"I marked time the second I came through the outside hatch," Hawkes had answered.
"Ah-ha. And who, exactly," asked the captain, taking a backward step, "would be paying any fines we might incur?"
"A diplomatic ship has no speed restrictions."
"Oh, then," answered the captain, turning to the nearest hand link to her bridge, "you won't mind if we skip a few of the usual formalities?"
Hawkes shook his head and smiled as widely as the captain. Eight and three quarters of an hour later, they were in lunar orbit. The captain was a thousand units richer and Hawkes was off demanding passage on the next ship to Mars. That ship turned out to be the Bulldog. It was a former warship, bought from the military when the newer Galvan engines had made everything else obsolete.
The Galvans could not go appreciably faster than the old ships, but they could turn a vessel much more quickly. The combat application of the new engines was readily apparent to all involved. Old navy vessels practically flooded the spaceway marketplaces several years after the Galvans' introduction.
The Bulldog had been converted into a merchanteer, one that moved both freight and passengers. Four other similar ships were berthed at the Moon at the same time, but the Bulldog was the first one slated to leave, and thus the only one Hawkes had been interested in. A series of additional, well-placed bribes got the 120,000-ton liner moving a half day early.
And now, Hawkes thought, sitting back in his cabin's only chair during the breakaway from the moon, all there's left to do is wait.
A knock on his door brought him a surprise. It was a lighter rapping than he would have expected from the captain or any of his crew. Deferential. Curious, he called for the unseen knocker to enter. She did.
"Ambassador. . . I almost didn't make it."
"What a shame," answered Hawkes. The young woman was tall, shapely, and unknown to him. She had dark hair cut short and eyes a shade of green that normally would have made him think the word delightful. Staring at the woman then, however, the only words that came to his mind were, "Why would I care?"
"I'm Dina Martel," she told him, a trifle flustered by his question. When he did not respond, she continued on in a questioning voice. "The corps sent me . . . I'm your aide for this mission."
Hawkes's eyes flashed for a split second. It was a slip— a break in his usual self-control—one she noticed. His mask back in place, he told her pleasantly, "I wasn't aware I needed an aide on this trip."
"Sir. . .?"
"What about Daniel Stine?" he asked, curious to hear her answer, to see what she knew and what she did not. Or at least, what she would admit to knowing. "He's my assigned right arm these days. Why would you be sent to replace him?"
Martel's reaction was confusion. Somewhat flustered, she told Hawkes, "Sir, I was informed Mr. Stine was dead."
"Hmmm, indeed. Well, news does travel fast in this modern age. So, whose idea was it to replace him so quickly?"
"I don't know, sir—not exactly. Someone in the State Department, I would imagine."
"Oh, right," he said with a cold smile. "Who else?"
Hawkes had then dismissed the woman to go and find her quarters, telling her he would bring her up to speed later. That had been three days earlier. Since that time he had not brought her anywhere. After their first meeting, the ambassador had managed to avoid her at every turn.
Oh, he's polite about it, Martel thought, far too polite. I'm being kept at arm's length, and if it keeps up I'm going to get damn tired of it.
It did indeed "keep up." On the third day, Dina Martel had had enough.
"Come in," said Hawkes to whoever was banging on his stateroom door. As he saw the young woman enter, he said, "Why, hello. How are you enjoying the cruise?"
"I'm not, Ambassador. It's got me going in too many circles."
"I believe this ship is on an elliptical approach, Martel. Curved a bit, but no circles."
"There's something that has me going around in circles on this ship," she countered. "You wouldn't have any guesses as to what that might be, would you . . . sir?"
"None I'd care to offer," he told her. "No."
The young woman stood still for a second, pulling her strength together, rejecting her anger. When the moment had passed, she stepped into Hawkes's stateroom and asked, "Then could you please tell me what the problem is?"
"Problem, Martel? What problem?"
"The problem with me," she explained. "The reason you don't want to use me."
"I don't have any need of you. I wasn't expecting an aide on this trip—didn't plan on having someone underfoot. I've already taken care of everything. But if something comes up—if I need a battery recharged, a few files analyzed, or something—I'll call you right away. I promise."
Martel did not move. Hawkes watched her. He had reviewed her credentials. She had been with the corps for eight years. Had a clean, somewhat distinguished if uneventful record. Her schooling put her in the top of her class. She had brains to match her looks.
Stine had been handsome, too, he remembered.
Going cold inside, Hawkes remembered Daniel Stine's record. It glowed compared to hers. More years of service, better achievements—tops at everything. And someone had gotten to him, paid him, bribed him, scared him . . . did something to him or for him that had made him plant bombs, sabotage equipment, and lead murderers into Hawkes's home.
The ambassador's eyes locked onto the woman in his doorway. Barely able to keep his jaw from shaking, he said, "You want a job, you want something to do to pass time on the voyage, I'll give you a job. You tell me what's going on—who's doing what to get what. Find the names and dates and proofs I need to nail people to the wall."
"Which people, sir?"
"Which
