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“I see,” Thoris said, disappointed though not at all shocked. After all, Tellarites were far more renowned for hiding in the mud than they were for their bravery.

“Officially, I would have to denounce what you are proposing.” As he spoke, Gral looked down, perhaps in shame, or perhaps to tend to some other urgent business that had suddenly come across his desk.

A gentle amber light suddenly began a rhythmic flashing on the left side of Thoris’s work station, indicating a large amount of incoming data—data apparently originating from Gral’s location via the same secure channel that was carrying their present conversation.

“I would have to denounce it in the strongest possible terms,” Gral continued, giving no overt indication that he was sending a data attachment. “If I even knew about it, that is. Which I do not, of course.”

As Gral droned on, Thoris examined the incoming data stream, which appeared to contain huge quantities of analytical data.

This is Tellar’s official data about the new Romulan weapon, he realized in a pleasurable flash of surprise. Gral couldn’t have gathered all of this for me so quickly—unless he had already collected it with the intent to share it with the humans, just as I have proposed.

“I hope I have made my position absolutely plain and clear of all mud,” Gral said.

Thoris could feel his antennae trying to rise in a manner that signified delight and satisfaction, but he restrained them with an effort of pure will.

“You have made your meaning as transparent as an Aenar icecarving, Mister Ambassador.”

Gral signed off with a characteristically curt snort and a grunt, leaving Thoris to contemplate how badly he had misjudged Tellarite courage. Gral’s gesture brought to mind the pinkskins’ ancient political philosopher Benjamin Franklin, who had once said, “We must hang together, gentlemen. Else, we shall most assuredly hang separately.”

Resolve stiffening his spine, Thoris began setting up a second secure channel.

But rather than Tellar, he directed this one toward the Cochrane Institute on Centauri III.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Tuesday, November 18, 2155

San Francisco, Earth

DESPITE THE THICKNESS of the walls and windows at Starfleet Headquarters, Sam Gardner could hear the voices of the crowd out on Hitchcock Street and Harrison Boulevard quite clearly throughout the afternoon military briefing. Those voices had been proliferating steadily all morning, and the multitude outside seemed still to be swelling even now.

“I’m glad my office isn’t as close to the street as yours, Sam,” Greg Black said as he peered out from behind the blinds.

With an acerbic half-smile, George Casey, the general in command of United Earth’s MACO forces, said, “And I’m glad I’ve got a hovercar warmed up and ready on the roof.”

Gardner shook his head wearily, rose from behind his desk, and took a tall, curve-necked bottle out of the bureau, along with a trio of small glasses. He immediately began filling all three with the fluorescent green Ganymedan whiskey he’d picked up during his last visit to Jupiter Station.

“They’re frightened,” Black said, waving off the drink. “They want something done about all these Romulan advances.”

“And they’re starting to get damned shrill about it,” Casey said as he picked up both glasses, downing the first in a single gulp.

Black nodded. “Calder. Tarod. Deneva. Berengaria. Threllvia. Only a damned fool wouldn’t be scared.”

“And there’s more to be scared of here than just the Romulans,” Gardner said after downing half the contents of his own glass.

“What do you mean?” Casey said, raising a steel-hued eyebrow.

Gardner nodded toward the window, and the crowd that lurked behind the blinds. “A public relations firestorm. A steady diet of this could convince Earth’s civilian leadership to push Starfleet and the MACOs into taking action prematurely.”

“Prime Minister Samuels is a pretty level-headed guy,” Casey said.

Gardner emptied his glass and set it down on his desk with a sharp