"Didn’t know her," Rydell said, "I met her, on the plane. If Sublett’s some kind of plant, then the whole world’s a plot." He shrugged. "Then I could start worrying about you , say." As opposed, say, to worrying about whether or not Loveless or Mrs. Elliot had bothered to plant a locator-bug in this motorhome, or whether the Death Star was watching for them, right now, and could it pick them up, out here? They said the Death Star could read the headlines on a newspaper, or what brand and size of shoes you wore, from a decent footprint.