Dombroski’s official title on the Junction Astro Control Service’s organizational chart was “Senior Officer, Traffic Management Division.” That made him responsible for imposing order upon thousands of Junction transits, and his usual, unflappable composure had begun to fray. Grimm wasn’t even tempted to hold that against him given how hectic his task had become. First there’d been the torrent of recalled merchantmen. Then, as Lacoön Two hit its stride, there’d been the scores of Solarian-registry vessels—most with indescribably irate skippers—who’d suddenly discovered they were going to have to make it home the long way. And as if that hadn’t been enough, there’d been the need to accommodate the movement of all the warships and mobile repair platforms the Navy was juggling in the Yawata Strike’s wake.

No, it was no wonder Dombroski looked a little stressed these days.

She frowned, trying to parse the message’s officialese. On the face of it, it was simple enough, but there’d just about been time for news of Eloise Pritchart’s presence on Manticore—and of the bombshell she’d brought with her—to get back through the Junction to the people who’d sent it.

And that suggests it’s anything but ‘simple,’ she thought.

“All right, Chris,” she said finally, “I’ll see Mount Royal’s informed. At least they gave us a couple of hours’ warning before they jumped the queue.” She shrugged philosophically. “I know it’ll complicate things, but it shouldn’t make too many waves.”

“Ma’am, they’re supposed to tell us about this kind of thing a hell of a lot further ahead of time.” There was a lot of irritation in Dombroski’s voice. “They know that, and I doubt it just slipped their minds.”

“I’m aware of that, Chris,” Grimm said patiently, reminding herself of the strain under which he’d labored of late. “There’s no legal requirement for them to warn us, though, whatever the customary procedures may be.”

She gave him a pointed look. If he wanted some official protest, he wasn’t going to get one, however much she sympathized. She held his eyes until she was sure he’d gotten the message. Then she shrugged again.

“I admit it’s a violation of good manners,” she told him a bit wryly, “but we have to assume they have their reasons. And even if they don’t, Beowulf does happen to be a sovereign star nation.”

* * *