Thanks to Harkness, however, they hadn’t really needed her, and now the message flicked up to the courier boat. The time and date stamp had been left blank when the message was recorded, but the computers automatically entered today’s as they transmitted it. A little more worrisome was the fact that it didn’t say where Proxmire had been supposed to go, since no one they’d managed to take alive appeared to have known what his next assignment was, and Metcalf was tempted to update the recording now that they knew he’d been supposed to go to Shilo. But that shouldn’t be important enough to justify futzing about with the message and possibly screwing something else up. The people who’d sent the inquiry knew where Proxmire had been bound, and a simple “departed on schedule” ought to more than suffice.

“Message receipt confirmed, Ma’am,” PO Alwyn announced, and Metcalf nodded.

“Anything else in the queue require an immediate response?”

“Nothing else,” Lethridge told her. “Of course, we haven’t opened most of the mail yet,” he added.

“Understood. But I want that boat out of here ASAP, and if nothing else is marked urgent, no one’s going to be upset if we don’t answer it before we boot them out. Send the release, Anson.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

· · • · ·

“Message coming in from Charon Control,” Citizen Ensign Howard reported. Heathrow turned his chair to look at her, but she was busy inputting commands at her console. Then she looked up. “One return transmission received and stored in the secure banks, Sir. No other return traffic or outgoing messages. We’re cleared to depart.”

“Flight plan information?” Bouret asked.

“Coming through now, Sir,” Howard replied. “I’m dumping to your console.”

“Got it,” Bouret confirmed a moment later. He studied the vectors and accelerations displayed on his maneuvering plot, then made a small sound of mingled satisfaction and disgust. “Pretty straightforward, Skipper. We go back the way we came, for all intents and purposes, except for a couple of little dog legs.”

“Dog legs?” Heathrow repeated with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s just dirtside bullshit, Skipper,” Bouret assured him—being very careful to use the spacer’s generic term for planet-bound idiots rather than call the idiots in question StateSec. “They’re just flexing their muscles. Citizen Commander Jefferies warned me they liked to do that when he gave me the system coordinates.”

“All right.” Heathrow sighed. “If that’s the way the game’s played here, then that’s the way it’s played. Are we cleared to head out now?”

“Yes, Sir,” Howard said.

“And according to this, we can even use impellers, Skipper,” Bouret told him.

“Oh frabjous day!” Heathrow muttered under his breath, and pressed a com stud on his chair arm.

“Engineering,” a voice replied.

“They’re going to let us have our impellers back, Andy,” Heathrow said. “How soon can you have the nodes back on-line?”

“Give me seven minutes, and you’re hot, Skipper,” Citizen Lieutenant Anderson assured him.

“Good.” Heathrow released the stud and looked back at Bouret. “All right, Justin, we’ve got reaction mass to burn, so let’s get the hell out of here now. We’ll transition to impellers as soon as Andy can bring them up.”