The Game Of Empire by Poul Anderson. Chapter 1, 2

“Aren’t you glad it did?” Ronan asked dryly. “I daresay harsh things have been done to high-ranking people, back in the Roidhunate. It doesn’t publicize its failures.”

“Sir, this was a failure too grotesque. An experienced, senior officer admitted as much to me. His rage came nigh to making him vomit.” Targovi paused. “And yet, captain, and yet … our fleet could have pursued the advantage gained further than it did. It could have inflicted far worse damage. Instead, it was content to let the bulk of the enemy armada retreat.”

Ronan flushed. “Who are you to talk strategy? What do you know that Admiral Magnusson did not? Has it occurred to you that his first duty was not to risk our forces, but to save them?”

“Captain, I simply suggest—”

“You have said quite enough,” Ronan bit off. “Do you care to submit a detailed report? No, don’t answer that. It would be worthless. Or worse than worthless, in the present explosive situation.” His image stiffened. “Agent Targovi, you will drop this line of inquiry. That is an order. Return to Imhotep. Do not, repeat not attempt any additional amateurish investigation of matters which do not concern you. If we should have an assignment for you later, you will be informed.”

The Tigery was quiet for a space.

“May I ask why the captain is displeased?” he ventured.

“No. Official secrets.”

“Aye, sir. If I have transgressed, I am … sorry.”

Ronan relented a trifle. “I’ll accept that you didn’t know any better.”

“Very good, sir. But—Well, about my Moonjumper, sir. Of course, everybody thinks I bought her, and my piloting instruction, out of my gains from storming a pirate stronghold on Imhotep. I can return now, with half my cargo unsold, claiming a family crisis. But would it not arouse wonder, should I fail to come back soon to Daedalus?”

“Are you that well known?” The man considered. “As you will. You do have a living to make.” Part-time clandestines received a pittance for their efforts, though retirement benefits, when they could plausibly claim to be living off their savings, were fairly good. “But watch your actions. If you step over the bounds, you’re dead.”

“Understood, sir. Aught else? No, sir? Out.” Targovi switched off.

By himself, he sank into thought. Rather, he went racing away on a dozen different trails of thought, the hunter’s thrill along his nerves. Certain suspicions were strengthening.

He needed help, and was unsure where to seek it. Well, since he must go home anyway, he could begin there. If he probed deeper, he might die. Quite possibly. But if not—if he did a deed that they would notice on Terra itself—

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