"How so?"
"Read. Read." The messenger folded his receipt and left.
The top flimsy was a copy of a terse communique from Gruber. He had sent a strong probing force toward Stars' End. It had been driven away by a combined force of Sangaree and McGraw pirates. "Amy! Read that."
She did. "What?"
"An alliance between the Sangaree and pirates?" He initialed the copy, flipped it into Mouse's In box.
The next flimsy was intriguing. Freehauler merchantmen off Carson's and Sierra reported that the Navy squadrons there had taken hyper. He passed the copy to Amy.
"All Naval personnel here have had their liberties cancelled. Two of the squadrons up top have been told to make ready to space. What do you think?"
"The war thing about the break?"
He shrugged.
The only other item was a magazine, Literati, with attached envelope hand-addressed to a Thomas McClennon, Captain, CN.
It baffled Moyshe.
"I see you've been promoted," Amy said. Suspicion edged her voice. He glanced at her, surprised. Anger and fear colored her face in turn.
"What the hell?" He set the envelope aside and turned to the magazine's contents page. Halfway down he encountered the title, "All Who Were Before Me In Jerusalem," followed by the promoted name. "No," murmured, and, "I don't understand this."
"What is it?" Amy looked over his shoulder. "Am I supposed to congratulate you? I don't understand what's happening."
"I don't either, love. Believe me, I don't." He slipped one arm around her waist, turned to the story.
It was the version he had written aboard Danion, before deciding to become a Seiner. How had the magazine obtained it?
He threw his thought train into reverse.
He had not packed the manuscript in any of the bags he had lost when his gear had gone back to Confederation without him. Though he had not seen the manuscript since then, he was sure it was in his cabin. He had not moved it. He was absolutely certain he had not.
"Amy, remember my story? The one you never could understand? You know what happened to the manuscript?"
"No. I figured you trashed it. I didn't ask because I thought you'd get mad. I never gave you any time to write, and I know you wanted to."
He made a call to Security aboard Danion. Fifteen minutes later he knew. The manuscript was not in his cabin.
Thinking it safely stowed away, he had not worried about it before. He worried now.
Everything he and Mouse had learned about the Starfishers had been in that manuscript, penned between the lines and on the backs of sheets in invisible ink. If that had reached the Bureau...
"Amy, that business with the Sangaree failsafer... Come on. We've got to talk to Jarl." He grabbed her wrist and dragged her. He snatched the flimsies from Mouse's In tray.
"What are you mad about?" she asked. "Slow down, Moyshe. You're hurting me."
"Hurry up. This's important."
They found Kindervoort at a place called Pagliacci's. It was a dusky, scenty, park-facing restaurant where both Seiner and Confederation luminaries dined and amused themselves by pumping one another over pasta and wine. BenRabi pushed past the carabinier doorman, overran a spiffy maître de, stalked across a darkly decorated main dining room, through garlicy smells, to a small, private room in the rear. Admiral Beckhart held court there these days.
He and Kindervoort were playing a game of fence-with-words. Kindervoort was losing. He was relieved by Moyshe's appearance.
Moyshe slapped the papers down in front of Kindervoort. "We've been had."
Kindervoort scanned the top flimsy. "Where're your ships headed?" he asked Beckhart.
The Admiral chuckled. "I don't ask you questions like that. But not to worry, my friends. It doesn't involve your people. Not directly." He chuckled again, like an old man remembering some prank of his youth.
Kindervoort read the second flimsy, then thumbed through the magazine. "I suppose you want me to congratulate you, Moyshe. So congratulations."
"Jarl, I didn't finish that story till a couple days before the landsmen went home. And I came into this mess graded Commander. Someone had to put the story on the ship to Carson's."
"And?"
"It wasn't me that did. I left it out of my stuff because it carried the notes I'd kept for him."
"Ah. I see." Kindervoort considered Beckhart.
The Admiral smiled, asked, "This lovely lady your bride, Thomas?"
Amy favored him with an uncertain smile.
"Watch him, honey. He's another Mouse. He can charm a cobra."
Kindervoort stared and thought. Finally, he asked, "Did they get anything critical?"
"I can't remember. I think it was mostly social observations. Like that. Impressions. Guesswork."
"Sit down, Thomas," Beckhart said. "Mrs. McClennon. Drinks? Something to eat?"
"It's benRabi now. Moyshe benRabi," benRabi grumbled.
"I'm used to McClennon, you know. Surely you can't expect an old dog to learn new tricks." He rang for service. "Mrs. McClennon, you've caught yourself a pretty special man. I consider my men my boys. Like sons, so to speak. And Thomas and Mouse are two of my favorites." BenRabi frowned. What was the man up to? "So, though he defected and it hurts, I try to understand. I'm glad he finally found someone. He needs you, Missy, so be good to him."
Amy began to relax. Beckhart charmed her into giving him a genuine smile.
"There we go. There we go. I recommend the spaghetti, children. Astonishingly good for this far from nowhere." Jarl coughed, a none too subtle reminder that there was business to be discussed.
"All right," Beckhart said, turning to Kindervoort. "I'm exercising an old man's prerogative. I'm changing my mind. I'm going to spill the facts before there's a bad misunderstanding."
"Yes, do," benRabi snapped.
"Thomas, Thomas, don't be so damned hostile all the time." He sipped some wine. "First, let's swing back to the Ulantonid War. To their rationale for attacking Confederation.
"Our blue friends are obsessed with the long run. Us apes, the best we manage is a ten-year fleet modernization program, or a twenty-year colonial development project. They figure technological and sociological effects in terms of centuries. We'd save ourselves a lot of trouble if we'd take a page from their book. Thomas, sip your wine and be patient. I'm politely getting to the point.
"What I want you to understand is they roam pretty far afield in order to figure out what's coming up the day after next year."
"What's that got to do with whatever you're up to now?" Kindervoort asked.
"I'm getting there. I'm getting there. See. This right here is what's wrong with our species. We're always in such a damned hurry. We never look ahead. My point? Ulant does. When the war hates settled down and we let them build ships again, they resumed their deep probes."
"So?" Moyshe said. He was trying to fly easy, but for some reason he had a chill crawling his spine.
"Let an old man have his way, Thomas. It isn't every day I spout cosmic secrets in an Italian restaurant. Here it is, then. About thirty years ago Ulant made an alien contact. This was a long way in along The Arm. They eventually brought it to our attention.
"People, this race makes our friends the Sangaree look angelic. I've seen them in action myself. Really, words can't express it. What I mean to say is, I hope I don't have to see them again, here in our space. They're bad, people. Really bad. When they get done with a world there's nothing left bigger than a cockroach."
The Admiral paused for effect. His audience did not respond. He looked from face to face.
"That's a bit much to swallow," Moyshe said.
"It is. Of course. It took us a while to bite when the Blues brought it to us. By us I mean Luna Command. They knew better than to go to that dungheap called a Diet. For a good many years now, with the Minister the only civilian in the know, we've been working with Ulant to get ready."