40

“You are most gracious,” Baedeker sang, leaning forward to lift the Hindmost to his hooves. “The herd has chosen you. I seek only to help.”

Throughout his long exile on the Ringworld, Baedeker had dreamt of resuming his office. So, anyway, he had believed. What he truly wanted was to save the herd, and that could only be accomplished in secrecy. Neither Ol’t’ro nor Achilles could find out that he had survived …

At Baedeker’s gentle urging, Horatius straightened. “You shall have my support, of course. How may I serve?”

“Thank you,” Baedeker sang. “We will need a staging area. It must be someplace secure and secret, someplace with stepping-disc access.”

Nessus sidled closer. “Here in your official residence, buffered by your loyal staff, would be ideal. We can bring conventional stepping discs from the Refuge to tap into the surface network.”

Horatius sang, simply, “Granted.”

Baedeker’s own “loyal” staff had proven more than once to be agents of Achilles. Vesta’s long-ago betrayal still stung.

Perhaps Horatius was a better judge of character. They had to trust someone.

“… I’ll need crypto keys at the highest levels of classification and regular updates,” Nessus was singing. “I’ll also require help from someone trustworthy and discreet inside Clandestine Directorate, to set up false identities. I can suggest names in the Directorate from my scouting days.”

Horatius gave Baedeker a questioning look.

“Nessus acts with my full confidence and authority,” Baedeker sang. Because whatever Nessus has learned of subterfuge from Sigmund Ausfaller is as essential to our hopes for survival and freedom as are my technological skills.

Horatius bobbed heads. “It shall be as you say.”

From beyond the closed door: an insistent trill. “Hindmost?” the voice sang, with undertunes of both urgency and apology.

Horatius gestured toward the door. “Argus, my chief advisor. He would not disturb me this late in the sleep shift unless the matter was important. I trust him completely.”

Argus, but evidently not the lesser aides apt to accompany him.

Baedeker sang softly, “Nessus and I will wait in the pantry.”

“You will wait in my personal suite,” Horatius insisted. “You know the way.”

*   *   *

THE PREPARATIONS HAD BEEN MADE: codes obtained; false identities created; difficult-to-trace credits deposited; locations selected for, as needed, secret meetings.

“It is time,” Nessus sang.

Nessus had styled his customarily unadorned mane in elegant braids set with a scattering of modest, apolitically hued gems. Pockets bulged in his unornamented utility belt. Blue contact lenses hid his otherwise very distinctive mismatched eyes. All in all, Baedeker thought, it was a simple but effective disguise.

He gave their host a sidelong glance.

Horatius took the hint. He cantered off, leaving Baedeker and Nessus alone in a guest suite of the Hindmost’s Residence.

Baedeker found himself without a tune. Nessus, too, apparently. They stood pressed flank to flank, their necks entwined. Why sing when they planned to meet again soon?

Baedeker ached with the deeper reason behind their silence. The last time they parted, he had promised to return soon—and they had been lost to each other for long years.

Had he returned from the Ringworld with the knowledge to free the herd? He had to believe their sacrifices had not been for naught. Not after seeing the insanity of the Fringe War almost destroy the Ringworld.

Not when each moment brought the same alien war fleets closer to Hearth and herd.

Perhaps Tunesmith had saved the Ringworlders. Probably he had. Louis-as-protector had been convinced that Tunesmith had.

Now, as never before, it was the herd that needed guardians. Instead of a protector the herd had two insane Citizens.

“I love you,” Baedeker finally sang.

“I love you,” Nessus sang back. With reluctance plain in his eyes, he edged toward the stepping disc that would take him away.

There was nothing more to sing. Nothing except, “Be safe.”

With a quick heads-bob in reply, Nessus was gone.