The two men standing behind a large, ornately carved hardwood desk looked up from the computer monitor set in its top as Susan entered and snapped to attention. They seemed approximately the same age-about sixty-and both had salt-and-pepper hair and slightly slumped shoulders. From carrying for too many years the burdens of military bureaucracy, she thought.

One man was tall, only an inch shorter than Susan herself. He sported a well- trimmed mustache and wore the red jumpsuit uniform of the Federation Fleet. On his sleeves were sewn the gold stripes of an admiral. He was James Renford, Susan's commanding officer.

The other was Fredrik Hyatt, director of the civilian Survey Service. Although Susan had never before met Hyatt, she knew him from his many appearances on holo-vid, as well as his considerable reputation. His eyes were dark and piercing, his cheek bones high and pronounced, and he wore his hair cropped close to his skull. He was the shortest man Susan had ever seen-shorter by almost half a foot than the man who had attacked her in her quarters-and his build appeared unbelievably frail in the powder blue Survey Service uniform.

She had no way of knowing whether or not the stories she had heard about Hyatt were true; the majority might simply be that vicious variety of publicity that invariably collects around those in the public eye. What she did know was that every year, for as far back as she could remember, Hyatt had received more General Fund money for his Survey Service, while all other budgets, including that for Fleet, had been cut. Even during time of war the Service was funded far more liberally than its military counterpart.