“I thank you,” he said, hoping he sounded as if he meant it.
“And I will thank your Security males for their analysis,” Reffet replied. Now that they had found something to worry them both, they could be civil to each other. Reffet continued, “Having Tosevites pawing through our files is the last thing we need.”
“That is another truth.” Atvar meant it. “Leaks of intelligence can prove disastrous, as our military history before Home was unified proves.”
“Does it?” Reffet said. “I would not be surprised, but I am not the male who could prove it. You who were brought up in a Soldiers’ Time have a training different from mine.”
Then why do you endlessly criticize what I did and did not do? You do not understand it. But Atvar did not drop that on Reffet’s snout, as he would have a little while before. All he said was, “I am sure the data will be valuable to us. On behalf of my Security force, I look forward to receiving them for analysis.”
“I will send them,” Reffet said, and blanked the screen.
Atvar promptly telephoned Security and warned them of what was coming. “Whatever you learn from these data, inform me before transmitting your analysis to Reffet,” he told the chief of the service, a male name Laraxx.
“It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” Laraxx said. Unlike Reffet, he had to show Atvar proper deference.
“I look forward to hearing from you,” Atvar said, and tried to pick up the threads of what he’d been doing before Reffet telephoned.
Laraxx telephoned back much sooner than he had expected-soon enough to distract him from the work he had begun to gather into his hands once more. “Exalted Fleetlord, we have seen this material before. There is nothing new here,” the Security chief said.
“You have?” Atvar said in surprise. “Why was I not informed of it?”
“Why?” Laraxx sounded surprised, too. “Because we paid very little attention to it, is why. That Big Ugly the researcher-Ttomalss, his name is-keeps for a pet is utterly mad, you know. She cannot be blamed, of course, but still… In any case, we most assuredly did not think we should waste our time or yours with this.”
“I see,” Atvar said slowly. And Laraxx did make some sense. How could Kassquit, hatched (no, born; revoltingly born) one thing, raised another, be anything but addled? As the Security male said, no blame could attach to her. But, as the saying went, being addled wasn’t always the same thing as being wrong. The fleetlord said, “She may have found something interesting after all. Do a thorough analysis, as if this were new data.”
Laraxx’s sigh was quite audible. So was the resignation in his voice as he said, “It shall be done.”
Over the next two days, Atvar forgot all about Kassquit. Irrefutable evidence reached him that the agitator Liu Han had succeeded in reaching Peking, the leading city in the Chinese subregion of the main continental mass. He had hoped the accursed female would not succeed in returning from the United States. The Japanese Empire had let him down. So had the Chinese working for the Race along the coast of China. He wondered whether that was treason or ineptitude, then wondered which he dreaded more.
He was still trying-without much hope of success-to straighten out that situation when Laraxx called again. “Well?” Atvar demanded testily.
“I have the analysis you requested, Exalted Fleetlord.” Laraxx sounded much more subdued than he had before.
By the Emperor, he has found something, Atvar thought. “Well?” he said again.
Laraxx said, “Analysis of the messages issued by the male calling himself Regeya shows traces of syntax and idiom from the Tosevite language called English, Exalted Fleetlord.”
“He is a Big Ugly!” Atvar exclaimed.
“So it would seem, our previous belief to the contrary notwithstanding,” Laraxx agreed. “Investigation of how a Tosevite has penetrated our networks and how deeply he has penetrated them is now ongoing.”
“You had also better investigate how many other Big Uglies, as yet undetected, are doing the same thing,” Atvar snapped.
Laraxx looked startled all over again. That evidently hadn’t occurred to him. The fleetlord wondered what else hadn’t occurred to him. “It shall be done,” Laraxx said.
“Good,” Atvar said, in lieu of something harsher. The Security chief vanished from his computer screen.
Before Atvar could get any useful work done, Pshing rushed in, exclaiming, “Exalted Fleetlord!”
That always meant trouble. “What has managed to go wrong now?” Atvar asked his adjutant.
“Exalted Fleetlord, one of our reconnaissance satellites, one of those with a near approach to the U.S. space station at apogee, reports a sudden sharp increase in radioactive emissions from the station,” Pshing replied. “The significance of the increase cannot yet be established, but it is most unlikely to be beneficial to us.”
Lieutenant Colonel Glen Johnson felt like whistling with glee as he eyed the Peregrine ’s radar screen. Things couldn’t have been better if he’d scripted them himself. Since he wasn’t over the United States, he called down to a relay ship: “Requesting permission to visually evaluate Lizard satellite 2247, and to make orbital changes required for prolonged visual inspection.”
“Have to check with Kitty Hawk on that one, Peregrine, ” the radio operator answered. “Monitor this frequency. Somebody will get back to you.”
“Roger,” Johnson said, and then, under his breath, “What the hell else would I do but monitor this frequency?”
Kitty Hawk might remember he’d been too nosy about the American space station and refuse him permission to eyeball the Lizard satellite. Somehow, though, he didn’t think that would happen. Satellite 2247 and several others with similar orbits had been launched so the Lizards could keep an eye-or an eye turret-on the space station themselves. They were curious about it, too. He knew that from intelligence intercepts, from his conversations with their radio operators, and from his conversations with Major Sam Yeager.
But were satellite 2247 and the others like it just designed to keep an eye on the space station, or could they also harm it? The Lizards said no. Johnson wouldn’t have wanted to take their unsupported word on anything that important. He didn’t think the people in charge of the space station would, either.
After about five minutes, the word came back: “Peregrine, you are clear to change your orbit to inspect 2247. Burn parameters follow…”
Johnson listened carefully, read the parameters back, and smiled to himself. They were very close to the ones he’d calculated for himself. They would put him up near 2247 when the Lizards’ satellite was close to the space station. He was glad he was flying Peregrine and not a Russian tin can. In one of those, he wouldn’t have been able to make such a large orbital change or to do so much of his own calculating. The Lizards might look down their snouts at Peregrine, but he thought he was flying a pretty fine bird.
He made the burn on schedule, kicking himself up into a more elliptical orbit that would let him pass within a mile or so of satellite 2247’s path and within about ten miles of the space station. He actually was curious about the reconnaissance satellite. He was even more curious about the space station. His smile got wider. With a little luck, he’d be able to satisfy himself twice in a few minutes, which wasn’t easy for a man his age.
“U.S. spacecraft! Attention, U.S. spacecraft!” That wasn’t an American relay ship. It was a Lizard, using his own language. “You are not to damage the satellite with which you are closing. Damage to this satellite will be taken as a hostile act. You have been warned. Acknowledge immediately!”