We returned to the office hot, sweaty and tired.  The streets were still seething, and we had to fight our way through.  Tipton was fast on the draw with a couple of vodkas and gins, and within four minutes of our arrival I was sitting back over a drink in which the ice clinked pleasantly.  I washed the dust out of my mouth and watched the bubbles rise.

"Well, they got away all right," Tipton said after his own fast swallow.  "They should be completely clear by nightfall."

I took another mouthful and let it fizz before swallowing. "Just as well you brought up the business of the statue," I said.  "Otherwise Starduster would never have gotten into the Square."

He laughed. "Oh! I forgot all about that in the excitement."

"Checnecaiel damn near removed Boagırlsıkrınn Square.  He blew the goddamn thing up at midnight.  He may have broken every window in the hotel:  I woke up picking bits of plate glass out of my bed.  I don't know who his explosives experts are, but I reckon they used a mite too much dynamite.  You said it wouldn't be too subtle a hint---well, it was about as subtle as a kick in the sweets."

Tipton replenished our glasses.  "What's next on the program?"

"I'm going back to London on the first possible flight.  See to it, will you?  And keep my hotel room on for me---I'm coming back."

"Why?  Do you see any problems?"

I said flatly, "If you haven't seen them already, then you're not doing your job."  The chill in my voice got through to him and he visibly remembered that I was the troubleshooter.  I went on, "I want to see your contingency plans for pulling out in case the shit hits the fan."

He winced, and I could clearly interpret the expressions that chased all over his face.  I wasn't at all the cheery, easy-to-get-along-with guy he had first thought:  I was just another ill-bred, rude American, after all, and he was both hurt and shocked.  Well, I wasn't there to cater to his finer sensibilities, but to administer shock treatment where needed.

I put a snap in my voice. "Well, have you got any?"

He said tautly, "It's not my policy to go into a job thinking I might have to pull out.  That's defeatism."

"Brian, you're a friggin' asshole.  The word I used was 'contingency.'  Your job is to have plans ready for any eventuality, come what may.  Didn't they teach you that from the start?"

I stood up.  "When I get back, I want to see those plans laid out, covering a fast evacuation of all personnel and as much equipment as possible. It may never happen, but the plans have to be there.  Get some guidance from Simon McGiston in the Russian offices.  He's had the experience. Do I make myself clear?"

"You do," he said, clipped and defensive, hating my guts.

I finished my drink. "Thanks for the life-saver.  Send the air tickets to the hotel and expect me when you see me.  And keep your ears open, Brian."

He couldn't quite bring himself to ask me what he was supposed to listen for, and I wasn't ready yet to tell him.  I left him a sadder but wiser man.

I got back to London, spent a night in my own apartment, which God knows saw little enough of me, and was in to see Beauregard the next morning.  It was as if time had stood still; he sat behind his desk, wearing the same suit, and the same rain pattered against the windows.  Even the conversation was predictable.  "You're looking very tan," he said.  "Good weather out there?"

"No, I've bought a new suntan lamp.  You should try it some time.  How's your prickly feeling?"

"It's still there. I hope you've brought some embrocation."

"I haven't." I crossed the room, opened the discreet executive bar and poured out a neat Scotch.

"You've picked up some bad habits," Beaumont said. "Early morning drinking wasn't your style."

"It's almost noon, and it's not for me, it's for you---you'll need it.  But since you invited me, I'll join you." I poured another, took the drinks to the desk and sat down.

Beauregard looked from the glass to me.  "Bad news?"

"Not good. At the same time, not certain.  It's one of those iffy situations.  I've looked over the Mochi-Jojeji operation, and there's nothing wrong with our end of it.  It's running like a well-oiled machine, and I'm mildly impressed by Herolutions, with reservations.  But I put my ear to the ground, talked some and listened more, and I didn't like what I was hearing.  Do you want to see it now or should I save it for a board meeting?"

"I'll take it now, please.  I like to be ahead of any committee."

'OK. Some months after Yarhaienesaiel and the end of the border war, there's been martial law and Madza Bururaiel used to be top dog. He's pulled out now and Zarmaria is, at this time, governed by a parliament calling itself, rather grandly, the People's Agrarian Committee.  Shamajar never changed governments; that country is still controlled by Addi Ugurnaszirev and his prosaically named Nationalist Peoples' Party.  Zarmaria's Agrarians are trying to reform everything in sight, but in a rather middle-of-the-road fashion; they're not particularly revolutionary in their thinking."

I sipped some whisky. "Because of the cease-fire, quite a lot of investment money is coming in, and with the new roadways linking the two countries, there's still more coming.  Zarmaria and Shamjar are in competition to see who will industrialize first.  As of this year, they've become self-financing and there's a lot of picking to be had.  And that's what bothering me---had by whom and in which country?"

"We know a lot of pockets have been lined, Sam.  That's not uncommon.  Dammit, we've done it ourselves."

"As common as the flu.  But I think too much of it has gone into the wrong pockets---or wrong from one point of view anyway."

"And whose point of view would that be?"

"President Addi Ugurnaszirev of Shamajar would be my guess."

Beauregard pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully.  "Now, why him, Sam?"

"From what I've been able to gather, Ugnurnaszirev has been having trouble keeping his country's army in line.  When Mochi-Jojeji was awarded to Zarmaria, there were grumblings from some of his officers.  A few senior types believe the war should have continued; they wanted the taste of victory and the UN denied it to them.  But the war's over and there's really no victory or loot to divide.  Industrialization is happening in Shamajar but very slowly, since they don't have full control of the new highways.   Their Zarmarian adversaries are creaming it off at the top and licking their chops.  What they're saying now is that the ethnic Shamaris living in Mochi-Jojeji might be 'exterminated,' but I think that's just propaganda for the masses."'

"What we lovingly call 'ethnic cleansing' these days. Yes, it sounds plausible. Who's the main troublemaker in Shamajar?"

"A Colonel Ansomavi is at the bottom of it, the word says.  He hasn't put a foot wrong, his popularity with the younger officers is increasing, and he's beating the war drums hard and loud.  If Ugnurnaszirev lets him, he'll go right out on a limb and tear up the cease-fire."

"With what results?"

"Probably a new border war with Zarmaria."

"Dear God," said Beauregard.  "And the timetable?  The likelihood?"

"That's hard to guess, naturally.  It depends partly on their air force."

Beauregard nodded tiredly.  "The usual bullshit. The Shamaris are playing both sides against the middle, I suppose?"

"Right now, the Shamari army is split in two: half for Ugnurnaszirev and the cease-fire, half for Ansomavi and the renewed border violence.  Word is that they're level pegging with Ansomavi making points and Ugnurnaszirev losing them.  They don't have a navy, being a landlocked country; one less thing to worry about, I guess.  But the Shamari air force is different.  If, God forbid, the war starts up again, then the side that's got the most air power is going to win."

"The dogs!"

"More like 'the gamblers'.  The Shamaris' Minister of the Air Force is a human weasel called Couombelrai and he's playing it cool, letting each side of the army up the ante alternately.  The Shamjari government is also bidding for support in all this, naturally tending to Ugnurnaszirev's angle but I wouldn't be surprised if they jumped whichever way would get them into the cream pot."

"It seems to come down to Couombelrai, the way you see it.  When he makes his mind up you expect a split down one way or the other."

"There are other factors, of course.  Student unrest is on the increase.  The Neo-Soviets are looking for a chance to put their oars in; and remember that Shamajar, Starduster's destination, is largely Moslem and tends to look towards Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan and Iran for support and example.  Oh yes, and when all else fails there's always an appeal to a totalitarian giant, China, most likely, for munitions and logistical support.  Zarmaria would be the one most likely to do that, I would think."

Beauregard picked up his glass and seemed shocked to find out that he'd already drained it.  "All right, Sam. When do you think it will blow wide open?"

"The rains will come in nearly two months if they're on time which they might not be.  They've been erratic the last few years. But if they do come, they'll effectively put a damper on any military conflict."  Beauregard smiled mirthlessly at my unintended pun.

"Anyway, no Shamjari army commander will take that risk.  I'd say that if it happens, it will be within the month or not for another six months."

"And if you were a betting man?"

I tapped the table with my forefinger.  "Now."

"And us with a three-year contract," mused Beauregard wryly.  "What the hell do I pay Crumbly and his so-called department for?  He should know about all this!"

"How could he when he can't be bothered to go and find out?  I'd kick him out on his ass if I were you."

"That is not how we do things," said Beauregard stiffly.

I grinned.  No, Beauregard would shaft Crumbly in the well-bred British style.  There'd be a report in the Financial Times that Mr. Crumbly was going from strength to strength in the ranks of British Aerospace and his picture would smile toothily from the page.  But from then on, he'd be the walking wounded, with his desk getting emptier and his phone more silent, and eventually he'd get the message and quit to grow roses.  And wonder what the hell had hit him.  A stiletto under the 3rd rib would be more merciful.

"But Tipton should have known," Beauregard was saying.  "He should have told us."

Although I'd put the fear of God into Brian Tipton myself, I didn't think he should share Crumbly's imagined fate---he had much to learn but a great deal of company potential and I wanted him kept on the job. So I let him down easy.

"He tried, back in that boardroom, but Dunn shouted him down.  He's a good man and learning fast.  Problem is that he works too hard."

"Is such a thing truly possible for him?" Beauregard was acidly polite.

"It surely is.  He should take out more time for his social life.  He should get around more, do some drinking: drinking and listening.  How the hell do you think I got all the dope I've just given you?  I got it by damn near contracting cirrhosis of the liver drinking with a lot of boozy old Communist types who know more about makes Zarmaria tick than the President himself.  They're disillusions, those men. Some have lived in Zarmaria all their lives, but they know they'll always be on the outside because they still think they're 'Soviets.'  They're there by grace and favor now, discounted by the country's new masters, but they look and listen. And they know. "

That's the precis of a Somerset Maugham story," said Beauregard sardonically.  "Does Tipton know all this?  Has he got the picture now?"

I shook my head.  "I thought I'd have a word with you first.  Meantime I wouldn't be too surprised if he doesn't put some of it together for himself, while I'm away.  I jumped on him a bit to frighten him, but I don't think he's the man to panic."

Beauregard pondered this and clearly approved.  Presently he said, "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Ecnacshaiel's used half the army to help Starduster along her first journey.  I'll tell you more about that later; it's off to a good start.  I believe he's moved an infantry brigade 15 miles south of Sutovo, Shamajar."

"Does he fear saboteurs?"

"Both countries seem to be leaning heavily on our operation for propagation purposes, as you'll note in my full report.  There was the damnedest celebration you ever did see when the Starduster departed Dunin.  If it should not get to Sutovo, or if anything happens to the rig once it crosses the border, the Zarmarian government would be discredited after all the hoopla they've made.  That's what would make it a prime target in a renewed border war with Shamajar."

"Christ!" Beauregard was fully alert for the first time.  "Have you told Giles about all this."

"Nope.  The guy's under a helluva lot of strain already.  I had a feeling that if any more piled up on him he might go to pieces.  The man to tell, the man who can take it, I think, is Andy Hale."

"He'll be down here tomorrow, to hear your report to the board, Sam.  Then he's flying out to Mochi-Jojeji."

"Good. I want time with him. In fact, I'd like to fix it so that we can go out together.  Why the hell did you pick a closet military contractor in the first place?"211Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO7q5v276NW

Beauregard said, "They could do very well.  Andy has a good head on his shoulders, and a first-rate team.  And their figures tally: they've cut it to the bone, admittedly, but there's still a lot in it for them.  They're trying to build a similar vehicle to Starduster, did you know that?"

"The Moonraker.  I met the guy who's drawing up the plans.  He sems fast enough on the ball, but what happens if something goes wrong with Starduster itself?  Collapse of the operation, for God's sake."

"He and Giles and Hale have been pushing big loads and handling sophisticated technology all their lives.  They won't let us down, have no worries."

He thought for a moment, then said, "I'll arrange things so that you go back out with Hale, certainly.  In fact, I'll give both of you the company jet. It's at Sutton Hoo right now, and you can get away tomorrow, after the briefing."

It was the speed of his arrangements that made me realize that the prickle at the back of his mind had turned into a case of raging hives.