Mostly that was because she'd felt a cautious sense things were going well. Given the tortuous and so often disastrous history between the Republic of Haven and the Star Empire of Manticore, that feeling that things were actually starting to work out had produced an automatic fear that another shoe was waiting somewhere, ready to fall squarely on top of her head when she least expected it. All of which which made Alexander-Harrington's abrupt request more than a little ominous.

Sometimes it's hard to believe I first met the woman barely two T-months ago , Pritchart thought. Still, I don't suppose it should be at all surprising I'd rather deal with her than some of my own "allies" right here in Nouveau Paris. That incredible jackass Younger, for one. If nothing else, at least she has a brain that works. And quite a lot of integrity to go along with it, too, which is even rarer. Unfortunately .

Left to their own devices, Pritchart suspected, she and Alexander-Harrington could have hammered out a workable set of terms at least a month ago. On the other hand, she supposed that after the better part of a T-century of enmity and two decades of actual hostilities, they were moving with blinding speed to have come as close together as they had. In fact, the only points still dividing them were that the question of reparations and that matter of the forged diplomatic notes.

What galled her most was that it was Gerald Younger and Samson McGwire who were throwing almost all the grit into the gears. Neither one of them had been at all happy about being required to accept the "guilt" for resuming hostilities, which Pritchart found especially ironic, given the fact that they'd been two of Arnold Giancola's closest allies. And they were still trying to insist on settling the reparations question while the Manties were "still under Solarian pressure." Despite which, the president felt confident that agreement on that point—on Alexander-Harrington's proposed basis—was no more than a day or two away now.

Which, of course, would only mean they finally had to deal with the prewar diplomatic correspondence, and she didn't expect McGwire or Younger to magically get more cooperative when that happened. To be fair (which she found extremely difficult in their cases), neither of them knew Giancola had manipulated the correspondence in question (or, at least, if they did know, they'd buried their connection to Giancola's thoroughly illegal shenanigans so deep Kevin Usher's best investigators couldn't find it). And Pritchart still hadn't dared to tell them that their own Secretary of State—and close political ally—had betrayed his oath of office by forging the Star Empire's supposed diplomatic correspondence . . . exactly the way Manticore had been insisting someone had all along.

If she'd trusted the integrity of either of them as far as she could spit, she would have taken them into her confidence long ago. Now, despite the fact that she didn't trust their integrity, she was going to have to, and she dreaded putting that sort of weapon into the hands of men who wouldn't hesitate for an instant to wring any personal advantage they could out of it, regardless of the consequences for the Republic and the peace process.

Well, Eloise , she thought tartly, it's not like you haven't known this was coming, now is it? That's the real reason you sicced Thomas on the two of them—to get them to understand that our collectiveposition's far too precarious for anyone to be playing personal power games. Not that what happened at Spindle's likely to make either of them suddenly see the light if the Battle of Manticore didn't! Frankly, I wish Alexander-Harrington would just go ahead and strangle both of them. I'm sure she could do it without even breaking a sweat, and I'd be perfectly willing to write out a presidential pardon for murder on the spot. Preferably in their blood. For that matter, she's got diplomatic immunity, now that I think about it. I wouldn't even need the pardon!

"Thank you for taking my call on such short notice, Madam President," Alexander-Harrington said. "I know how crowded your schedule is."

"You're quite welcome, Admiral." Pritchart smiled wryly. "There aren't many people on Haven who'd take precedence over you in my appointments book, you know. Besides, our conversations are always so . . . interesting."

Alexander-Harrington smiled back, but it was an almost perfunctory response, without the genuine humor she would normally have displayed, and Pritchart's mental antennae quivered.

"Well, I'm afraid this conversation is going to be brief," Alexander-Harrington said.

"It is?" Pritchard asked just a bit cautiously.

"Yes." Alexander-Harrington paused for a moment, then inhaled, as if visibly bracing herself, and Pritchart's trepidation turned into something much stronger. Honor Alexander-Harrington was one of the least hesitant people she'd ever met, yet she was visibly unhappy about whatever she was about to say. Indeed, as Pritchart thought about it, she realized the other woman was almost shaken looking.

"Madam President, I'm afraid we're going to have to suspend our negotiations, at least briefly."

"I beg your pardon?" Pritchart felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as that long-awaited shoe came crashing down, and an emotion entirely too much like panic surged through her. If the negotiations failed, if Manticore resumed active operations—

"I assure you that it has nothing to do with anything that's occurred over the negotiating table," Alexander-Harrington said, almost as if she'd read Pritchart's mind. "I hope we'll be able to resume the talks sometime soon. In the meantime, however, I'm afraid I've just been recalled."

"I see," Pritchard said, although, in fact, she didn't see anything of the sort. "Do you have any idea when you might be returning?"

"I'm afraid not, Madam President. In fact, I'm not certain if I'll be returning at all."

"But . . . why not?" Anxiety—and not just over the negotiations, given the other woman's apparent unhappiness and the sense of kinship she'd developed where Alexander-Harrington was concerned—startled the undiplomatic question out of her.

"Madam President, I—" Alexander-Harrington began, then paused. She gazed at Pritchart for several seconds, then gave a little nod.

"Eloise," she said in a softer voice, using Pritchart's given name for the very first time, "it's not just me they're recalling. They've recalled Eighth Fleet, as well."

An icicle ran down Eloise Pritchart's spine. She'd actually become accustomed to having the Manties' Eighth Fleet hanging out there like some sort of infinitely polite Sword of Damocles. And at least as long as it was sitting there, like a spectator to the negotiations, she could be confident it wasn't off doing something else. Something neither she nor the Republic might care for at all. But—

Her eyes narrowed suddenly as Alexander-Harrington's expression registered fully. This was a woman who'd faced death not just once, but repeatedly. The thought that anything could cause her to look this shaken was just this side of terrifying. In fact, Pritchart couldn't imagine anything which could have produced this effect, unless . . . .

"Is it the Sollies?" she asked.

Alexander-Harrington hesitated for a moment, then sighed.

"We don't know—not yet," she said. "Personally, I doubt it. But that only makes it worse."

She looked at Pritchart levelly.

"I'm sure you'll be hearing reports about what's happened soon enough, and when you do, I'm sure people here in the Republic are going to start thinking about how it's changed the diplomatic calculus. At the moment, to be honest, I don't have any idea which way it's going to change things. I hope—even more than I hoped before I had the opportunity to actually meet you, Thomas Theisman, and some of your colleagues—that it won't force Queen Elizabeth to stiffen her position where the Republic is concerned, but I can't promise that."