He was just turning into the five-kilometer-long inlet leading to Unie when his phone buzzed. "Meredith," he answered.

"Colonel, this is Major Dunlop," the caller said, his voice barely audible over the engine noise. "I think we've got a riot brewing here in Ceres."

Meredith cut back the throttle. "Explain."

"About a hundred of the Hispanic field workers have gathered in front of the admin building and are yelling something about better housing and recreation facilities. I've got my men in riot-control position, but I haven't got nearly enough of them if things turn ugly. Can you possibly send me another thirty or so troops?"

"Have you tried talking to them?" Meredith countered.

"Sir, if I open the door, they're likely to pour in before we can stop them."

Meredith grimaced, but the reply was not unexpected. Dunlop was a competent administrator, but the finer points of diplomacy and compromise were far beyond him. Spraying the crowd with stunner fire would be much more his style, and that was the last thing Meredith needed right now. "All right, then, just stay put," he told the other. "I'm a few minutes out from Unie; I'll have a team waiting and we'll drive up there as soon as I get in. Do nor attempt riot procedures unless there is an immediate threat to life or safety—got that?"

"Got it, sir. I recommend you hurry with those reinforcements. "

"Noted. Out."

Almost savagely, Meredith yanked the throttle back to full power.

Reinforcements, my eye, he thought as the boat leaped forward. What Dunlop needed was a negotiating team—and that was precisely what he was going to get.

Preferably one whose members spoke at least halfway fluent Spanish. First the flyer crash, and now this. Murphy's Law is really riding high today.

Raising his phone, be keyed for Lieutenant Andrews and began giving orders.

"Three to an apartment, we got—sometimes even four," Matro Rodriguez's bullfrog voice bellowed out, clearly audible even over the other shouts and the loud background muttering of the crowd. Standing to one side, Cristobal Perez alternately gave his attention to the mob and to the squat adobe building they faced. The building's windows were empty of official faces, but Perez knew they were watching. Sooner or later they would decide they'd been under siege long enough and do something about it. Idiots, he thought, his eyes flicking back to the crowd, watching as some of the men began waving clenched fists over their heads.

All they're going to do is get the major's back up and force him to take action.

They had as yet no real economic power and certainly no political power. All they had was numbers and the threat of violence, and that only worked if those in authority were hesitant about shooting. The soldiers, Perez knew, would be under no such handicap.

A flicker from one of the dark windows caught Perez's eye: someone moving up to what could only be firing position. Cursing under his breath, Perez stepped forward, heading for the front of the crowd. He'd hoped Dunlop would hold off a while longer, give the mob time to blow off their steam and maybe leave peacefully. But moving troops to the windows could only mean he'd decided to have it out right now.

Nobody seemed to notice Perez as he strode to Rodriguez's side directly opposite the admin building's door; only a few looked quizzically at him as he raised his hand for quiet. "Friends!" he called … but his voice didn't have anything like Rodriguez's carrying power. He was inhaling for a second try when, as if by delayed action, an expectant hush swept up the hubbub.

Turning, he found himself practically nose to nose with Major Dunlop.

The major opened his mouth to speak—but Perez had always been fast on the uptake and managed to beat Dunlop to the verbal draw. "Good afternoon, Major," he said, managing to put both respect and righteous displeasure into his voice.

"We would like to have some words with you about the conditions—"

"All right, you lazy troublemakers," Dunlop bellowed without even looking at Perez, "you've got exactly thirty seconds to clear out of here and get back to your jobs. After that you'll wish you had. Now move!"

His answer was a cloudburst of angry shouts and a sudden surging forth of the mob. "Wait a minute!" Perez shouted—but his voice blended with all the others and was lost … and an instant later his body jerked with agony and numbness and the world tilted crazily and went dark.

"Is this," Meredith asked icily, "your idea of staying put?"

Standing with the stiffness of a sentry at the admin building door, the marks of dragged bodies still visible in the dust around him, Dunlop nevertheless wasn't giving an inch. "I went out to talk as you suggested. Colonel. The mob moved forward, and my men opened fire in my defense. Frankly, sir, I don't see the problem. We only had to stun a few of them before the rest dispersed, and they'll think twice about starting trouble now."

" 'The problem,' as you call it, we'll discuss later," Meredith said, working hard to keep the fury out of his voice. He had no desire to tear Dunlop apart in front of junior officers, but that resolve was fading fast. "Now, where's this person you arrested and what makes you think he was one of the leaders?"

"His name is Cristobal Perez, one of the field workers. He was in the front of the mob and led the move forward."

"I want to talk to him."

"If you'd like—but I can tell you right now he's not very cooperative. We're holding him in one of the offices in back."

"All right." Meredith glanced once more at the scuffle marks on the ground and gestured Andrews to his side. "I want you and the others to locate and get statements from all the soldiers who were involved in this. Make it clear we aren't out for scalps, just information. When you finish with them, look up any civilian witnesses or participants and repeat."

"Yes, sir," the aide nodded. "Do you want any of the Spanish speakers to stay with you?"

"Probably should. Who's best?"

"Carmen Olivero," Andrews said, gesturing to the attractive woman standing quietly among the uniformed men. The only one among them in civilian dress … on a hunch, Meredith nodded.

"Miss Olivero, come with me. Let's go, Major."

Dunlop led them inside and down a couple of corridors to a door flanked by two stunner-carrying soldiers. The guards came to attention; without bothering to knock, Dunlop opened the door and went in.

Cristobal Perez was stretched out on his back on the floor in front of the desk, a wadded-up jacket serving as makeshift pillow. About twenty-five or twenty-six, Meredith automatically estimated, his face already showing the first signs of a lifetime out under the sun. His eyes, which had been shut, opened briefly to survey the newcomers and then closed again. "I don't suppose you brought a doctor this time," he said tiredly.

"All you need is rest," Dunlop told him. "The effects'll wear off in another hour or so. On your feet now—Colonel Meredith has some questions."

"Colonel Meredith, eh?" Perez made no move to get up, but his eyes opened again, shifting from Meredith to Carmen and back. "You always let men in your command fire on unarmed civilians, Colonel?"

"Be thankful they were only using stunners," Meredith countered, watching the other's face closely. "Other mob control methods are just as uncomfortable and usually take longer to go away."

A flash of anger swept Perez's face at the word mob: but instead of the verbal explosion Meredith had expected, the Hispanic seemed to withdraw behind a stony mask. "You obviously haven't been shot by one of the damn things," he said, closing his eyes again.

"No. But I have been shot with real bullets. How about telling me what happened out there?"