Grace said, for the twentieth time.“You can’t go,” MacRobert said. “You’re the Rector; you’re not in the military, and you have a half-grown arm.” He had said that before, with the usual effect people had when trying to talk Grace Vatta out of what she wanted to do: none. This time he went on. “And you could very well get Ky killed.”She scowled at him. “How?”“No one is going to ignore what the Rector of Defense says. But you have no more experience fighting a space battle than I have making fruitcakes. I know you—you can no more stay in your cabin and keep your mouth shut than you could knock me out with your short arm—”“I could try.”“Grace. Listen this time. I’m not playing protect-the-sweet-old-lady. I’m not treating you like a child or a fragile flower of womanhood. I am treating you the way I would treat any fellow professional who wanted to be part of a mission. You are not qualified. You are not capable. You need to stay here and be sure we get the support the fleet needs—and incidentally ensure that any more of Turek’s agents hiding out are found and eliminated.
