"Okay, tell me the bad news-production?"

Leaton grinned. "This time, the bad news is good, Chief. We can turn out two hundred a week, and the ammunition will be ample."

A thought struck Cofflin. "Wait a minute," he said, looking down at the rifle in his hands. I certainly want our boys and girls to have the best, but…

"Couldn't Walker duplicate this? He's copying our Westley-Richards now."

Marian nodded with a shark's amusement, and Leaton guffawed. "We hope he tries, Chief," the engineer said. "Yeah, he could duplicate the rifle without much of a problem."

The commodore took up the explanation: "But getting reliable drawn-brass cartridges and primers, that won't be nearly so easy. God-damned difficult, as a matter of fact."

Leaton made a gesture. "He'll be able to do it, eventually," he said. "Bill Cuddy's a first-rate machinist, whatever else is wrong with him, and from the reports you've been sending me they've got a fair little machine-tool business going there. Still behind ours because they started out without our power sources or stock of materials, but growing fast. So, yes, he could duplicate the Werder and eventually the ammo if he gets a copy to reverse-engineer. Of course, Walker hasn't got our scale and most of his workers are rote-trained, not all-rounders. Bottom line, it'll waste his resources for a good year, maybe three, if he tries to switch over-cutting into his Westley-Richards production pretty bad, we think."

"And if I know Walker," Marian Alston said with satisfaction in her tone, "he won't be able to resist trying to match anything we do, if it's remotely possible. An ego as big as the Montana skies."

The three Islanders shared a long, wolfish chuckle. Leaton turned to a cabinet, opened it, and handed Alston a revolver and belt. "This is by way of a belated coming-home present," he said. "Modeled on the Colt Python, but in 10 mm-.40. Black-powder, of course, but you'll find it an improvement over the double-barreled flintlocks, I think."

"Why, thank you, Ron," Marian said, giving the weapon a quick check. "Now, we have to talk priorities."

"Ayup," Cofflin said. "You want the expeditionary force to get first crack?"

Alston surprised him by shaking her head. "Not until they can make their own ammunition. I'm not going to put a thousand of my people seven thousand miles of irregular sailing-ship passage away from their sole and only ammunition supply. That's a point-failure source."

"Couple of months minimum for that," Leaton said. "The people you sent can handle the equipment, but some of it's fairly complex. Take a while to run up another set."

"Right," Alston said. "First we'll re-equip the Ready Force"-the Islander citizens doing their initial training-"the first-line militia battalions, and the ships'-company Marines. We can ship the surplus Westley-Richards to Kar-Duniash to equip local forces, and the Marines there can hand over theirs too when we get them Werders."

"Mmmm, sounds sensible," Cofflin said. He usually left specialists to handle their own areas of expertise-that was half the secret of doing the Chief's job right, remembering not to joggle elbows. The other half was picking the right experts to begin with, of course.

February-March, Year 10 A.E.

(April, Year 10 A.E.)

Ur Base's main communications room held several shortwave sets. They were talking in the clear; one of the few things they definitely did know was that Walker's radio had stayed behind in Alba when he left. He might be able to intercept a spark-gap Morse signal, but nobody in Mycenaean Greece was going to duplicate a voice set.

Colonel Hollard sat in the woven-reed chair and put the headset on, adjusting the mike.

"Ur Base," the radio technician said. "This is Ur Base. Come in, Dur-Kurigalzu. Come in, please."

"This is Councilor Arnstein's office in Dur-Kurigalzu. Receiving you loud and clear. Over."

"Roger that, Dur-Kurigalzu. I'm handing over to the colonel."

"Hello, Ian. What's up?"

"Hi, Ken. I'm calling about your lost princess; thought I'd check up on her. And there's some other news. How's she doing?"

"Not badly," Colonel Hollard said. "We gave her a guesthouse and hired those two Assyrian girls to do the cooking and suchlike. She's studying English, but pretty quiet otherwise. Not surprising, considering the trauma she went through. The kid's got guts."

"What about brains? Doreen thought she was very bright."

"Very is the word. Lot of culture shock, of course, but she's adaptable as well."

"Hmmmm."

"Sir?"

"Why so formal, Ken?"

"Well, I was wondering what you have in mind for her," Kenneth Hollard said. "We've gotten about all the intelligence data we can, and she's got no real place here. I was thinking about sponsoring her back on-Island-sending her to stay at my brother's place, maybe."

Arnstein chuckled. "Yes, she's a likable sort too, in that I-am-a-princess way, isn't she? No, I don't think we'll take her off the board just yet, Colonel. Doreen and I have been talking it over, and there must be some sort of use we can make of the last of the Mitannian royal line."

"Sir…" Hollard fought down annoyance; Arnstein was just doing his job. "Sir, she's already gone through a lot."

"I'm aware of that, Ken," Arnstein soothed. "And believe me, we're not going to do anything against her interests. But we're here for the interests of the Republic, not as a find-a-place-for-strays agency."

" Yessir. I'm going to be dropping in on her in a minute, anyway, as a matter of fact."

"Good," Arnstein said. "It would be best if she has positive feelings toward the Republic."

"I don't think she thinks in those categories, sir," Hollard said. "It's giri, here; personal obligations."

"Hmmmmm, you have a point. Mitanni was more of a feudal state than most of these ancient Oriental despotisms, as far as we can tell- which isn't very far. Damn, but I wish I had more staff qualified to do research in the archives here!"

"Sir, learning that script is a nightmare."

"You're telling me," Arnstein said. "How are the scribes coming?"

"Quite well."

"Good. I'll hire a couple and set them going on transliterations," he said. Akkadian could be written quite well in the Roman alphabet. "Good long-term project, anyway. I doubt cuneiform will be used for more than another century or so, and then anything that hasn't been written down in the new medium will be lost."

Hollard's brows went up. "You really think so?"

"Oh, yes. Not a certainty, of course, but highly probable, once paper and printing catch on-you can't print cuneiform, not really. You know, one reason I regret not being immortal is that I won't find out what's going to happen here."

"Councilor, I'd settle for knowing what's happening in Greece."

"That I can help you with."

Hollard leaned forward eagerly. "What?"

"We've finally gotten some informants into coastal Anatolia-your lost princess did help us there, the names of some merchants who trade through Hangilibat, and for a wonder they're alive. The latest intelligence is that this Hittite chief who's rebelled against King Tudhaliya- the one Raupasha told us about-has gone to Millawanda to confer with a 'chief of the Ahhiyawa.' "

Hollard made an interrogative noise, and Arnstein sighed. "Millawanda… Miletus. Port on the Aegean. Ahhiyawa… Achaea. Greece."

"Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh, is right. That damned war with Assyria took too long for comfort; the passes over the Taurus into Anatolia will be closed soon. We've got to get in contact with Hattusas, and then we've got to hit the enemy next spring."

"Yes, sir!"

"Which brings us back to Princess Raupasha…"