Ongola had ended up as arbiter on the reconditioning of the space shuttle Moth. Nabhi Nabol had been driving the refit crew demented, interrupting them at critical moments of repair, demanding to know if that circuit or this segment of hull had been checked. Despite the fact that he had a good working knowledge of the complexities of a shuttle, he delayed more than he assisted. The shuttle Mayfly, lying next to the Moth, had been sectioned off into offices for Ongola, Fulmar, and Nabhi, with a half-dozen comm lines so that Ongola could handle other commitments while on hand at the shuttle. His office was festooned with probe pics and survey maps, as well as with the various launch windows open to Nabhi. Nabhi would often come in and stand broodingly staring at the orbits, picking at his lower lip. Ongola ignored him.

The basic condition of the Moth had been surprisingly good: there had been practically no perishing of interior circuits or lines. But everything had to be double-checked. In that Ongola agreed with Nabhi. It put quite a burden on Fulmar’s engineering team, but that was not where he disagreed with the autocratic Nabhi.

“I wouldn’t care what he asked me to do,” Fulmar told Ongola, “if he’d only ask politely. You’d think he was doing me a favor. Are you sure he’s as good a driver as he thinks he is?”

“He is good,” Ongola reluctantly admitted.

“I’d’ve preferred the mission in Bonneau’s hands,” Fulmar replied, shaking his head sadly. “But with that big stake, kids and all, I can’t fault his refusal. It’s just that—” He broke off, raising his big, work-stained hands in a helpless gesture.

“The mission has got to succeed, Fulmar,” Ongola said, giving the man an encouraging clout on the shoulder. “And you’re the best man to see that it does.”

In the thirteenth week after Threadfall, the pattern suddenly shifted. As the squadrons reached the projected site, which was mainly over unoccupied lands, only the top of the squadron saw the leading edge. It was well north of their position: the gray shimmering stain on the horizon was all too easily identified.

“Hell and damnation!” Theo Force cried, ramming a call through to Ongola at Landing. “The damned stuff’s shifted north, Zi. We’ll need reinforcements.”

“Give me the coordinates,” Ongola said, issuing crisp orders and gesturing to Jake to get in touch with Dieter or Boris. “Go for it. We’ll scramble another squadron or two to help. I’ll alert Drake.”

Boris was found, and made some quick calculations. “It’s going to hit Calusa and Bordeaux. It seems to have shifted north by five degrees. That doesn’t make sense. Why on earth would it shift so suddenly?”