Pheylan hadn't even missed the survival pack yet. He looked around, but wherever it had ended up, it was out of his immediate sight. "You're suggesting I surrender."

"I see no other alternatives. I'm sorry."

Pheylan sighed. So much for his big grandstand scheme to come here and help his sister. And to wind up a Zhirrzh prisoner again on top of it. If he lived through this, he was never going to live it down. "I'm sorry, too, Max," he said.

He took a deep breath. "Hey!" he shouted. "Down here!"

Parlimin VanDiver was halfway through his third glass of claretee when the word finally came through. "Ah," Paallikko said, looking at the terminal at his side. "At last. Yes, Parlimin VanDiver, Lord Cavanagh and Liaison Bronski were indeed here on Mra. Unfortunately, that is no longer true. It appears they both left five hours ago for Mra-mig."

VanDiver swallowed a curse. That figured. Once again, regular as nuclear clockwork, Cavanagh had found a way to waste some of his precious time. "Where on Mra-mig were they going?"

"The information does not say," Paallikko said, his voice heavy with regret and an echo of VanDiver's own irritation. At least he understood that a NorCoord Parlimin didn't have this kind of time to squander. "We only know their destination from the fact that the servicer who refueled their spacecraft happened to overhear them discussing it."

VanDiver tapped at his glass with a fingernail. "What about a skitter? Can we send a message ahead asking them to hold him?"

"The scheduled message skitter has already left," Paallikko said. "I could of course send a diplomatic skitter, but I'm afraid it would be of only limited benefit. Liaison Bronski's ship is courier-class, which means the skitter would still arrive at Mra-mig behind him."

"That figures," VanDiver growled. A courier-class ship: twice as fast as a normal stardrive, at five times the cost. Undoubtedly at government expense, too. Just one more irritation, plus one more charge to add to the mental list he was preparing for the prosecutor general.

"Shall I order your ship to be refueled?" Paallikko asked. "A courtesy, of course, with no cost to the NorCoord Parliament."

"Yes, thank you," VanDiver said. If Cavanagh was gone, there was no sense hanging around Mra anymore. "I'd also like you to send that diplomatic skitter on ahead, just in case they're planning to stay on Mra-mig for a while. At my personal expense, of course."

"The skitter will be prepared," Paallikko said, tapping keys on his terminal. "But at Mrach expense. I insist."

No doubt about it, these Mrachanis knew how to treat visiting dignitaries. "Again, I thank you," VanDiver said, setting down his glass and climbing to his feet. "And for your hospitality, as well. I'm in your debt."

The optronic speaker on his shoulder gave the translation, and Srgent-janovetz replied. "The left leg's definitely broken," the Zhirrzh words came from the translator link in Thrr-mezaz's ear slits. "Was he unconscious when you found him?"

"I'm told he was conscious then, but that he lost consciousness when they moved him into the transport," Thrr-mezaz said. "Can you heal him?"

Srgent-janovetz looked down at the injured Human-Conqueror as he spoke. "No," the translation came. "I'm not that skilled a healer."

"Mm." Thrr-mezaz looked over at Thrr-gilag. "What do you think? Should we turn him over to our own healers, or ask the Human-Conqueror commander to send us one of theirs?" But Thrr-gilag wasn't looking at him. He was instead staring intently into the unconscious alien's face. "Thrr-gilag?" Thrr-mezaz said, slapping at his brother's spinning tail. "You want to join in this conversation?"

"Sorry," Thrr-gilag said without looking up. "I was just... I might be wrong, Thrr-mezaz, but I think this is Pheylan Cavanagh."

Srgent-janovetz's face turned back up as the translation came through. "Did you say Pheylan Cavanagh?" he asked.

"Yes," Thrr-mezaz said. "Do you know of him?"

Srgent-janovetz seemed to hesitate before he spoke again. "I know one of his family," the translation came. "His sister."

Thrr-gilag looked at Thrr-mezaz. "I need him to be healed, Thrr-mezaz," he said. "I'm willing to go to the Human-Conqueror commander to ask for a healer for him."

Thrr-mezaz frowned at his brother. "Why the sudden interest?"

Thrr-gilag flicked his tongue toward the injured Human-Conqueror. "Back on Base World Twelve he had the chance to raise me to Eldership. Yet he didn't. I want to know why."

"It could be dangerous," Thrr-mezaz warned. But even as he spoke, it suddenly occurred to him that this was exactly what they'd been looking for: the perfect excuse to get Prr't-zevisti's new cutting in range of the Human-Conqueror stronghold.

"I'm willing to take that risk," Thrr-gilag said. And from the way he was blinking at Thrr-mezaz in their private code, it was clear he'd already realized that. Which meant this conversation was as much for the listening Elders' benefit as it was for his.

"I don't like it," Thrr-mezaz said, putting some reluctance into his voice. "But you're probably right. You—Srgent-janovetz—would your commander be willing to send a healer here?"

Srgent-janovetz nodded. "Yes, I think so," the translation came in Thrr-mezaz's ear. "Especially if you tell the commander who it is."

Thrr-mezaz looked questioningly at Thrr-gilag, but his brother flicked his tongue in a negative. Perhaps Pheylan Cavanagh was a member of an important family or clan. That might explain, in fact, why they'd gone to such effort to rescue him from Base World 12.

And might imply they would go to equal effort to rescue him now.

It was not a situation Thrr-mezaz would welcome, considering the shape of his ground defenses. But he would slice that rope when he reached it. "I'll have a transport prepared," he said. "In the meantime, Srgent-janovetz, do what you can for him."

The storage cavern appeared to be deserted, but as Melinda stepped to the door of the electronics-reconfiguration chamber, she gave the area a last casual sweep just to be sure. No one was visible. Gripping the handle, she swung the heavy metal door open and slipped inside. "Prr't-zevisti?" she called, pulling the door closed behind her. "Are you awake?"

The ghostly form appeared in front of her; involuntarily, Melinda flinched, shying back to bump against the door. She was never going to get used to this. "I do not sleep, Doctor-Cavan-a," the Elder said in that thin, distant voice of his.

"No, of course not," Melinda said. "I'm sorry."

"You need not to be sorry," the Elder assured her. "What has your commander to tell me?"

"He didn't send me," Melinda said. "Actually, I'm not even supposed to be here."

Prr't-zevisti's expression changed. "Why do you risk defying your commander?"

"Because I believe you're telling the truth about not being a spy," Melinda said. "The problem is convincing Colonel Holloway of that. I came here hoping you'd come up with a way to do that."

The insubstantial tongue flicked out. "I have not found an idea. Why does he not believe?"

"I don't know," Melinda said with a sigh. "Maybe he's afraid to. He's the one responsible for the lives of all these people, both the warriors and the civilians. That's a heavy burden, and he takes it very seriously."

"And yet you do not?"

Melinda shrugged. "I'm a healer, and because of that I often have responsibility for people's lives. But I don't have the same kind of total responsibility as Colonel Holloway." She smiled wryly. "Besides, I come from a family accustomed to taking calculated risks."

For a long moment Prr't-zevisti seemed to be digesting that. Or else was working his way through the alien words. "What do you say, then, Doctor-Cavan-a?" he asked. "Do you come here to free me?"