"On leave, of course. She's actually my second cousin once removed. A widow. She's been running a tourist boat up the Amazon by herself since her husband died. She's the captain and the cook too. She fries a moo shu pork to kill for. But she's getting a little older—needs some muscle." The bullet-shaped Tung could certainly supply that. "We're going to be partners. Hell," he went on, "when you finish buying out the Triumph, we can even afford to dispense with the tourists. You ever want to try water-skiing on the Amazon behind a fifty-meter hoversloop, son, stop by."

And the mutant piranhas could eat what was left, no doubt. The charm of the vision of Tung spending his sunset years watching—sunsets, from a riverboat deck, with a buxom—Miles was sure she was buxom—Eurasian lady on his lap, a drink in one hand and scarfing down moo shu pork with the other, was a little lost on Miles as he contemplated a) what it was going to cost the fleet to buy out Tung's share of the Triumph, and b) the huge Tung-shaped hole this was going to leave in his command structure.

Gibbering, hyperventilating, or running around in small circles were not useful responses. Instead Miles essayed cautiously, "Ah . . . you sure you won't be bored?"

Tung, damn his sharp eyes, lowered his voice and answered the real question. "I wouldn't be leaving if I didn't think you could handle it. You've steadied down a lot, son. Just keep on like you've been." He grinned again and cracked his knuckles. "Besides, you have an advantage not shared by any other mercenary commander in the galaxy."

"What's that?" Miles bit.

Tung lowered his voice still further. "You don't have to make a profit."

And that, and his sardonic grin, was as close as cagey Tung was ever likely to admit that he had long ago figured out who their real employer was. He saluted as he left.

Miles swallowed, and turned to Elli. "Well . . . call a meeting of the Intelligence department in half an hour. We'll want to get our pathfinders en route as quickly as possible. Ideally, we want to put a team inside the enemy organization before we arrive."

Miles paused, as he realized he was now looking into the face of the most wily pathfinder in his fleet for people-situations, as versus terrain-situations which called for the talents of a certain Lieutenant Christof. To send her ahead, out of reach, into danger—No, no!—was compellingly logical. Quinn's best offensive talents were largely wasted bodyguarding; it was merely an accident of history and security that threw her into that defensive job so often. Miles forced his lips to move on as if never tempted to illogic.

"They're mercenaries; some of our group ought simply to be able to join up. If we can find someone to convincingly simulate the low criminal-psychotic minds of these pirates—"