Rod Acuna showed up in the afternoon, full of good cheer, and demanded Archie come with him to get something from the vending machines. Some 20 minutes later the apartment door burst open and Acuna dragged Archie through it, tossed him roughly onto the carpet, and yelled a name that sounded like "Tack." The Nagch suddenly filled the bedroom doorway.

"What, boss?" it asked.

"We're on the move," Acuna said, and pointed at Archie, splayed, semi-conscious, on the floor. "You get the geek watch. If this shitball so much as breathes funny, you eat him."

"Why? What did he do?" the Nagch asked.

"He's been feeding information about what we've been doing to his fucking pals," Acuna said.

"The Defense Department?" The Nagch asked.

"No, you mountainous dipshit," Acuna said. "Some wackjob cult he belongs to. The Church of the Evolved Lamb. They're the assholes that hit us last night."

"I could eat him now," the Nagch offered.

"No," Acuna said, and looked down at Archie. "I need to talk to Schroeder first. He might have questions he wants to ask this fucker. But in the meantime, you do not let him out of your sight Do you understand me? If he takes a dump, he does it with you in the bathroom. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," the Nagch said. "What do I do if he tries to run?"

"Good question," Acuna said. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket, flicked it open, bent down to grab Archie's right leg, and severed his Achilles tendon. Archie let out a whimpering scream and lapsed out of consciousness. "That takes care of that. And especially don't let him near that computer of his. In fact—" Acuna began to stride over to Archie's computer.

Uh-oh, Brian thought. Acuna reached out to the computer. The view from the onboard camera wheeled wildly and then went black.

Jean Schroeder had told Dave Phipps to let himself in when he came by, and Phipps did, coming in through the garage door and walking up the spiral staircase that led into what used to be Anton Schroeder's study and was now the study of his son. Phipps, who had been in the study numerous times, had always found the place creepy, probably because Anton had decorated its walls with ancient spears and swords of Nidu design, and Jean had seen fit to keep them up, and indeed to add to the collection. Both of them apparently derived amusement from being surrounded by the weapons of the enemy.

Phipps found Schroeder at his desk, feet up, reading something from an unbound sheaf of papers. He glanced over at Phipps as he came in. "You're looking twitchy," he said, and went back to his reading.

"Jean, it's over," Phipps said. "I need to know where the woman is. We need to bring her back in."

"Why?" Schroeder said, not looking up from his papers.

"What?" Phipps said.

"Why do we need to bring her back in?" Schroeder said. "You and your boss wanted a little excitement to boost your budgets. I'd say you're getting it. It seems like things are going just swimmingly."

"You're not listening to me," Phipps said. "It's over. The Nidu are responding far more strongly to this missing woman than we anticipated. They've got six destroyers in n-space right now and we suspect they're on their way here. It's stopped being something we can play with. And it's stopped being something I can let you play your own game with, Jean."

"Why, Dave. 'My own game,'" Schroeder said. "Strong words from a man who's been taking bribes from me since the first day of the Webster administration. Do you know how much money I've got in you, Dave?"

"It's past that, Jean," Phipps said.

"$438,000," Schroeder said, loudly, for effect. "To date. That's almost enough for that Nag's Head beach house you've had your eye on. Which reminds me, I have another installment for you."

"Keep it," Phipps said.

Schroeder finally looked over from his paper. "Keep it?" he asked. "Oh, dear. Things really must be out of control. This is America, Dave. People don't just turn down money in America. It's unpatriotic. You could get deported for that."

"Jean—" Phipps began, and then heard a toilet flush from the study's small adjacent bathroom. "There's someone else here?" Phipps asked.

"I'm popular," Schroeder said. "You can't expect me to cancel my previous social engagements just because you have a sudden urge to hang me out to dry."

"I didn't say I was hanging you out to dry," Phipps said.

"Well, of course you didn't," Schroeder said. "No one ever does. But suddenly turning down my cash after taking in half a million of it—when you're so close to that beach house, no less—well. My daddy taught me how to read the signs, Dave. Defense has fucked up and you're looking for someone to blame. And I'm guessing sometime in the last few hours you've personally decided that burying me will save your own ass. Well, Dave, to use your own words, it's past that. Way past."

The bathroom door opened and Narf-win-Getag came out. "I'm leaving the fan on," he said to Schroeder.

"I appreciate that," Schroeder said.

"What the fuck is going on here?" Phipps said.

"By which you mean to say, 'Why, Jean. What are you doing letting the Nidu Ambassador to Earth use your bathroom when he is your avowed enemy?' I have an answer for that. So why don't you sit down for a minute, and let Narf fix you a drink."

"Fix me a drink," Phipps said. Phipps was aware that as an underling, he was well nigh an untouchable class of being by Nidu standards.

"Why not," Schroeder said. "We're all friends here. Isn't that right, Narf."

"It is too true," Narf-win-Getag replied.

"And Narf makes a mean martini," Schroeder said. "So sit the hell down, Dave, and let me explain some things to you."

Phipps took a seat in one of the chairs opposite Schroeder. Narf-win-Getag went to the bar, behind where Phipps sat, and, as promised, began fixing Phipps a drink.

"Now, then," Schroeder said. "I'll begin with an observation." He waved at the various Nidu weapons on the wall. "Do you know what all these weapons have in common?"

"They're Nidu weapons," Phipps said.

"Partial credit," Schroeder said. "They're weapons designed, built, and used by ancient members of the win-Getag clan, a scion of which is currently fixing you a martini. For the last several decades, the win-Getag clan has been of minimal rank within the Nidu social hierarchy—no offense, Narf."

"None taken," Narf-win-Getag said. He walked over to Phipps and handed him the drink. Phipps took it and drank.

"Good, huh?" Schroeder said.

"Pretty good," Phipps admitted.

"I use just enough vermouth to coat the glass," Narf-win-Getag explained. "No more." He sat down in the chair next to Phipps.

"Anyway, me win-Getags' social fortunes have been down for the last few decades," Schroeder said. "Which is why the clan occupies diplomatic posts on planets that are of low importance. Such as, alas for us, Earth. But I don't suppose you know the reason for the win-Getags' relative low status."

"Not a clue," Phipps said.

"It is because we contested for the crown," Narf-win-Getag said.

"Exactly right," Schroeder said. "At the time, the Nidu ruler left no heir to the throne. Impotent, although whether naturally or by sabotage is still a matter for discussion. Nidu traditions require a direct-line descendant and a faithful coronation process in order to achieve the throne. If you don't have one or the other, your clan can't succeed and the contest for the throne is opened up to competing clans. I'm right so far," Schroeder said, checking with Narf-win-Getag.

"So far," agreed Narf-win-Getag.

"When the throne is open, naturally certain clans will be in a stronger position than others to contest for it," Schroeder said. "The last time around, two clans were the primary contenders: The auf-Getag clan, which currently sits on the throne, and the win-Getag clan, which does not. Each clan had its supporters both in other clans and among the CC, and there was the usual political intrigue and deal making and, long story short, for various reasons—"