“Probably not,” he conceded finally. “But I don’t like this, Elaine. Not a bit.”

“I don’t like it very much myself; I just like the alternatives less.”

“Even if it works, it’s only a temporary fix,” he pointed out fretfully.

“As I see it, those poll trend lines you were just talking about suggest that if we can string Pritchart along for a few more months, long enough to actually push the Lynx annexation through, maybe even move beyond Lynx to the rest of the cluster, we should manage to cement enough public support behind us for even Marisa to be able to weather any concern over how we’re handling negotiations with Haven. In the meantime, Edward will have time to get more of his new SD(P)s and CLACs out of the yards, which will go a long way towards offsetting Theisman’s new ships. If we pull both of those off, then I think we may actually be able to move the polls far enough in our favor that we can afford to risk that damned election at last. And if we can get to that point, then we can go ahead and negotiate Pritchart’s damned treaty because we won’t need to string the talks out any further. And if we manage that, we could probably even call another election and increase our seats in the Commons even further.”

“There’s a lot of ‘if’s’ in that,” the Prime Minister observed.

“Of course there are. We’re in a hell of a mess right now. There’s no point pretending we’re not. From where I sit, this gives us our best chance of getting out of it. So either we take it, or else we go ahead and resign the game. And when you come right down to it, whether we show Marisa the complete note now—and risk her withdrawal from the Coalition—or hold off on it until Pritchart sends us another, even nastier one a few months from now, the consequences are pretty much the same, aren’t they? We win, or we lose… and I’m not all that interested in losing. So let’s go for the whole nine meters.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“IT’S good to see you, Arnold,” Eloise Pritchart lied as a member of the Presidential Security Detachment escorted Secretary of State Giancola into her office.

“Thank you, Madame President. It’s always good to see you, too,” Giancola replied equally smoothly for the benefit of the bodyguard. Not that anyone Kevin Usher had handpicked to protect the President of the Republic was going to be fooled by the surface exchange of pleasantries. Still, there were appearances to maintain.

The Secretary of State seated himself in the same chair Thomas Theisman preferred for his visits to Pritchart’s office, and the PSD man withdrew.

“Would you care for some refreshments?” Pritchart inquired.

“No, thank you.” Giancola grimaced. “I’m going straight from here to a dinner for the Ambassador from Erewhon. I’m afraid that means I’m going to have to tuck into that disgusting pickled fish dish they’re all so proud of and pretend I like it. I’d just as soon not put anything down there that might surprise me by coming back up.”