“Good morning,” its owner replied. “Could you tell me where I might find the field officer of the day?”

“Shoot, son, you’re lookin’ at him.” Esteban grinned wryly. “Officer of the day, maintenance chief, approach officer, and customs inspector in one. That’s me.” He held out his hand. “Lorenco Esteban, at your service.”

“Merrit,” the stranger said in a peculiar voice, then shook himself and took the proffered hand. “Captain Paul Merrit, Dinochrome Brigade. Ah, let me be sure I understand this. You’re the entire base ops staff?” Esteban nodded. “The whole thing?” Merrit pressed.

Esteban nodded again and opened his mouth, but the sudden, raucous whine of the Sternenwelt tramp freighter’s counter-grav units drowned his voice. Both men turned to watch the battered ship climb heavenward, and Esteban saw Captain Merrit wince as the vibrations from the poorly tuned drive assaulted his inner ear. Esteban himself was accustomed to the sort of casually maintained vessels which (infrequently) visited Santa Cruz, and he only shook his head until the tramp rose beyond earshot, then turned back to his visitor.

“Yep, I’m all they is, Captain. You seem sorta surprised,” he observed.

“Surprised?” Merrit’s smile was small and tight this time. “You might say that. According to my brief, a Commander Albright is supposed to be in charge here.”

“Albright?” It was Esteban’s turn to be surprised. “Heck, Captain, Old Man Albright died, um, let me see. That’d be… that’s right, thirty-two T-years ago, come June. You mean t’say Sector thinks he’s still alive?”

“They certainly do.”

“Well ain’t that just like a buncha bureaucrats.” Esteban shook his head in disgusted resignation. “I commed Ursula Central personally when he died so sudden like. He asked me t’kinda look after things till his relief got here, on account of my place’s just over the hill yonder and I used t’ help him keep the beacon on-line and like that, but I never expected to ‘look after’ ‘em this long.”

“You informed Central?” Merrit seemed to find that even more surprising than the news that Albright was dead. “How?”

“Sure I did. ‘Course, I had to use civilian channels. Old Albright didn’t last long enough t’give me command access to his official files-it was a heart attack, an’ iffen I hadn’t been here when it happened, he wouldn’t even’a had time to ask me t’look after the field-so I couldn’t use his Fleet com. But I musta sent nigh a dozen commercial band messages the first couple’a years.” He tugged on an earlobe and frowned. “Now I think on it though, I’ll be danged if anyone ever said a word back t’me ‘bout anything. They just keep on sendin’ stuff t’the ‘base CO,’ never even by name. You don’t think those fool chip-shufflers back on Ursula-?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” Merrit sighed. “Somebody, somewhere may have receipted your messages, but they never got filed officially. Central thinks Albright’s still in command here.”

“But the old man’d be over a hunnert an’ twenty by now!” Esteban objected. “That’s a mite old for an active duty assignment, ain’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Merrit said grimly, then sighed again, straightened his shoulders, and managed a wry little smile. “Mister Esteban, I’m afraid your planet hasn’t had much priority back at Central. For some reason we still haven’t figured out, Santa Cruz was set up with a dedicated high security com link when the Navy put in its installations here. That link doesn’t exist anymore, but no one told the communications computers it didn’t.”

“Meanin’?”

“Meaning the automated com sections haven’t accepted any update from you because it didn’t have the proper security codes. In fact, they’ve been systematically deleting any messages that pertained to the Santa Cruz Detachment from memory because they didn’t carry valid security headers. That seems to be what’s been happening, anyway, though no one noticed it was until very recently. Put simply, Mister Esteban, Central isn’t exactly current on the situation here.”

“If you say so, I’ll believe you, son,” Esteban said, “but durned iffen I can see how even Central could expect someone Old Man Albright’s age t’handle a job like this. I mean, shoot, it ain’t like there’s a lot of business-” he gestured at the vast field, occupied now in solitary splendor only by the Skyhawk “-but poor old Albright was pretty nigh past it while I was still in high school, iffen you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Unfortunately, the original records on Santa Cruz went up when the Quern hit the Sector Bolo Maintenance Central Depot on Ursula during the First Quern War. That’s when Central lost the Santa Cruz Detachment’s dedicated com-link, as well. They’ve taken steps to reactivate the link now, but anything you’ve gotten from the Navy must have come in over the all-units general information net.”

“So you’re sayin’-?”

“That no one at Central knew how long Commander Albright had been out here… among other things.”

“You know, Captain,” Esteban said slowly, “the way you said ‘among other things’ kinda makes me wonder when the second shoe’s gonna drop.”

“Really?” This time Merrit’s smile held an edge of true humor, albeit a bit bitter. “Well, I hope it won’t make too many waves when it falls, Mister Esteban.” He raised his wrist com to his mouth. “Lieutenant Timmons?”

“Yes, Captain?” a female-and very young-voice replied.

“You have now accomplished your solemn responsibility to deliver me to my new duty station, Lieutenant. If you’ll be good enough to unload my personal gear, you can get back to civilization.”

“Are you sure about that, sir?” the voice asked.

“Yes, unfortunately. I would, however, appreciate your informing Central that their records are even more, ah, dated than I warned them they were. Tell Brigadier Wincizki I’ll update him as soon as I can.”

“If you say so, sir,” Lieutenant Timmons agreed. “Popping Bay One.”

A hatch slid open as Timmons spoke, and a cargo arm lowered two bulky gravity skids to the ceramacrete. Merrit pressed a button on his wrist com, and both skids rose three centimeters from the paving and hummed quietly off towards the faded admin building. The captain watched them go, then nodded to Esteban, and the two men walked off after them while the hatch slid shut once more.

“Clear of drive zone, Lieutenant,” Merrit said into the com. “Have a nice trip.”

“Thank you, sir, and, um, good luck.” Timmons sounded a bit dubious, but the shuttle rose on a high, smooth whine of counter-grav. It arrowed up into the cloudless sky with far more gentility than the freighter, then vanished, and Esteban looked at Merrit.

“Pardon me iffen I seem nosy, Captain, but did you say Santa Cruz’s your duty station?”

“I did.”

“But iffen you expected Albright t’still be in command, they must not’a sent you out t’take over field ops-not that I’d mind, you understand-and danged if I c’n think what else you might be needed for.”

“That, Mister Esteban, is a question I’ve asked myself quite a few times over the last year or so,” Merrit agreed with yet another of those oddly grim smiles. “While Central may not have noticed Commander Albright’s demise, however, it has finally noticed another little oversight. I’m here to inspect the Bolo and assume command if it’s still operational.”

“The Bolo?” Esteban stopped dead, staring at Merrit in disbelief, and the captain raised his eyebrows in polite question. The older man gaped at him for almost a full minute, then shook himself. “What Bolo?” he asked in a more normal voice, and it was Merrit’s turn to frown in surprise.

“Bolo Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE,” he said mildly.

“Y’mean t’say there’s a Bolo on Santa Cruz?” Esteban demanded.

“According to Central there is, although-” Merrit surveyed the age-worn field with a sardonic eye “-Central does seem to be a little confused on several points, now doesn’t it?”