Timothy Zahn - Spinneret

And he was damned if it hadn't felt good to let it out at last.

Still … Activating the phone again, he keyed for the Secretary of State. "Josh, have you gotten anywhere yet with the Ctencri on direct trade?"

"Nowhere at all. They still insist all goods in either direction go through the UN

Secretariat. I don't know whether they're pushing for a one-world government or just generally like sticking with their first contact in a new market."

"Whichever it is, we can't let it continue," Allerton told him. "Step up the pressure. I want a trade pipeline that's free of UN control as soon as possible."

"I understand, sir. We'll do our best."

Saleh's office was also classified a silent room; but unlike that at the White House, his had played host on numerous occasions to Ctencri representatives … and Ctencri surveillance equipment was on a par with the rest of their technology.

The pulse reader went black, and First Trader Sen sat quietly for the moment it took his mind to process the information from visual short-term memory.

Unbelievable. Utterly. An unsuspected alien technology—and on Rooshrike Parkh-

3, of all unlikely places. An irony of first magnitude … but an equally great opportunity. For once the Ctencri policy of patiently taking new races by the ears and pointing them toward interstellar trade had brought in something more useful than a few paltry troid-weights of metals.

Turning to his recorder, the First Trader grunted it on and began outlining his campaign. Other races—the M'zarchs, for obvious example—would, in such a position, probably attempt to gain control of this Spinneret through threats or open violence. The Ctencri weren't incapable of such actions themselves, but experience had showed there were better ways. In this case, it would be a simple matter to inveigle for themselves the position of agent for the Humans, handling the sale and leasing of their new technology for them. Not only would the commissions bring immediate profits, but the simple act of handling all outsystem contacts would continue to keep the Humans isolated from the other races and thus increase their dependence on the Ctencri. It was an old, old technique, but surprisingly effective for all that.

So first: all Ctencri contacts and surveillance on Earth would be immediately tightened. The Humans' tangled political system was still murky enough to defy predictive analysis, and pressure might be needed at any of a hundred points on a moment's notice. Second: the home world would be notified. There was a small bit of personal hazard in that, of course— they might decide to replace him with someone else and he would thus lose the chance to see the campaign through to completion. But even if that happened, his name and financial position were still secure. The discovery and project initiation were his, and his percentage of the final profits was fixed. If he were replaced and his successor muffed it, he would be paid out of the bungler's personal holdings.

And third: potential buyers had to know the product existed. A notice, sent free to each of the other races, describing the cable and perhaps a bit about the Spinneret—curious name!— itself. Not too much of the latter, though. If the metalleeching and gravity-control aspects of the device weren't exaggerated they represented a truly awesome potential, and it would be best not to tempt any of the more violent races overmuch. The delicate political structure of the trading community was bound to shift somewhat with this discovery; the First Trader had no interest whatsoever in bringing the whole thing crashing down. Wartime trading wasn't nearly as profitable as it was often portrayed.

Dialing up a vial of semarin—not really the brain stimulator it was reputed to be, but a pleasant scent nonetheless—he took several sniffs and began composing the data release.

It was something of a truism among those who knew them that the M'zarchs never talked when they could be taking direct action instead; but even with such a base line the meeting of the High Command was abnormally short.

"No question," the Senior Commander declared. "We attack."

There were grunts of agreement around the tableless room— tableless so that none of the assembled Clan Commanders could secretly draw a weapon. "We will need to penetrate both Rooshrike and Pom territory," one of the others pointed out.

Another hissed depreciatingly. "It will not take a fleet to annex this world. A

quarter-wing could bypass Rooshrike detectors with ease."

"The Poms will not be fooled."

"Poms do not engage alien craft unless they perceive a threat to themselves," the Senior Commander said. "Our course through their territory will be open and clear of worlds and bases."

The first speaker covered his eyes briefly with the backs of his hands. "I do not object; I merely caution. The subtleties of alien minds are still new to me."

"Do not grovel," the Senior Commander admonished sharply. "Coward's Advocate carries rights as well as duties. No one may challenge you for what you say—but you must not then leave that role."

A startled expression passed over the other's face, replaced quickly by dismay, and the Senior Commander permitted himself a moment of satisfied amusement.

Coward's Advocate was always the hardest Command position to fill, but it was usually possible to trap newcomers into it in precisely the way he had just done.

By the time the new Coward's Advocate had built his clan's power to the point where he could withstand any challenges his role might retroactively bring him, there was bound to be someone else the duty could be maneuvered onto.

The moment passed, and it was back to business. "You and you," he said, gesturing to the two most powerful Clan Commanders. "One warship each.

You—" he indicated a third—"a heavy troop carrier. Each clan to provide a company/ minor. Rendezvous at Kylisz Outpost in ten days; assault launch in eleven. Question?" He looked at the new Coward's Advocate, but the latter remained silent. "Then we are dismissed."

Dr. Simon Chang had a round face, an almost equally round body, and a naturally sunny countenance that had somehow managed to survive the boring three-week trip from Earth. He didn't look much like a materials scientist—at least not to Meredith—but the way he gazed at the Gordian knot tangle of cable spoke louder than even the credentials he'd brought with him. "Magnificent!" was his first comment.

Meredith had to agree. Though much of the cable had acquired a heavy layer of dust, a six-meter length near one end had wound up in a nearly vertical position, its own weight having since bent it into a shiny quarter-circle. At the very tip were the remnants of the cords that had once connected to a reentry parachute; arrayed along the length were various clamps and sensors, all held solidly in place by the cable's own glue. "I hope you and your people can hold on to that enthusiasm," he told Chang. "The cable is proving a very tough nut to crack."

"I don't doubt it." Chang tore his eyes away long enough to glance around the warehouse-sized shelter that had been erected around the landing site. "But we've brought a good deal of specialized equipment with us. What have you learned so far?"

Meredith beckoned to a harried-looking officer. "Captain Witzany, Corps of Engineers," the colonel introduced him. "His people are the closest thing to materials specialists we have. Captain, tell Dr. Chang what you've got."

"Very little, I'm afraid." Witzany gestured to something that looked like a giant vise. "We know now that its tensile strength beats that of a graphite-epoxy bar by at least a factor of three, but that was the limit of our jury-rig. The glue—or whatever— doesn't seem to bond appreciably to liquids or gasses, but it really does extend a few centimeters into any solid material that contacts it."