"You think Liadof's got that kind of power?"

Sprenkle snorted. "I would say she could probably break any one of us with a five-minute phone call," he said bluntly.

"Even if we're following our legal duty and she isn't?"

Sprenkle's eyes narrowed. "I don't follow."

"Go back and reread Project Changeling's mission statement," Faraday said. "Paragraph four says explicitly that our legal duty is to protect Raimey's life, insofar as that's compatible with the objective of finding and gaining access to the Qanskan stardrive."

"Liadof isn't putting Raimey's life at risk," Sprenkle pointed out.

"She already has," Faraday countered. "She failed to warn him of a Vuukan attack. Endangerment through inaction is legally as damning as any other sort."

Sprenkle's lip twitched. "Perhaps paragraph four has been rescinded."

"Not in writing, it hasn't," Faraday said. "And until it is, the law says I have to assume it's still in force."

"Even if an Arbiter of the Five Hundred says otherwise?"

"There's no mention of verbal orders anywhere in the mission statement," Faraday said.

Sprenkle shook his head. "Technically, you may be right," he said. "But if it comes down to your push-and-crunch, with you against Liadof, I have to say my money would be on her. Sorry."

"No apology required," Faraday said dryly. "To be honest, so would mine."

He looked at the photo of Jupiter he'd set up over his desk. "But I was the one who talked Raimey into going down there in the first place. I can't abandon him just because the Five Hundred have decided he's unnecessary. Or inconvenient."

"No," Sprenkle said. "I suppose not."

There was a moment of silence. "You said whether the team stands together on this is partly up to me," Faraday reminded him. "What else does it depend on?"

Sprenkle smiled faintly. "Ironically, perhaps, Raimey himself."

Faraday frowned. "Raimey?"

"Yes," Sprenkle said. "You see, his socialization problems haven't just been with the Qanska.

They've also been with us. Face it, Colonel: Raimey has hardly shown himself to be a very likable person."

Faraday grimaced. "He was a typical self-absorbed twenty-two-year-old who watched his grandiose plans for the future crash down around his ears. What did you expect?"

"I expected some of the bitterness to wear off after a while," Sprenkle countered. "I also expected a little more gratitude after we and the Qanska gave him back something resembling a real life. It's something called maturity."

"I know," Faraday had to agree. "And unfortunately, Drusni's rejection seems to have simply solidified that poor-me attitude of his."

"Unfortunately," Sprenkle said. "He also has a bad tendency to throw the blame for everything onto other people instead of accepting his fair share."

"So what are you saying?" Faraday asked. "That the more unlikable Raimey is when the crunch comes, the less likely the team will stick their necks out for him?"

"Do you blame them?"

"Not really," Faraday conceded. "Trouble is, it looks like we've only got two months before that crunch. Any chance at all he can get his act straightened out by then?"

"I suppose it's possible," Sprenkle said, getting to his feet. "Back when he was a Midling, making friends with Drusni and Pranlo was what drew him out of himself and his self-pity, at least a little. If this Vuukan incident affects him the same way, he may end up as both a better Qanska and a better human being."

"Yes," Faraday murmured. "We can hope, anyway."

"Regardless, I wish you luck, Colonel," Sprenkle added. "For whatever it's worth, I admire your stand on this."

"Thank you," Faraday said. "I notice you're not also offering your unqualified support."

Sprenkle smiled tightly. "As I said, it's easy to be brave when the threat isn't actually looming over you. I'd like to believe I'll be noble when the time comes... but I also know better than to make a promise I don't know if I can keep."

"I understand," Faraday said. "If I can't have loyalty, at least give me honesty."

Sprenkle inclined his head in an ironic bow. "Nicely put, Colonel, and expertly manipulative. You should have been a psychologist."

He stepped to the door, then paused. "One other question, if I may," he said, turning around again.

"I've studied everything we've got on Raimey—his family, schooling, psychological and social profiles, and all that. But I've never seen anything in his files that would have caught my eye if I'd been looking for a likely candidate for this job. May I ask how exactly you and the Five Hundred picked him out?"

Faraday sighed. "We didn't," he said. "We made the same offer to forty-seven other quadriplegics around the System. Raimey was the only one who took us up on it."

"Oh," Sprenkle said, sounding a little taken aback. "I see. Well... good night, Colonel."

"Good night."

He left. For a moment Faraday gazed at the door, trying to marshal his thoughts. Then, stepping over to his desk, he sat down and flipped on his computer. If Liadof had brought a group of men aboard, their travel files must be in the station's log somewhere.

After all, the first step to befriending someone was to learn his name.

"The brown ones are called ranshay," Beltrenini said, waggling her tails at the clumps floating past.

"The silvery-blue ones are jeptris. Try them together."

Obediently, Raimey scooped up a half mouthful of each. "Whoa," he said, his eyes and mouth both tingling with the reaction. It was like some kind of food he vaguely remembered from his previous existence. Italian, maybe? Or was it Mexican? "That's... intense."

"Isn't it?" Beltrenini agreed, sounding rather pleased with herself. "Alone, they're not so terrific—the jeptris is a little too spicy, and the ranshay is disgustingly bland. But together, they're truly a taste to swim for."

"Sure are," Raimey said. "Ah, the joys of being a Breeder."

"What's this?" Nistreali put in, flapping over beside them. "Did you say the joys of being a Breeder?

I thought you weren't interested in meeting my friends."

"I was referring to this ranshay and jeptris combination," Raimey said, wishing mightily that he'd picked a different way of phrasing it. Nistreali had been all over his fins for five ninedays now, nagging him to let her fix him up with some of those female Breeders she knew up on Level Three.

And for five ninedays now he'd been dodging and weaving like a Youth trying to avoid a particularly persistent Vuuka. He had no doubt that Nistreali's friends were nice young Breeders, but he wasn't interested in trying to replace his memories of Drusni just yet. If indeed he ever could.

"What do you mean?" Nistreali asked, clearly puzzled. "What does eating have to do with being a Breeder?"

"I just meant that being big enough to get down to Level Four has its advantages," he said. One of these days, he told himself firmly, he would have to stop making idle comments in Nistreali's earshot. The complications were never worth it. "I never had food like this when I was a Youth."

"What do size and age have to do with it?" Nistreali asked, sounding more puzzled than ever.

"Ranshay and jeptris grow all the way from Level One to Level Five."

Raimey twisted around to stare at her. "What?" he demanded. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nistreali never kids about food, Raimilo," Beltrenini said dryly. "Or nice young female Breeders, either—"

"Wait a second," Raimey said. "You say this stuff grows on Level One? Then how come I've never seen it before?"

"Maybe you have another name for it back on Centerline," Nistreali suggested. "It looks a little bit different up there, too."

"How different?" Raimey asked.