Yet what option did he have? Unless … ?

He forced his jaws to relax and straightened his shoulders. If he warned ONI and the operation was canceled, he was ruined. If he didn’t warn them and the operation was launched on schedule but failed, he’d still be ruined for not having warned them. But if the operation succeeded, he could survive. His family was owed enough debts by other Legislaturists. They could carry it off, possibly even applaud him for his iron nerve and resolve in driving the op to success despite his handicaps…

It was only one chance in three, but a thirty-three percent chance was infinitely more than zero, and it was the only one that offered him survival.

“All right, Colonel,” he said coldly. “Here’s what you’re going to do. First, get in touch with your NPA contacts. If Harrington doesn’t find that tap on Matsuko’s power collector on her own, you make damned sure someone points her at it. More than that, I want a watch kept on their deployments. If they start forting up in the enclaves or any of Harrington’s Marines get deployed planet-side, I want to know. Then get your ass out to the main site. I don’t care how you do it, but you sit on the Shaman for three more weeks. Three weeks, Colonel! If Young isn’t back by then, then we’ll kick the operation off without him. Understood?”

Westerfeldt cocked his head, his eyes narrow and speculative, and Canning met them with a flat glare. He could almost hear gears turning in the colonel’s head, feel the other man following his own chain of logic. And then Westerfeldt gave a slow nod as the totals came together for him, as well. If Canning survived, he survived; if Canning went down, he went down with his superior.

“Yes, Sir,” the colonel said flatly. “I understand. I understand entirely, Mr. Canning.”

He jerked another, sharper nod at the consul, and vanished through the office door.

“Your ticket, Sir.” The Silesian trade factor handed over the small chip with a smile. His freight-line employers offered limited passenger accommodations aboard their bulk carriers, but this was the very first passage the factor had ever booked from Medusa.

“Thank you,” the man who didn’t look a thing like (and who had the papers to prove he wasn’t) Denver Summervale said courteously. He slipped the chip into a pocket, rose with a coolly pleasant nod, and left the office.

He stood outside it for a moment, gazing across at the Haven Consulate, and a smile touched his mouth. The pieces had started coming together for him the moment one of his local contacts arrived at his hiding place to report seeing “the boss” dash out of the Havenite enclave and head for the Outback. That had been all he’d had to know to realize he and the lab personnel had been set up by their real employers—and why.

He’d been tempted to do a little something about that, but cooler counsel had prevailed. After all, he was away free and clear largely because he’d set up the aircar pilot to play button man. More than that, it was possible, even probable, that whatever Haven was up to would be even more upsetting to the NPA and the Navy than the drug lab itself had been. If “the boss” pulled it off after all, that would be enough to earn Summervale’s grudging forgiveness. If he blew it, then the very people Summervale despised would punish him for his treachery.