Ballerina skillfully guided her tiny needle into the Clave’s hangar bay. After the doors closed, she found an empty berth and popped open the hatch. She eased her small body out of the cockpit and looked around.

No one had come to greet her. That was unusual. There were always at least three or four of her good friends at the Clave, and they knew she was coming up today.

Maybe Tomahawk’s planning another of his famous practical jokes, she thought. Or maybe Lilac’s got another impromptu orgy going. Well.

Ballerina walked down the passageway that ran behind the berths and heard voices up ahead. She looked into one of the larger berths as she came to it, and the mystery of everyone’s whereabouts was solved – but in a way which only led to more questions.

Nearly a score of Clavists were all talking at once, clustered around a very ancient-looking needle. The craft looked large and ungainly, with an engine pod so big it looked like it should be sitting on a warpyacht. Half a century ago, it had maybe been on the cutting edge of needle technology, but to Ballerina it looked like something out of an archeological dig.

Tomahawk detached himself from the rest of the crowd and came over to stand by her. “What’s the antique doing here?” Ballerina asked.

Tomahawk grinned. “She’s called Artemis. In good shape, isn’t she? And her pilot’s not bad, either, for being the oldest Clavist I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean -- “ she pointed at the ship, “ -- Artemis is here?”

“In the very flesh.”

Shock! The Clave had, of course, been keeping careful records of its denizens and their achievements, back to the earliest days of its inception perhaps a century before. Many of the old racers had become almost mythical figures to the later Clavists.... Kamikaze, for instance, was the most recent example. No one quite believed all the stories about him, even now after only a few years.

But never before had anyone returned to the Clave after being away for so long and having apparently settled down into more respectable pursuits. After almost five decades! Artemis!

“I’ve gotta meet this person,” Ballerina said.

“Shouldn’t be tough.” Tomahawk answered. “She was asking for you.”

“For me?”

“Damned if I know, either. Maybe she wants some of her old records back.”

“Not too bloody likely. A relic like that couldn’t break three-quarters C if you got out and pushed, and the Ballerina’s not failed me yet.”

“Go brag to Artemis,” Tomahawk answered, and sent her off to one of the suites where Artemis had said she’d be waiting.

There was still a lot to do, of course. The Admiral was not wasting the tine she spent waiting -- she was taking notes, making lists of things still to get done once she returned to Chryse. And carefully planning her presentation at the first full crew meeting -- which, she hoped, would happen within a few hours.

She looked up as the door opened and Christy came in. Panic flashed across the girl’s face, and she looked as if she was about to bolt from the room.

“Hello, Ballerina,” the Admiral said.

“Mother! What in the hell are you doing here?” Migod, she thought, if Fleet knows where the Clave is -- wait a minute, she used my racing name --

“I want to talk to you,” Rhonda said.

“Don’t have time, now,” Christy answered, edging toward the door. “I’m supposed to meet someone -- ”

“Yes. Me. Have a seat.” She held out her hand. “My name is Artemis.”

Christy’s mouth fell open.

The Admiral smiled. “I know what you were thinking. No, I’m not leading a raid on the Clave. As a former Clavist, that would be like committing patricide and high treason.”

“Mother, you never told me!”

“You never told me, either. But when you got your job at the San Fran shipyards, I figured you had to be getting engineering experience somewhere. It certainly wasn’t from college.”

“But how did you find out?”

“Admirals know everything, dear.”

Christy sank weakly into a chair. Then she glared at her mother suspiciously. “You didn’t come here to bug me about going back to school, did you?”

“Certainly not.” Rhonda pretended to be offended. “Do Tomahawk or Lilac treat you that way? I’m a Clavist, remember.”

“Tomahawk and Lilac don’t give me heart attacks, either.”

“I couldn’t get hold of you any other way.”

“You could’ve left a message at San Fran.”

“This was urgent.”

“Where do you hide that relic of yours?

“My needle? If I told you, it wouldn’t stay hidden, would it?”

“I know how to keep a secret, Mother.”

“Artemis.”

“What?”

“If I ever build myself another needle and make a comeback, ‘Mother’ would be a damn good name. But for now, it’s Artemis. Or do you want everyone to know who I am?”

“I -- oh. Sorry.”

Rhonda glanced at her watch. “Look, I haven’t got a whole lot of time. What I’m here for is to tell you that I need your help.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No shit, Ballerina. I’m putting together a little project, and I need a good pilot and engineer. Someone young and adventuresome -- ”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“ -- and free from commitments -- ”

“ -- like college.”

“Do you have a guilt complex about college?”

“You brought it up first, Mother.”

“Artemis.”

“Whichever.”

“This has nothing to do with college.”

“What makes you think I’d want to work for Fleet?”

“This has nothing to do with Fleet, either.” Rhonda was beginning to feel rather breathless. Christy had always had that effect on her.

“How old is that relic, anyway?”

“Huh? My needle?”

“No, Fleet. Of course, the needle!”

“Will you stick to the subject?”

“I don’t even know what the subject is.”

“Frog.”

This time it was Christy’s turn to pause. “Frog?”

“You’ll have to go easy. There’s only about a kilo and a half.”

“Frog?”

“You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“What is this project of yours? A drug bust?”

“I’m a Clavist. Don’t be insulting.”

“Is this some kind of strange test?”

“No, it’s a bribe. This -- ahem -- friend of mine would be more than happy to part with some of his frog if I asked him.”

“Where did it come from?”

“There are some things Man was never meant to know.” She reached into her handbag and brought out a tiny phial. “Here’s a sample. It’s cut and ready to use -- two milligrams with about half a gram of table salt. Goes great with tequila.”

“Mother!”

“Artemis.”

“No, ‘mother’. As in Mother of God!”

“Interested?”

“What is this project, anyway?”

“A special research team. You’ll be gone quite some time -- a couple of years, maybe, without me to bug you about going back to college -- ”

“Ah-hah!”

“There’ll be some money involved afterward. And a kilo and a half of frog aboard ship.”

“Researching what?”

“I can’t tell you that now. But if you’re successful, you’ll be rich and famous and can play with your needles for the rest of your life.”

Christy thought about it. She took the phial from Rhonda’s hand. “Is it dangerous?”

“The frog?”

“I know the frog is. I mean the project.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have to bribe you otherwise.”

“Don’t you feel strange bribing your only child into a dangerous project?”

Rhonda smiled. “I’ve been to the Clave before, you know. It’s even more dangerous here.”

“Ah. So you’ll stop worrying about me.”

“Never. But at least you won’t hear about it. You’ll be out of communication almost the whole time.”

What the hell is this? “How long have I got to think about it?”

“About three minutes. I’ve gotta get moving.”

“What’ll I do with all that tine? When do we leave?”

“Within hours. I’ve got an office just outside Chryse spaceport, and the ship is in orbit around Mars.”

“Can I take the Ballerina?”

“Your needle? Of course! Great idea. I’m sure it’ll come in handy, and there shouldn’t be any problem strapping it to the hull of the High Stakes.”

“The what?”

“High Stakes? That’s a Haven ship.”

“Mok? -- uh, I mean, what’s a Haven doing -- ”

Rhonda raised an eyebrow. “You know Mok?”

“Uh, yeah. A little. He’s a good, hmm, salesman.”

“Businessman.”

“Yeah. Like that.”

Rhonda stood up. “You coming? I’ll race you to Chryse.”

Ballerina grinned. “You’ll lose, old lady.”

Almost every intelligent alien species with which Mankind had come into contact had some fear of death, rituals surrounding death, myths and legends and tales about death. This seemed natural and, in fact, almost inevitable, once a species had developed enough consciousness and intelligence to consider the implications of personal, individual demise. Many cultures, both Terran and alien, in order to help allay their fear, developed elaborate myths and tales of people escaping or defeating Death. Often, these tales involved a mythical Elixir of Life, or a Fountain of Youth, which bestowed immortality upon those lucky enough to find them.

One similar legend developed on Terra, circa 1960 C.E. Picture a deep, dense jungle. Somewhere hidden in the jungle is a huge throne, and seated on this throne is a giant, fat frog. Surrounding him are thousands -- perhaps millions -- of tiny frogs, some leaping happily about, but most looking frightened and forlorn, and all obviously worshipping the giant. And engraved on his throne in a dozen languages is the simple inscription, “Kiss me, and you’ll live forever. You’ll be a frog, but you’ll live forever.”

The Fountain of Youth always was given a dark side.

Sometime after the formation of the United Federation of Planets, a Terran biochemist, perhaps employed by Haven trading interests, developed a substance he called frog. It was by far the most expensive illicit drug in Federation space. Frog was not physically addictive, although its users quickly developed extreme psychological dependence on it. Frog was not the mythical Elixir of Life.

But it was close.

Christy eased her tiny body into the cockpit of the Ballerina, running quickly through a series of time estimates. At that moment, Mars was roughly three hundred and twenty-five million kilometers from the Clave. At warp point nine that would be a shade under half an hour. She set her pocket computer to calculating a trajectory as she eased out of the hangar bay. The computer came up with a figure of about twenty-four minutes.

She thought about that. Warp point nine was only seventy-two point nine-seven-zero lightspeed. She could do better than that. Even the Artemis could probably do better. Okay, make it point nine-five -- about eighty-six per cent C. Let’s see Artemis keep up with that.

A new trajectory came out to roughly twenty-one minutes. She was about to engage the engine when something very fast flashed by from behind. Fine, she thought, you’re on.

The Ballerina’s engine roared, and she sprang forward. The Clave quickly shrank to a glowing red point behind her, then disappeared altogether. It was impossible to pick out the tiny needle she was chasing, but her scanner picked it up a few thousand kilometers ahead, and still accelerating.

The Ballerina reached her top speed before the Artemis did, and began slowly creeping up from behind. Christy smiled. I’ll get you, old lady.

There would be very little to do for the next few minutes, other than continue to monitor the Ballerina’s meager instrument panel. So Christy pulled out her computer again.

At less than the speed of light, Einsteinian relativity effects held, so the twenty-one minute trip would actually pass in about eleven minutes, ship time. Was that sufficiently long to sample the frog?

She’d only tried frog once before, but the Haven dealer who’d sold it to her had described it in great and loving detail. The extent and duration of the effects were determined by the ratio of dosage to body weight, in an exponential function. It took about eight minutes for the stuff to take effect -- one of its dangers, since your mood can change radically in the intervening eight minutes.

Christy scowled, trying to remember. The base dosage, which would have virtually no effect at all, was one milligram per hundred kilos of body weight. She only weighed about forty-five kilos, so two milligrams gave her almost four and a half times the base dosage. Square that -- duration nineteen and three quarters seconds. Not bad.

And to get the extent of the effects, multiple the duration by 160. Nineteen and three quarters times one sixty yields three thousand one hundred sixty seconds, a little over 52 minutes. That was reasonable.

She popped off the top of the vial and carefully poured the white powder into her palm. Frog, she knew, was green, but picking out the emerald flakes among the white grains of salt would not be easy in the dim light of the cockpit.

She glanced at the ship’s clock, which registered two and a half minutes since leaving the Clave. Wait thirty seconds. Take the stuff then, and it’ll hit just as we reach Mars. Good timing. Stretch out the final, dramatic seconds of the race, stretch them into nearly an hour of internal time.

The Ballerina’s scanner told her that she was still slowly gaining on the Artemis. Plug some numbers into the computer --

Ship’s clock hit three minutes and she slapped her palm to her mouth and swallowed.

It’ll be close. I should catch her right at the end. We’ll be in Mars space already. Unless she slows down in deference to Mars traffic control.

Christy took a deep breath and tried to relax. Don’t get nervous or tense now, she told herself. You’ll regret it when the frog gets the jump on you.

Terra was a tiny reddish dot behind her. It would have been white but for the photaic Doppler effect. After a couple of minutes, Mars showed in front of her, its normal, brilliant red Doppler shifted to a bright blue. The scanner showed the Artemis continuing to drop back, as the Ballerina closed the gap between them. It was down to only about a thousand kilometers -- practically nothing, compared to the two hundred million or so kilometers they’d already covered.

I had no idea, she thought to herself, any needle that old could move so fast. She must have a new engine hidden in that decaying hull. Do Admirals cheat?

Mars was growing visibly brighter now. She glanced nervously at her clock. Maybe another minute till the frog hit.

A dose four and a half times base yields a time differential of three thousand one hundred and sixty. Three thousand seconds is fifty minutes. The last nineteen and three quarters seconds of the race would seem to take nearly an hour.

A light on the panel came on, indicating that Mars traffic control was attempting to contact the navicomputer to give approach instructions. The scanner showed the Artemis was ignoring traffic patterns, heading straight for the rapidly growing disc of Mars.

Fine, Ballerina thought. I’ve skipped a planetary web before. You’re on.

Then, the tiny dot on the scanner that represented the Artemis flared up and the readout said that she was starting to pull away again.

“What the hell...” She must have some kind of emergency speed booster.

The ship’s clock froze between ten minutes, forty-five point seventy-six and ten minutes, forty-five point seventy-seven.

Mars, a bluish disc the size of a basketball at arm’s length, stopped rushing toward her and started instead growing at a more leisurely pace, a slow zoom rather than a mad dash.

Christy felt angry. And frustrated. Tense. Her thoughts came sluggishly, seeming to take forever to develop into anything coherent. The frog would speed up her sense of time, but thought processes still took nearly as long as ever -- that was why mood was all-important. A frog user couldn’t talk himself out of a bout of depression or anger; his mind worked too slow in comparison to his time sense.

And as far as physical reflexes, they weren’t sped up at all.

She watched Mars continue to grow, slowly swelling, changing as she watched from a tiny ball to a world. Dimly, she was aware of the needle’s scanner display, reading out a steady stream of distances and speeds -- the hurtling approach of Mars, the Artemis still edging away...

Somewhere, a part of her mind was trying to react. There were things she should be doing, but her thoughts came too slowly. An image of fire formed in her mind, though she didn’t know why. The anger wasn’t helping any (angry fire?) -- a part of her wanted to dwell on the anger and frustration, and not allow her to think anything else. Emotions were easy on frog; thought took work.

Her hand had been moving when the drug had begun to take effect. Moving, going to do something. Something... What was she doing? It was easy to forget.

The fire formed itself into strands, coiled and intertwined.

One by one, over the space of what seemed several minutes, warning lights began to come on all over the control console. The image of the Artemis on the scanner flared again -- agonizingly slowly -- and the digital readouts began to change. Something...

A web. A web of fire? Something moving through it, long, thin, shiny.

The bloated sphere of Mars now nearly filled her viewscreen -- bright blue in the center, surrounded by a ring of green, fading into orange, tinged with red at the edges. The image of a fiery web in her mind slowly changed -- it wasn’t a web, it was a vast tapestry, filling the universe, A tiny needle moved through it, and it burned bright blue, melting...

There were worlds imbedded in the tapestry (was it a tapestry needle?) or perhaps they were behind it, safe. She’d only thought that it was a web because of the spider. But the spider was on the other side, and the worlds were not safe at all --

The Artemis was weaving back and forth, so quickly that Christy could see the image change even in her drugged state. And dropping back now, veering to one side. Instinct told her the Artemis was in a landing approach.

And weaving.

Through the planetary defense web.

Christy’s hand finally reached what it had been moving toward. The maneuver controls. Fingertip sensitive, reacting instantly, a result of some of the best spacecraft engineering in Federation space --

Definitely, the Artemis was dropping back. Slowing. One had to drop speed to zero in order to land. A needle, moving at over ninety percent lightspeed, would explode on contact, with enough force to rip off half the surface of a good-sized world. The defense web would prevent such a catastrophe -- automatic, immediate, phaser weapons powerful enough to vaporize an asteroid.

Instinct, luck. The Ballerina spun around, jumping back and forth as Christy’s fingertips sent practiced instructions to the naviconputer. The body knew what to do, even if her mind didn’t.

A searing beam of light rushed past her, faster than it should have been able to. The web was firing at her, but it couldn’t keep up with the random dodging of her tiny ship.

The needle slowly turned around, Mars slipping out of the viewport and dropping behind. Next to the scanner display, a digital readout said that Mars was less than six thousand kilometers away, and her speed was still almost ninety-one percent C. Less than one-fiftieth of a second until impact. The Einsteinian relativity effects would cut that in half, but the frog would stretch it back out to perhaps half a minute.

The Artemis had fallen far behind by now, her speed reduced to a relatively safe hundred or so kilometers per second. But if the Ballerina struck Mars at her present speed, even the Artemis would be vaporized.

Not nearly enough time left to slow down. Her fingertip reflexes knew her only chance was to try to miss the planet.

Another phaser beam flashed by as the Ballerina leapt to one side. Her engines came on full, firing at right angles to her flight path. The scanner showed Mars begin to drift to one side, the distance still dropping -- four thousand kilometers, then three, then for a moment the distance held steady at twenty-five hundred, as the Ballerina slipped past.

Christy twitched her fingers again, and once more the needle spun around, dodging tongues of fire from below. The engines came back on, firing this time to slow her down and bring her back around a full orbit. Mars crept back into the viewport, reddish now as she dropped past and pulled away.

Her thoughts were coming more easily again, and quicker. She remembered that the first time she’d taken frog, it had hit like a photon torpedo, but it wore off much more gradually. She was coming out of it now, and her fingertips were beginning to act more on conscious orders and less on instinct.

Still dodging wildly, she brought the needle around from behind Mars, and dived at the edge of the disc. Chryse Spaceport was there, and she’d whipped around Mars so quickly that she still had a chance to beat the Artemis in.

After a few seconds, she was below the effective range of the planetary web -- it couldn’t aim at anything too near the surface, due to the possibility of missing its target and hitting the ground instead.

Well, she thought, one more web penetrated. It’s a good thing Klingons don’t have warrior needles.

The vision she’d had while under the influence of the frog came back to her. Most of it made sense now -- the part about a needle winding through a fiery web toward a ruby of a planet was obviously her conditioned reflexes trying to warn her of the danger she’d been in. But the part about the spider -- that made no sense at all. A spider threatening worlds? She shook her head.

She’d lost track of the Artemis on her scanners when she was circumnavigating the planet. The other needle showed up again now, as Christy approached the coordinates her mother had given her. She smiled. The Artemis was still twenty or thirty kilometers up, and nearly that far uprange.

The Ballerina throttled back and settled onto the rusty soil outside the office building which held the Admiral’s office.

How’s that, old lady? Beat you by a good three minutes. No sweat at all.

“I suppose you’re wondering,” the Admiral said, “why I invited all of you here today.”

Mok cleared his throat loudly. “Invited? Honey, have you ever been drafted? I hear on Terra they send you a message that starts out; ‘Greetings’...”

Rhonda gave him her most charming smile, then looked around her large office. This was the first time they’d all been together in one place. They certainly hadn’t had time to get to know one another, and she was beginning to have her doubts about how well they’d function together.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” she said. “Let me give some introductions for those of you who haven’t met, then a quick summary of what’s going on.

“First, this is Bek Mokkalian, private entrepreneur, owner and captain..."

"Proprietor," Mok interrupted.

Rhonda nodded. "Proprietor of the HTE High Stakes. There have been a number of modifications made to his ship in the last few days. There are enough staterooms there for all of you -- well, almost, we had to enlarge the crew a little at the last minute -- and we’ve added a transporter and a few cargo pods...”

“Vandals,” Mok grumbled.

“...all of which he’ll be able to keep at the end of this mission -- ”

“What about my cargo?”

“...along with his, uh, business.” She smiled again. “And this is M’rray of Clan Garasse, a survival specialist from the Caitian Office of Colonial Management. He has experience in dealing with nearly every kind of climate the galaxy has to offer and he is one of the OCM’s youngest and most respected consultants.”

M’rray snarled as politely as he could, concentrating on the intended compliment and trying to ignore the insulting reference to his age. Terrans really don’t understand these things. Besides, they smell bad.

“Mok’s - uh - assistant there is Kila. I don’t know her that well, but Mok tells me she’s absolutely invaluable aboard ship.”

Kila smiled coyly, and actually blushed a little. Eontril chuckled. “I’ll just bet she is,” he said. Mok glared daggers at him.

“That is Eontril Plad, a member of the Minstrel’s Guild, and an excellent musician, singer, and social critic.”

“My talent is recognized at long last,” he said.

“Saran, of the Vulcan Science Academy.” the Admiral continued. “His scientific knowledge and training will be needed on your mission.”

The Vulcan nodded, but remained silent.

“Rian ani Rina. She brings to the crew the unique talents of an Antari keheil.

Mok was looking her over appraisingly, and Kila was trying in vain to distract him. Rian was gazing almost longingly out the window, toward the artificial lake and the little grove of trees beyond.

“Tharas Baadell, a military and weapons expert, just in case you run into something Mok can’t talk your group out of. And finally, the best pilot and engineer I could find -- ”

“Christy Chas,” Ballerina finished.

Rhonda looked at her quizzically. “Chas?”

“Short for Charles. We all have some secrets, Admiral.”

“Don’t we, though,” agreed Tharas.

“I purposely haven’t appointed any of you to be in charge. That’s something you’ll have to work out among yourselves. I’d recommend though, that you all listen to the opinion of whoever it is that seems to be most suited to solve a given problem. You’ve got a very powerful combination of talents and abilities within your group. Use all you can.”

“Now that we’re all good friends,” Christy said, glancing a little nervously at Mok, “would you mind giving us some idea of what the hell this is all about, Admiral?”

“ -- which leads me smoothly and easily into a description of your mission,” Rhonda continued.

She took a deep breath. She’d rehearsed this speech many times in her mind, but this was the real thing, now. “A few months ago,” she began, “a Starfleet heavy cruiser on a routine survey followup encountered a heretofore unknown starfaring race. The language structure of this race does not require that they need a separate term to refer to themselves as a species, but we, of course, do. The official name of this new race is ‘Silmaril’, after Tolkien’s mythical jewels. The name was chosen because of this race’s unique biological mechanism for ridding the body of waste heat; they glow slightly, their skins radiating visible light.”

Saran was listening intently. Eontril was wondering what all this had to do with him, and Kila was trying not to look bored.

Saran spoke. “Visible light implies a high energy output. They must need to rid themselves of tremendous amounts of heat.”

“As indeed they do,” Rhonda went on. “They evolved in the absolute cold and hard vacuum of space. Surviving under what we consider comfortable conditions is difficult for them.”

Saran sympathized.

“The Silmarils possess a strange mixture of traits,” the Admiral continued. “Physically, I suppose they resemble Antaris more than any other race -- they have the same, uh, distracting beauty -- perhaps even more so, I understand. Their skin color however is silver, like that of an Indiian. They have snowy white hair -- at least the individuals we know of do. They are extremely intelligent, and immensely strong and incredibly old -- both as a race and as individuals. Their empathic and telepathic powers seem to exceed even those of a keheil. In short, they seen to have all the best traits of every race we know, and then some, and all very highly developed.” Rather like a super-Terran, the Admiral thought. “Even their technology is developed far beyond anything we have.”

Throughout Rhonda’s description of the Silmarils, Rian slowly had brought her attention back into the room. All this had seemed strangely familiar, and a chilling suspicion had slowly crept into her mind. By the tine the Admiral had finished, Rian was sure she knew who the Silmarils were.

But no, she told herself, it couldn’t possibly be true. She must be mistaken.

Mok said, “It doesn’t sound like they’d want to buy much of anything we’ve got.” Then he looked thoughtful. “On the other hand, they may have some things to sell. And they must have some vices... His voice trailed off.

“No,” said Rian, “I don’t think so.”

The Admiral shrugged.

“That’s all very interesting,” said Eontril. “But what’s that got to do with us?”

“Are they planning to invade the Federation or something?” Tharas asked.

M’rray rumbled, “If they’re that advanced, we wouldn’t have a chance if they did.”

Tharas looked unconvinced, but he just shrugged. “Depends maybe on which side you join.”

Rhonda cleared her throat. “It’s nothing like that, anyway. And M’rray is right. I’ve tried to give you a detailed description because I want to impress upon you how advanced they are. If I can convince you of that, it will make the rest of what I have to say about them a little more credible.”

Saran sat forward eagerly. Rian closed her eyes and trembled.

“We have good reason to believe,” Rhonda continued, “that they are the Seeders.”

Rian didn’t know whether to laugh or to be frightened. M’rray snarled in astonishment. Eontril shook his head. Saran actually smiled. Christy looked confused, and Kila yawned.

Mok rubbed his ears. “I think there’s something wrong with my hearing,” he said. “It sounded like you said ‘Seeders’.”

Eontril foundered for something to say. The religious implications alone were staggering...

“I think I missed something,” said Christy.

“The Vulcan Science Academy,” Saran elaborated, “along with several other scientific communities, has long held that life in the Galaxy evolved from a single incidence of life, sometime in the remote past. That is, life evolved once in the Galaxy, long ago, and spread from there to all worlds where it is now found. The several similar races scattered throughout the Galaxy are a result of conscious ‘seeding’ by some ancient race. But prior to this moment, there has been no evidence that the Seeders still existed, that they had survived the billions of years since they had spread the seeds of life. Tell me,” he said, turning toward the Admiral, “why hasn’t this been published anywhere?”

“The full report,” Rhonda explained, “and the conclusions of the contacting ship, have not gone beyond my office. If it had, it would have been suppressed anyway.”

“Then what am I doing here?” M’rray demanded. “The Caitian Office of Colonial Management must know something about them, or they would not have sent me.”

“I have a lot of friends,” the Admiral explained. “I contacted one of them at the OCM, and simply said I had a project I’d like to work on, something which could be good for Cait, but about which I was not at liberty to say much. Every government has special ops, secret budgets, hush-hush projects which don’t officially exist. The people who keep quiet about their own government’s secrets have learned not to ask about other governments’ secrets, especially when those secrets can be made to be mutually beneficial.”

Mok shook his head. “But this particular project does not belong to any government, does it? It’s not Federation, and it’s not Fleet. It’s your own private baby. Right?”

Rhonda took a deep breath. “Yes. The Federation wouldn’t want it. Fleet certainly wouldn’t. I’m doing this on my own. Yes, M’rray, I misled the OCM into thinking I was working for a Fleet project. There, I’ve trusted you all with something which could end my career. But please hear me out, and you’ll understand why it had to be kept so secret.”

She paused, frowning, then continued. “It seems that the Seeders had a reason for everything they did. They have apparently been grooming all of us for some great Purpose. One of the officers aboard the contacting ship had access for a few moments to the computer aboard the Silmaril’s ship.” She paused again. “There is some -- threat to the galaxy, something the Seeders have been aware of for eons. They -- created us to help them deal with it.”

There were mumbles, shocked surprise, from her listeners.

“But,” said the Admiral, “their --grooming is not yet complete. And they don’t have time to complete it themselves. The threat seems to be imminent. They want us -- that is, the Federation -- to assist them by helping some of the galaxy’s less advanced races. That is, they want us to repeal Starfleet’s Prime Directive.”

Mok, Tharas, and M’rray all smiled. Saran sat rigidly erect. Kila laughed. “Klingon always said it would come to that,” she giggled.

Rhonda frowned at her, disapprovingly. “Your mission,” she concluded, “will be to confirm or to disprove the belief that the Silmarils are the Seeders. If they are, you must then discover the nature of the threat they are concerned about, and how imminent it is. Finally, based on these findings, make a recommendation concerning the future of the Prime Directive, and how the Federation in general, and Fleet in particular, should go about dealing with the situation.”

There was silence for a full minute. Then, Mok said, “You do realize, of course, that some of us aren’t even citizens of the Federation.”

Rhonda nodded. “That will make your findings even more valuable. You won’t have quite the same prejudices. If a group as diverse as yours can come to a consensus, it would say a lot for the validity of your findings. This mission must be kept absolutely secret until it has achieved its objectives. Any breach of security would cause the mission to be immediately halted.”

“Besides meaning your job,” said Eontril. “None of this is even close to being legal. And you’re sitting on an official report. Dangerous.”

The Admiral folded her hands. “That’s absolutely correct. And it should indicate to you the importance of this project. Not to mention the fact that you’ve all got personal reasons for going.”

Mok laughed. “Me, I’ll do anything for enough credits. Or to stay off a Fed penal colony.”

Kila shrugged. “I go with Mok,” she said.

The Indiian shook his head. Such shallowness! There’s an opportunity here to discover one or two Ultimate Truths! What petty personal reasons could possibly compare to that?

M’rray wondered if the Admiral was aware of OCM’s reasons for sending him. He decided not to ask her about it.

Saran closed his eyes and forced his heartbeat to slow down. The Seeders were the closest thing Vulcan had to religious beliefs. The things they could teach us!

Christy smiled “It’ll be a kick,” she said. And she winked at Mok.

Tharas decided to keep his reasons to himself. What they don’t know, he thought, won’t hurt them.

Rian ani Rina sighed. The Zehara had been right to send her. They didn’t know what they were getting into. If these children expect to confront the cousins to Koltiri, they will certainly need some looking after.

Rhonda nodded in satisfaction. “Then it’s time to get started. There’s a member of my staff aboard the High Stakes. He’ll beam you up and you can beam him down. The ship is ready, it’s been fully stocked with enough supplies and equipment to last you for quite awhile. There will be no contact with me for -- well, contact will be somewhat irregular, and it will be initiated by me. Christy’s -- uh – one-seat shuttle...”

“Call it what it is,” Christy said. “It’s a needle,” she explained.

“All right, Christy’s needle has been tethered to a hatchway. The ship’s computer contains some data on a few worlds which I recommend as starting places for your investigation, including Aleph Corriandus, where the Silmarils were first encountered.” She stood. “Good luck to you. Any final questions?”

No one had any, so Rhonda contacted the ship and had them beamed aboard.

She knew that she was going to start worrying, now that it was out of her hands.

She smiled. For one thing, they were bound to piece together the fact that she’d done one or two things -- such as getting Eontril fired, and providing Mok with the frog in the first place -- that they were going to disapprove of. She’d made it all happen. They were, of course, being used, and they’d resent it. Except Tharas. He apparently had reasons of his own.

Which reminded her that she had a score to settle with Charles. What had happened to him, anyway?

And, quite naturally, she was going to worry about Christy. Some of the others would not be a very wholesome inspiration for her. But then, after being a Clavist, what would there be left for her to try?

She smiled again, remembering the reaction the others at the Clave had had upon seeing the Artemis. She considered, for a moment, going back there, just for awhile. Just to distract herself. To stop worrying. After all, there wasn’t any more she could do...

Stop that! she told herself. You’re far too old for that sort of thing. If a child wasted out of her mind on frog can beat you in a simple run from Terra to Mars...

But the Ballerina is a state-of-the-art ship. Artemis is half a century out of date.

The needle might be, she thought, but I’m not. A few others -- like Cal, for instance -- managed to stay in it long after the others passed their prime. And besides, Mother would be a perfect handle. Why waste it?

She laughed at herself. No, it was much too late for a comeback.

Rhonda left her office, and went outside to where her needle was still laying on the ruddy earth, fully intending to just put it away again.

Well, maybe.

The End