"So what?" Pritchart asked in her best devil's advocate tone. "Who cares about a little thing like angry voters? It's not as if there's any real political accountability or oversight in the League, you know."

"Not now, there isn't," Theisman said grimly. "But personally, I think the Sollies should be paying attention to more than just the operational aspects of events here in our corner of the galaxy. There's that little matter of what's been going in in the Maya Sector, for example. And then there's us . If you'll recall, Madam President, the citizens of the People's Republic didn't have any real political oversight, either. A situation which changed rather abruptly when the Manties' Eighth Fleet came calling and Saint-Just got distracted dealing with that minor threat."

Pritchart started to reply lightly, then stopped as she realized Theisman was serious. Had it been anyone else, she would have dismissed his suggestion out of hand. Corrupt though it might be, the Solarian League was still the Solarian League , and the notion that the system which had governed it literally for centuries could be changed was ludicrous. But Thomas Theisman had more firsthand experience than most in arranging exactly that sort of change, and although he disliked politics, he understood them well. Not to mention the fact that he was probably the best student of history she knew. So if he thought the League might be that fragile . . . .

"Well, I suppose the point at the moment is that what's happened at Spindle's going to make the Star Empire more confident, not less," she said, putting thoughts of the League aside for future consideration. "Since they've just demonstrated they have a decisive military advantage over the SLN, McGwire and Younger's belief that they're going to be even more willing to make concessions would appear to be, ah, ill-founded."

"I believe you could say that, yes," Theisman agreed dryly. "Which, I might point out, is very probably the reason the Duchess handed the sensor recordings over to us. I'm sure she thought about that pretty carefully, since it had the potential to give us so much more data on their systems, but unless I'm mistaken, she figured that letting us actually see how effective their weapons were against the Sollies would underscore the extent of—and the basis for—their confidence. And, to be fair, the tactical situation was such that they really didn't show us a lot more about their capabilities than we already knew. I'd really love to have seen how their Nikes ' fire control would have done running the attack, for instance. At this point, we don't know whether or not they have the FTL fire control systems."

"In that case, I think it would be a good idea for you to personally brief McGwire and Younger. I know neither of them's on your list of favorite people, but I'd appreciate it if you'd take the opportunity to lean on them just a bit."

"You want me to do this wearing my military hat as CNO, or my civilian hat, as Secretary of War?"

"Both, I think. We need them to be very clear on this point, Tom."

Pritchart frowned and toyed with one lock of platinum hair.

"Duchess Harrington's been remarkably patient about not bringing up that matter of our correspondence—so far, at least—but she's never pretended it's not going to have to be addressed," the president continued after a moment. "Personally, I think that, given the fact that we've already acknowledged we were the ones who started shooting this time around, she's been willing to wait on that point. I think she's been letting us wrangle and argue about things like plebiscites and formulas for computing reparations as a way to clear away the underbrush before she tackles what she knows is going to be the thorniest issue of all. For that matter, she's probably been letting the negotiations build momentum, as well, to help carry us past any potholes farther down the road. Admiral or not, she's got good diplomatic instincts.

"Either way, though, we're going to have to approach that issue pretty damned soon. In one way, it's going to be a lot easier for Alexander-Harrington than she can possibly suspect, given what we think we know about Arnold's shenanigans. But it's going to be a nightmare for us, on the domestic side, and I want every member of our delegation to understand very clearly just how . . . bleak our military prospects would be if this thing goes belly-up on us."

"And you think our two 'colleagues' are stupid enough to have missed that already?" Theisman sounded just a bit skeptical.

"I . . . don't know." Pritchart's frown deepened. "I do know I don't trust either of them a single centimeter past his personal perception of his own best interests. That goes without saying, I suppose. But I'm not sure how good either of them is at recognizing the limits of those interests. Or their obtainability, at any rate. Frankly, Younger worries me more than McGwire. There's something about him, about his ability to believe he'll always come out on top, that makes me very nervous. McGwire's probably even more self-serving than Younger, if that's humanly possible, but I think he also has a more pragmatic grasp of the fact that reality sometimes has this unpleasant habit of being something besides what he'd like it to be. See if you can emphasize that to him in this case."

"Gosh, thanks," Theisman said.

"Consider it one of the perks of your position, Mr. Secretary. Yet another opportunity to meet the movers and shakers who control our political destiny."

"Sure. Will Sheila object if I take a gun?"

* * *

Much later that evening, the attention signal on Pritchart's desktop com warbled softly.

She looked up from the report she'd been reading—she was always reading some report, after all—and frowned as the signal warbled again. Then she bookmarked her place and pressed the acceptance key.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Madam President," Angelina Rousseau said almost before her image had appeared on the display. "I know you're working, but I think you'd better take this call."

"Angelina, I've got that reception in less than an hour," Pritchart reminded her.

"I know, Madam President," Rousseau repeated. "But it's Admiral Alexander-Harrington, Ma'am. She says it's urgent."

Pritchart stiffened, sitting upright in her chair.

"Did she tell you what she needs to speak to me about?"

"No, Ma'am. All I know is that a dispatch boat just came in from Manticore."

"'Just came in'?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Angelina Rousseau was an extraordinarily attractive woman, but Pritchart hadn't chosen her as her senior aide on the basis of her decorative qualities, and the younger woman's brown eyes were dark. "It made its alpha translation less than thirty minutes ago and burst-transmitted an FTL message to the Manticoran delegation."

"I see," Pritchard said slowly, even as her mind raced. Obviously, whatever was on Alexander-Harrington's mind, it had something to do with that dispatch boat. And if she was already on the com . . . .

"Well, you'd better go ahead and put her through. Oh, and, Angelina?"

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Give Sheila a heads-up." The president smiled thinly. "It's possible we're going to be a little late to that reception, after all."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Rousseau vanished from the display, and Pritchart found herself looking at Honor Alexander-Harrington, instead, with what she hoped was a carefully concealed sense of trepidation. At least Alexander-Harrington's treecat wasn't close enough to read right through her pretense of calm. That was something . . . but not all that much, under the circumstances.

The fact that Pritchart had discovered she really did like Alexander-Harrington—quite a lot, in fact—didn't make the Havenite president feel any calmer about having the duchess screen her so unexpectedly.