Susan went to the chair behind the desk and again sat down. Instantly she resumed the line of thought she had started a few minutes before. Was there a plot to kill her?

If, in fact, such a conspiracy did exist, she doubted Evans was involved. Although she didn't know why she should, she trusted the staff sergeant. Of course, that did not rule out someone else in Security, and that might explain how the belter got into her rooms.

She didn't bother to wonder why someone might want her dead. She had made many enemies during her career in Fleet-one simply did not perform the kind of work Susan had for the past nine years without making enemies-and those who might want her dead, for one reason or another, could be counted in the hundreds, if not the thousands.

Then there was Aldebaran.

Susan's steps echoed loudly as she walked the well-lighted corridor in an awkward gait that marked her as one no longer accustomed to Luna's one-sixth standard gravity. Ahead, the corridor curved hard to the left, hiding until she was nearly on the single door she knew was located at its end. An occasional ventilation grill broke the finely finished metal walls, but there were no doors on either side.

She was almost an hour late for her zero-eight-hundred appointment with Admiral Renford, but that couldn't be helped. She hadn't even stopped by the officers' mess for a morning cup of coffee, a ritual she'd practiced religiously since accepting her commission nearly twenty years before.

The Admiral had an assignment for her. Lieutenant Krueger, Renford's administrative assistant, hadn't given her so much as a hint when he'd called Earth-side three days ago-security did not permit even the intimation of what an assignment might be until the briefing-yet Susan caught herself hoping it was a shipboard command. Perhaps now she would again be permitted to journey beyond Luna's orbit as both ship's pilot and commanding officer, something she had savored only briefly ten years ago.

That thought sent a shiver of both fear and excitement coursing up her spine. She had consciously suppressed all thought of shipboard command since Aldebaran. And yet, before each assignment her hope was renewed. Might this be it? This time, would Renford offer her a ship and a crew? And could she actually take such an assignment?

She couldn't think about that; she couldn't permit herself to think about it. Pushing the line of thought from her mind, she allowed the events of the past few hours to rush in to fill the void. Those events still seemed all too improbable. Why had the dark man attacked her? Who was he and how had he disappeared?

So many questions, yet not one answer. Nothing substantial to which she might cling.

The Base Security investigation team had arrived at Susan's quarters shortly after she got off the phone with Staff Sergeant Evans. The petty officer in charge had been a tall, thin girl who hadn't looked old enough to be in Fleet, let alone in a position of responsibility. The girl called Evans, and he talked to Susan again, telling her she could leave. He said his people would let themselves out when they were finished.

Evans hadn't really been all that much help. He had wanted to help, but he simply did not have the answers to her questions. He couldn't even say for certain that the man who had attacked her was not a member of Base Security. But he had promised to keep her advised of anything he might uncover during his investigation, saying he would call if he discovered something significant.

Susan knew Evans was simply humoring her. Without actually saying so, he had given her the impression he didn't believe her story.

But then, how could she expect him to? She was having trouble believing it herself.

A bright red holographic sign shimmered before her as she approached the door at the end of the corridor, driving all thought of the morning's happenings from her mind: JAMES RENFORD, ADMIRAL-COMMANDING OFFICER, FEDERATION FLEET. The sign vanished and the door irised open, then hissed closed behind her as she stepped through. She sank an inch into the waiting room's plush Fleet-red carpet.

Lieutenant Philip Krueger sat behind a large wooden desk, paging through a six inch thick stack of computer printouts. He was broad of shoulder, large boned, blond, with clear blue eyes-an extremely good looking man of approximately twenty-five, dressed in Fleet red.

Susan had had considerable contact with Lieutenant Krueger during the past few years. Not only was he Renford's administrative assistant, but he also served as liaison with the Admiral's Earth-side staff. He had taken Susan to dinner a few times when he was Earth-side, but he was definitely not her type; although he was always a good dinner companion, he was a bit too impressed with himself for Susan's taste.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," she said as she approached his desk.

The young lieutenant looked up and frowned. "The Admiral's waiting, and he's not happy. You'd better hustle your butt on in."

Fighting down her anger, Susan stepped to the door beside Krueger's desk. He had been too near power for far too long, she decided. So long, in fact, that he was beginning to believe he held the reigns of that power.

And perhaps, in a sense, he did. One thing was certain: Krueger was not a man to cross; Susan had seen many a higher ranking officer dash a promising career on his hard personality.

The door irised open and she stepped through, into the huge office beyond.

Nearly a dozen Rembrandts, El Grecos, Monets, and Renoirs hung on the walls, along with the works of a few artists Susan had never seen before. She knew all the paintings were authentic, and she also knew that the Admiral had twice again as many hidden away somewhere; paintings were rotated to the available wall space on a semi-regular basis.

The two men standing behind a large, ornately carved hardwood desk looked up from the computer monitor set in its top as Susan entered and snapped to attention. They seemed approximately the same age-about sixty-and both had salt-and-pepper hair and slightly slumped shoulders. From carrying for too many years the burdens of military bureaucracy, she thought.

One man was tall, only an inch shorter than Susan herself. He sported a well- trimmed mustache and wore the red jumpsuit uniform of the Federation Fleet. On his sleeves were sewn the gold stripes of an admiral. He was James Renford, Susan's commanding officer.

The other was Fredrik Hyatt, director of the civilian Survey Service. Although Susan had never before met Hyatt, she knew him from his many appearances on holo-vid, as well as his considerable reputation. His eyes were dark and piercing, his cheek bones high and pronounced, and he wore his hair cropped close to his skull. He was the shortest man Susan had ever seen-shorter by almost half a foot than the man who had attacked her in her quarters-and his build appeared unbelievably frail in the powder blue Survey Service uniform.

She had no way of knowing whether or not the stories she had heard about Hyatt were true; the majority might simply be that vicious variety of publicity that invariably collects around those in the public eye. What she did know was that every year, for as far back as she could remember, Hyatt had received more General Fund money for his Survey Service, while all other budgets, including that for Fleet, had been cut. Even during time of war the Service was funded far more liberally than its military counterpart.

She saluted crisply. "Captain Susan Tanner, reporting as ordered, sir."

"At ease, Captain," Renford said, returning her salute.