On the other side, it seemed a shame to waste all of Thrr-tulkoj's heroic efforts, not to mention the blood he'd spilled a few hunbeats ago. Anyway, what else did Thrr't-rokik have to do?

He flicked back to the Willing Servant; and he had just decided that the first step would be to give himself a grand tour of the ship when an Elder suddenly appeared in front of him. "You," the other snapped. "Yes, you. Are you connected with the Willing Servant?"

"Ah... yes," Thrr't-rokik stammered, realizing only after he'd said it that it probably would have been smarter and safer to identify himself instead as one of the landing-area Elders. "What I mean is—"

"Yes, I know—you're not really with the ship, you're one of that shovelful of observers the Overclan Seating loaded us with," the other Elder said impatiently. "You and the rest of your pyramid are to report to the Elder briefing room in Hexagon Two immediately. What's your name?"

Thrr't-rokik was ready this time. "Cvv't-rokik; Dhaa'rr," he said. "What's all this about?"

"It's about war, of course," the Elder growled. "More specifically, it's about observing. You want to observe the contact mission's conversations with the Mrachanis, you have to be able to understand what they're talking about."

"Ah," Thrr't-rokik said, nodding his understanding. "Human-Conqueror language lessons."

"Very good," the Elder said sarcastically. "At least you're not stupid, just ignorant. Hopefully, that's something we can fix over the next few fullarcs." The Elder jabbed imperiously with his tongue. "Well, don't just float there, get going. And hope the language instructor doesn't give you a reprimand for tardiness."

"I obey," Thrr't-rokik said, flicking past him.

And hope too, he added to himself, that no one would take the trouble to count the Elders present and compare it with the number of fsss cuttings on this observer pyramid. If they did, he was going to be in trouble. If they didn't, he might just be able to pull this off.

Either way, it was definitely going to be an interesting voyage.

"Sir?"

Parlimin Jacy VanDiver looked up impatiently from his perusal of the latest batch of Peacekeeper troop movements. How was he ever going to keep up with all this if he kept getting interrupted every five minutes? "What is it, Peters?" he snapped.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," the young aide said, stammering slightly. "But a priority message just came for you by skitter from Mr. McPhee." He started to offer the plate, hesitated. "Shall I summarize it for you, sir?"

The kid was learning, anyway. Slowly, like a brain-damaged slug, but learning. "Make it quick," VanDiver said, dropping his attention back to the Peacekeeper report. McPhee was a time waster, too, always sending reports whether he had anything to say or not. Odds were this was one of those.

"Yes, sir," Peters said. "Mr. McPhee reports that he's tracked Assistant Commonwealth Liaison Petr Bronski to Puerto Simone Island on Granparra. There he observed Bronski with two men, tentatively identified as Lord Stewart Cavanagh and—"

VanDiver snapped his eyes up again, the troop movements abruptly forgotten. "Cavanagh?"

"Yes, sir," Peters said, sounding even more nervous. "Lord Cavanagh and a Mr. Mitri Kolchin—"

"Give me that," VanDiver cut him off, gesturing for the plate.

"Yes, sir," Peters said, hastily stepping forward and handing it to him.

Quickly, VanDiver skimmed the report. It was Cavanagh and Kolchin, all right; the brief long-range video McPhee had included with the report left no doubt about it. Acting all chummy, too, the three of them heading into a small spaceship together. According to McPhee, they were heading next for Mra; McPhee planned to follow.

"I knew it," he said, glaring up at Peters. "Bronski's in this with Cavanagh. In it up to his neck."

"Yes, sir," Peters said. "Speaking of Bronski, sir, I've finished that background report you requested."

"And?"

Peters shrugged fractionally. "Nothing of particular interest. A native of Ukraine, he's apparently been working for various diplomatic and conciliation services since leaving school. According to his file, he joined the Commonwealth diplomatic service in 2282 and has spent the past twenty-one years working his way up to his present position."

"Military service?"

"None listed." Peters hesitated. "Though one thing that struck me as odd, sir. He's listed as joining the Unified Centaurian Civil Diplomatic Corps midway through the Pawolian war. He served with them for twelve years, with assignments that took him all over the Commonwealth and several alien worlds."

"What of it?"

"Well, sir, I did some checking," Peters said. "Apparently the CiDi Corps has always been strictly for Centaurian citizens. No non-Centaurians were ever allowed in."

"Again, what of it?" VanDiver asked. "Bronski probably had dual citizenship during that period. That wasn't uncommon."

"Yes, sir, I realize that," Peters nodded. "But I did some checking, and about two months before he entered the CiDi Corps, the Ukraine government instituted a one hundred percent military training program for all Ukrainian citizens aged nineteen through twenty-five. The Pawoles had been driving the Commonwealth forces back, and Ukraine wanted their citizens ready to fight in case there was an invasion of Earth."

"Other nations and colonies did that, too," VanDiver said. "If you have a point, get to it."

Peters seemed to brace himself. "The point, sir, is that there's no record that Bronski ever participated in the program, even though he was within the age bracket. The only way for him to have gotten out of it would have been to renounce his Ukrainian citizenship; but there's also no record of him doing that."

"Sounds like someone in high places was doing a little path-greasing for him," VanDiver said, feeling his lip twist in contempt. If there was one thing he hated about the upper crust, it was precisely this casual buying and selling of favors. "Was his family close with any of the NorCoord leaders at that time?"

"There's no mention of anything like that," Peters said. "I could do a little digging, though."

"Get to it," VanDiver ordered. "But first give the Edo Central spaceport a call and have my ship prepared for departure."

"Yes, sir," Peters said with a nod. "Are you going back to Earth?"

"No," VanDiver said. "I'm going to Mra."

Peters blinked. "Mra?"

VanDiver gestured to Peters's plate. "According to McPhee, Bronski and Cavanagh are going to Mra. Whatever they're up to, I want to catch them red-handed at it."

"But, sir...," Peters floundered. "Aren't you needed in Parliament?"

"What for?" VanDiver retorted. "Parliament hasn't got any real business at the moment. Peacekeeper Command is running the show—all they need us for is to clear away the legal underbrush and dispense little inspirational homilies to the masses. They hardly need me there for that."

"Yes, sir," Peters said. "But shouldn't you at least requisition a Peacekeeper warship? You never know where the Zhirrzh will attack next."

"The Zhirrzh can't attack anywhere without giving a couple hours' notice that they're coming," VanDiver said. "Anyway, if this unknown guardian angel of Bronski's is still active in Ukrainian politics, requisitioning a Peacekeeper ship for Mra would be a sure way of tipping him off. I have no intention of standing by while someone slathers official paint over this thing."

"But what about your own personal safety?" Peters persisted. "Only this past week there was a directive from NorCoord Military Intelligence cautioning parliamentary personnel in any dealings with the Mrachanis."

"Military Intelligence is always issuing directives like that," VanDiver growled. "They haven't got anything new on the Zhirrzh, so this is how they try to convince us they're earning their budget."