said Georgina Dyer, Admiral Clay’s personal secretary, looking up from her desk. “Any news today?” barked a gruff voice with the barest hint of a Zarathustran accent. “All’s quiet on the frontier,” she replied, “and the day’s reports are waiting for you at your desk. The ship rotations were posted at Zero Hour on all command boards, as you ordered, and I printed a copy for your review. And the new starships are finally on their way. Admiral Weatherlee says they’ll arrive in eight or ten days at the latest. “Oh, and Admiral Pendleton wants to talk to you when you get the chance, about some proposed new Central Command directive. Apparently they want all ships to transmit their weekly reports to their home base instead of flagging their position and heading, and filing the rest when they dock, like they all do now. He’d like your opinion.” The admiral grunted an acknowledgment of sorts, but said nothing beyond the usual. “Thank you, Mrs. Dyer. I’ll be in my office.”
