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A’baht nodded. “It just might be that we’ve shown the Yevetha this patrol deployment long enough. If I extend the perimeter patrols by half, maybe it’ll make ’em stop and wonder why.”

“Thank you for considering my input, General,” said Drayson, smiling genially. “Oh, and one other thing—”

“What is that?”

“Since there are probably still some days, even weeks, of work left to do at this end, perhaps you might consider whether you can spare a smaller vessel for each of the other inhabited systems.”

“I’m convinced that nothing smaller than a frigate could withstand an initial Yevethan attack, and I have no more ships of that class to spare,” said A’baht.

“You’re right, of course,” Drayson said. “A corvette or patrol escort probably wouldn’t discourage the Yevetha, and certainly wouldn’t be able to repel them. I only thought there might be some symbolic value in their presence—”

A’baht suddenly understood what Drayson was saying.—Unless we should happen to come under direct attack, you say. And so you would like me to bait the Yevetha with an easy victory.

“The only thing worse than leaving those populations unprotected is giving them an illusion of safety,” A’baht said curtly. “And the only thing worse than asking men to risk their lives on your word is sending them into a fight you know they can’t win. My pilots and crews are not symbols, Admiral Drayson. And I won’t betray them by reducing them to that.”

“I understand those feelings, General,” Drayson said. “I share them. But I invite you to consider whether your status there is any different than that of an escort orbiting Dandalas or Kktkt. If the Yevetha attack your formation, many issues would be simplified.”

“Are you saying that we were sent here to draw the Yevetha into a war?”

“I am saying that you may decide for yourself how much of your arm to place in the rancor’s mouth,” Drayson said. “Zone Nineteen, General. Whatever else you decide, please keep that rendezvous.”

The on-site recruiting office at Fleet Headquarters was next to the main gate, a long walk from the infirmary. Mindful of the physical exam, Ackbar had been unable to persuade Plat Mallar to wait until morning. But the energy in Mallar’s long strides on the way over had seemed to vindicate Dr. Yintal’s judgment that the Polneye survivor could be released.

When they reached the small white dome with the Fleet insignia, Ackbar lost a second argument, this one over whether he would accompany Mallar inside.

“I have to go in there without anyone holding my hand,” Mallar had said. “It’s important to me. I don’t want any pity, or any special favors from friends of old star pilots.”

“As you wish,” Ackbar had said, acceding to the stubborn will of the young Grannan. He settled in a waiting area ordinarily occupied only by civilians and let himself be amused by the surprised recruitment staffers falling over themselves to salute him.

Mallar was gone for the better part of an hour, but the process should have taken two. And when he returned, he looked worse than ill—his eyes were as empty as a discarded chrysalis, all the life having left them. Ackbar rose quickly and hurried to him.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Never mind—there’s a speeder at the guard station. Come, I can have you back to the infirmary in a twinkling.”

“I was turned down,” Mallar said, his expression stunned and wondering.

“For pilot training?”

“For anything. For everything. He rejected me. They won’t let me volunteer for any duty.”

“That’s absurd,” Ackbar said. “Stay here.”

Leaving a wake of unanswered salutes behind him, Ackbar stormed through the screening room and past the interview rooms to the office of the recruiting supervisor.

“Admiral Ackbar?” the supervisor said, rising from his chair in surprise as Ackbar entered unannounced. “Sir,” he added, and saluted smartly.

“Major, one of your recruiters just processed an applicant named Plat Mallar,” Ackbar snapped. “I want that person in this room now, to answer some questions.”

“Right away, Admiral.” The supervisor bent over his comlink