within three steps of the kid when he finally stirred, his half-lidded eyes opening, his forehead creasing in concentration. "Frank Compton," he said in a gravelly voice. It had been a statement, not a question. "That's right," I confirmed. "Do I know you?" A half smile touched his lips as he unfolded his arms. I tensed, but both hands were empty. His left hand dropped limply to his side; his right floundered a bit and then found its way into his overcoat's side pocket. It was still there as he slid almost leisurely off the side of the autocab and cru