He nodded. "It seems obvious," he answered.

"Sacrificed," she continued, "while our fleets and armies are being concentrated or distributed, I have no idea which. Preparing to defend our core worlds, with their vast populations."

Qonits mind was signalling overload. He bobbed a nod. "Thank you for valuable information. I now leave you, return at later time." Then he said something to his bodyguards, and they left together.

Quanshuk had witnessed the brief interrogation via monitor, and had understood the key questions; he'd helped define them. What had mystified him were the answers, even though, like Qonits, he was plugged into the ship's growing translation program. Too much of what the prisoners said had made no sense to him, while some had been disturbing. Qonits' physical responses he'd understood well enough.

His own tongue licked air. We must sort this out, he told himself. As quickly as possible.

Yukiko put her arms around Annika and rocked her, feeling her snuggle in response. Poor kid, she thought, then retracted it, as if the savant might read it and be troubled by it. For you, she amended, a stupor is probably best. You don't suffer, you don't worry. It's the next best thing to sleeping through it.

Then she decided she wasn't sure about that either. Did Annika, in her mind, revisit the events in the Cousteau?-the undoubtedly violent deaths of Ju-Li and Dennis? She leaned back to better comprehend the child. Probably not, she decided. When the Wyzhnyny gave her to us, she was deeply in coma. But since then… Yukiko shook her head. Within that stupor, there's something like serenity. "Annika," she breathed, "I wish you could tell me what goes on with you."

David's eyes had been closed, but he hadn't been sleeping. Now they opened. "What?" he whispered.

She whispered back. "I was talking to Annika. I told her I'd like to know what she thinks about."

"Nothing very exciting I'll bet," he said, and closed his eyes again.

Chang Lung-Chi sat beside the prime minister, watching Ramesh on the wall screen. Foster Peixoto had viewed either the complete or selected cubeage of almost every language session. This had been more like interrogation. He wasn't surprised at how much communication had taken place. Actually he assumed it had gone better than it had. He didn't realize how much Qonits had understood only vaguely or not at all.

After they'd listened to the complete session a second time, Chang frowned thoughtfully. "Remarkable. Those two are playing a game with the aliens. The question is what good it will do."

"I have the same impression. Perhaps they have enough sense of the alien psychology to accomplish something. Hopefully we will get a better sense of it as it continues. Weintraub and Li are studying the sessions carefully. When they have gained some insights, they will share them with us."

Chang was less optimistic. When? Or if? One can but hope, he told himself. At any rate we must monitor this closely. "And the child," he said, "the savant. Has she shown any sign of shutting down, and depriving us of this remarkable contact?"

"None. And Bekr is optimistic now. Gavaldon has commented to her husband on how much better the child seems. Yet she continues to send. Bekr suspects the condition may be effectively permanent."

"Good! Good! It may be that this will prove truly important." We were optimistic about Morgan the pirate, Chang reminded himself, and now he is lost to us. May he rest in the Tao. He served his species well in his weeks of spying.

Hard Facts, Hard Decisions

Captain Martin Mulvaney Singh had spent most of the day at Division, being briefed on a duty he hadn't expected. As a training company commander, his main role was executive; to actually train troops was someone else's function. The company's noncommissioned cadre did the hands-on training-notably the platoon sergeants-with the platoon leader a step removed. While lectures, with or without video cubes podded out from Terra, were a function of Division staff. The training schedule came from Division, too, based on a plan from far-off War House. There were open periods in which the company commander could insert whatever he thought best, but his main role was to track the progress of training and the trainees, turning the intensity up or down, and dealing with problems.

A company commander addressed the trainees daily, at morning muster and often at other musters. This kept his presence and authority in their consciousness, and hopefully inspired them from time to time. But lectures? Lectures were delivered by Division staff.

Except for this particular, newly conceived lecture. War House had foreseen possible troublesome effects, and wanted the company commanders to deliver it. If a CO was doing his job properly, his trainees knew and trusted him. Division concurred, and Mulvaney didn't doubt they were right. Major General Pak-he'd been promoted from brigadier-took it a step further; he wanted each platoon sergeant to talk it out afterward with his trainees. If the sergeants had been doing their job properly-and Mulvaney was confident his had-they'd have bonded with their Jerrie youths, like experienced and respected older brothers.

Jerries were about as close to homogeneous as a human culture gets, and tended to accept authority. According to the ethnology report, the Jerrie religion was narrow, but persuasive more than restrictive. Its defining book, Contemplations on the Testaments, said that wise leaders led by example, gentle teaching, and mild admonition. And, like God, exercised "tolerance of the imperfections that are a part of being human."

Gopal Singh would have applauded that, Mulvaney told himself.

He got back to the company area in time for supper; his driver let him off outside the mess hall in a light but steady rain. Sixty feet away, the trainees were doing their pre-supper chin-ups before going in, callused fists gripping wet bars without a sign of slippage. Even with the enforcement of strict form, they were doing so many chins now, he'd tripled the number of bars, to keep the serving line moving.

He watched them for a moment before entering the officers' mess. He'd developed a real fondness and respect for his trainees. This evening he would brief his platoon leaders and platoon sergeants on what tomorrow held. Meanwhile Bremer and Fossberg could take the trainees on a sixty-minute speed march with sandbags, then let them off early.

The next day's training began with the usual run before breakfast. After six weeks they weren't grueling anymore. It was the one part of physical training that wasn't being intensified. Drag Ass Hill seemed neither so steep nor so long as it had. At the end of Week 4 their runs had been lengthened to forty of Luneburger's long minutes, and would stay at that, neither lengthening nor speeding up. Nor did they end with any more "suicide races."

After breakfast the trainees fell out wearing fighting gear, complete with armored jackets and battle helmets. And of course with the blasters they'd been issued in Week 4. In Week 5 they'd learned to fire them, and had qualified for single-shot firing, set for soft pulses, for safety's sake. But they'd been shown what a hard pulse did to a dummy in a flak jacket. A jacket and helmet might help against shrapnel, or spent or grazing blaster pulses, but that was all.

This morning they marched four miles, burdened not only with their gear, but with forty-pound sandbags to build strength. Then spent an hour and a half moving carefully through forest, senses alert, firing short bursts at wooden targets that popped up for two seconds from unexpected places. Fired from the hip while walking. Failure to hit your target earned gigs, which, they were told, they'd pay for on their next day off. In Week 5, on slow fire, Jael had scored "excellent." But on quick fire she'd been charged four straight gigs before she'd gotten fast enough, and a couple since when she'd missed in her haste. On this day-Fourday-she got none.