He moistened his lips, and said evenly, “Connect me with the officer of the watch, please.”

“Admiral Naismith, sir! You’re back!” Even over the holovid a blast of pleasure and excitement washed out from her straightened posture and beaming face. It struck him like a blow. “What’s up? Are we going to be moving out soon?”

“In good time, Lieutenant … Hereld.” An apt name for a communications officer. He managed to twitch a smile. Admiral Naismith would smile, yes. “You’ll learn in good time. In the meanwhile, I want a pick-up at the orbital transfer station.”

“Yes, sir. I can get that for you. Is Captain Quinn with you?”

“Uh … no.”

“When will she be following?”

“… Later.”

“Right, sir. Let me just get clearance for—are we loading any equipment?”

“No. Just myself.”

“Clearance from the Escobarans for a personnel pod, then …” she turned aside for a few moments. “I can have someone at docking bay E17 in about twenty minutes.”

“Very well.” It would take him almost that long to get from this concourse to that arm of the station. Ought he to add some personal word for Lieutenant Hereld? She knew him; how well did she know him? Every sentence that fell from his lips from this point on packed risk, risk of the unknown, risk of a mistake. Mistakes were punished. Was his Betan accent really right? He hated this, with a stomach-churning terror. “I want to be transferred directly to the Ariel.”