“You can say that again,” Henke agreed somberly, and cocked her head. “Do you think Pritchart and Theisman understand what’s happening any better than I did?”

“I certainly hope so,” Honor said dryly.

Chapter Two

“WHAT the hell do they think they’re doing?” Eloise Pritchart half snarled.

The President of the Republic of Haven picked up a chip folio and shook it violently in the direction of Admiral Thomas Theisman as he stepped into her private office. Her expression was so stormy that the Republic’s Secretary of War raised an eyebrow in surprise. The platinum-haired, topaz-eyed President was perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever personally met. In fact, she was one of those rare human beings on whom even an expression of fury looked good. But others rarely saw her wearing one, because one of her greatest virtues was her ability to remain cool and collected even in the face of the most severe pressure. That virtue had been fundamental to her survival under Oscar Saint-Just’s State Security and its reign of terror. It was not much in evidence at the moment, however.

“What’s who up to?” he asked mildly, settling into one of the comfortable chairs angled to face her desk while simultaneously providing her visitors with a breathtaking panorama of downtown Nouveau Paris. The work crews were almost finished rebuilding the towers Saint-Just had destroyed when he detonated the nuclear bomb under the Octagon, and Theisman’s eyes moved automatically to the gleaming edifice of the New Octagon which had replaced it.

“The damned Manties, that’s who!” Pritchart shot back with an undisguised venom that snapped his full attention back to her, and tossed the folio onto the desk. When she put it down, Theisman saw the ID flashes which marked it as an official State Department briefing paper, and he grimaced.

“I take it they haven’t responded appropriately to our latest proposals,” he observed in that same mild tone.

“They haven’t responded to them at all! It’s as if we never even presented the position papers.”

“It’s not like they haven’t been dragging their heels for years now, Eloise,” Theisman pointed out. “And let’s be honest—until recently, we were just as happy they were.”

“I know. I know.”

Pritchart leaned back in her own chair, drew a deep breath, and waved a hand in a small apologetic gesture. It wasn’t an apology for her anger at the Manticorans, only for the way she’d allowed it to show. If anyone in the galaxy had earned the right not to have her snarling at him, it was Thomas Theisman. He and Denis LePic, the People’s Commissioner the SS had assigned as his political watchdog, were the ones who’d managed to overthrow the ruthless dictatorship Saint-Just had established as the sole surviving member of the Committee of Public Safety. Saint-Just hadn’t survived his removal from office, and Pritchart had no doubt that the rumors about how he’d come to be “killed in the fighting” were accurate. And if those rumors were true—if Theisman had shot him out of hand—then thank God for it. The last thing the People’s Republic of Haven had needed was yet another agonizing show trial, followed by the inevitable, highly public purges of the deposed leader’s supporters pour encourager les autres.