Dorcas, Saxtorph thought. Her, and everything we've shared all these years, and the kids we still hope to have someday. Not to mention Kam, Carita, and Buck. And any passengers.

“The kzinti say their expedition will be strictly scientific, like ours, employing simply a transport and a few auxiliaries,” Nordbo continued. “But everybody knows that will be a naval transport with at least some armament. If they learned Rover had come, as they might very well—No, it would be too much to expect of kzinti, not to attack.”

Saxtorph surrendered. “Okay. Okay. You've gotten through this thick skull of mine. You're right.” He rallied his spirit. “What'll we do instead?”

Nordbo smiled afresh, warmly. “The coin has a bright side. Because I saved the ISC embarrassment, I was able to drive a bargain. They naturally prefer our names never be associated with this. So… we keep silence. In return, we have a commission to bring several special cargoes to the puppeteers' tradepoint and distribute the exchange goods to four different human planets.”

Joy flared. “Holy Christ! Clear to there!”

“And well paid. With a clause that will allow us to develop the route further for ourselves if we choose and the puppeteers are willing.”

“Pete,” Saxtorph declared, “I take every hard thought about you back. I apologize, I heap sthondat dung on my head, I adore. You're flat-out a genius.”

A parallel gladness: How grandly this guy's gotten over his decades of exile, a kzin prisoner, and the death of his son. Even though I got the reasons for it made an official secret, he knew, he knows. He threw himself into our partnership to escape. Oh, he did a lot more than furnish some capital we badly needed, he hadn't lost his skill at handling people either, but it was an escape. In the three years since, however—He and his new wife seem like being about as happy as Dorcas and me. And now he's wangled this for us.