"That sounds like fun, Mr. Whitbread. A pity I have dentist appointment that day-"

Whitbread continued to stare at the globe while he sipped coffee. "It bothers me, Gavin. It really does. Let' go ask somebody."

"Commander Cargill's still out at the Beehive." As First Lieutenant, Cargill was officially in charge of midshipman training. He was also patient with the youngsters, when many other officers were not.

"Maybe somebody will still be up," Whitbread suggested. They went forward toward the bridge, and saw Renner with flecks of soap on his chin. They did not hear him cursing because he now had to share a head with nine other officers.

Whitbread explained his problem. "And it looks like Mars, Mr. Renner. But I don't know why."

"Beats me," Renner said. "I've never been anywhen near Sol." There was no reason for merchant ships to go closer to Sol than the orbit of Neptune, although as the original home of humanity Sol was centrally located as transfer point to other and more valuable systems. "Never heard anything good about Mars, either. Why is it important?"

"I don't know. It probably isn't."

"But you seem to think it is."

Whithread didn't answer.

"There's something peculiar about Mote Prime, though It looks like any random world in the Empire, except- Or is it just because I know it's covered with alien monsters? Tell you what, I'm due for a glass of wine with the Captain in five minutes. Just let me get my tunic and you come along. We'll ask him."

Renner darted into his stateroom before Whitbread and Potter could protest. Potter looked at his companion accusingly. Now what kind of trouble had he got them into?

Renner led them down the ladders into the high-gravity tower where the Captain's patrol cabin was. A bored Marine sat at the desk outside Blaine's quarters. Whitbread recognized him-reputedly, Sergeant Maloney's vacuum still, located somewhere forward of the port torpedo room, made the best Irish Mist in the fleet. Maloney strove for quality, not quantity.

"Sure, bring the middies in," Blaine said. "There's not much to do until the cutter gets back. Come in, gentlemen. Wine, coffee, or something stronger?"

Whitbread and Potter settled for sherry, although Potter would have preferred Scotch. He had been drinking it since he was eleven. They sat in small folding chairs which fitted into dogs scattered around the deck of Blaine's patrol cabin. The observation ports were open and the ship's Field off, so MacArthur's bulk hovered above them. Blaine noted the middies' nervous glances and smiled. It got to everybody at first.

"What's the problem?" Blaine asked. Whitbread explained.

"I see. Mr. Potter, would you get that globe on my intercom? Thank you." Rod studied the image on the screen. "Hm. Normal-looking world. The colors are off, somehow. Clouds look-well, dirty. Not surprising. There's all kinds of crud in the atmosphere. You'd know that, Mr. Whitbread."

"Yes, sir." Whitbread wrinkled his nose. "Filthy stuff."

"Right. But it's the helium that's driving Buckman up the bulkhead. I wonder if he's figured it out yet? He's had several days... Dammit, Whitbread, it does look like Mars. But why?"

Whitbread shrugged. By now he was sorry he'd raised the subject.

"It's hard to see the contours. It always is." Absently Rod carried his coffee and Irish Mist over to the intercom screen. Officially he didn't know where the Irish Mist came from. Kelley and his Marines always saw that the Captain had plenty, though. Cziller had liked slivovitz, and that had strained Maloney's ingenuity to the breaking point.

Blaine traced the outline of a small sea. "You can't tell land from sea, but the clouds always look like permanent formations..." He traced it again. "That sea's almost a circle."

"Yah.. So's this one." Renner traced a faint ring of islands, much larger than the sea Blaine had studied. "And this-you can only see part of the arc." This was on land, an arc of low hills.

"They're all circles," Blaine announced. "Just like Mars. That's it. Mars has been circling through Sol's asteroid belt for four billion years. But there aren't that many asteroids in this system, and they're all in the Trojan points."

"Sir aren't most of the circles a bit small for that?" Potter asked.

"So they are, Mr. Potter. So they are."

"But what would it mean?" Whitbread said aloud. He meant it mostly for himself.

"Another mystery for Buckman," Blaine said. "He'll love it. Now, let's use the time more constructively. I'm glad you brought the young gentlemen, Mr. Renner. I don't suppose you both play bridge?"

They did, as it happened, but Whitbread had a string of bad luck. He lost nearly a full day's pay.

The game was ended by the return of the cutter. Cargill came immediately to the Captain's quarters to tell about the expedition. He had brought information, a pair of incomprehensible Motie mechanisms now being offloaded in hangar deck, and a torn sheet of gold-metallic stuff which he carried himself with thick gloves. Blaine thanked Renner and the middies for the game and they took the thinly veiled hint, although Whitbread would have liked to stay.

"I'm for my bunk," Potter announced. "Unless-"

"Yes?" Whitbread prompted.

"Would it nae be a bonny sight if Mr. Crawford were to see his stateroom now?" Potter asked mischievously.

A slow grin spread across Jonathon Whitbread's plump features. "It would indeed, Mr. Potter. It would indeed. Let's hurry!"

It was worth it. The midshipmen weren't alone in the debriefing rooms off hangar deck when a signal rating, prompted by Whitbread, tuned in the stateroom.

Crawford didn't disappoint them. He would have committed xenocide, the first such crime in human history, if he hadn't been restrained by his friends. He raved so much that the Captain heard about it, and as a result Crawford went directly from patrol to standing the next watch.

Buckman collected Potter and scurried to the astronomy lab, sure that the young middie had created chaos. He was pleasantly surprised at the work accomplished. He was also pleased with the coffee waiting for him. That flask was always full, and Buckman had come to expect it. He knew that it was somehow the work of Horace Bury.

Within half an hour of the cutter's arrival, Bury knew of the sheet of golden metal. Now that was something odd-and potentially quite valuable. The ancient-looking Motie machines might be equally so- If he could only get access to the cutter's computer! But Nabil's skills didn't include that one.

Ultimately there would be coffee and conversation with Buckman, but that could wait, that could wait. And tomorrow the Motie ship would arrive. No question about it, this was going to be a very valuable expedition-and the Navy thought they were punishing him by keeping him away from his business! True, there would be no growth without Bury to supervise it and drive his underlings on, but it wouldn't suffer much either; and now, with what he would learn here, Imperial Autonetics might become the most powerful firm in the Imperial Traders' Association. If the Navy thought the ITA made trouble for them now, wait until it was controlled by Horace Bury! He smiled slyly to himself. Nabil, seeing his master's smile, hunched nervously and tried to be inconspicuous.

Below in hangar deck Whitbread was put to work along with everyone else who had wandered there. Cargill had brought back a number of items from the Stone Beehive, and they had to be uncrated. Whitbread was ingenious enough to volunteer to assist Sally before Cargill gave him another job.

They unloaded skeletons and mummies for the anthropology lab. There were doll-sized miniatures, very fragile, that matched the live miniatures in the petty officers' lounge. Other skeletons, which Staley said were very numerous in the Beehive, matched the Motie miner now bunked in Crawford's stateroom.