Boundary 2: Threshold by Eric Flint, Ryk Spoor

desk. One of them was a paunchy middle-aged man with hair that was almost pure white; the other was a somewhat younger woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and a narrow face. Both of them were wearing business suits, as was Osterhoudt. The man's suit was expensive; the woman's more expensive still.
    Neither of the suits was as expensive as Osterhoudt's. And where Osterhoudt had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie, neither of his subordinates had done the same. It was all delightfully predictable.
    "Florian Lejeune, Chiara Maffucci," said Osterhoudt by way of introduction.
    Maffucci nodded, her face expressionless. Lejeune half rose to his feet and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you," he said.
    Richard shook his hand and took his own seat. Both Osterhoudt and Lejeune had spoken in French, so Fitzgerald presumed that would be the language for the occasion. That was a bit of a relief. His French was excellent. His German was almost as good, but when he and Osterhoudt met privately the COO insisted on speaking in Dutch, a language with which Richard was only passably familiar.
    Osterhoudt's accent was pronounced whenever he spoke in a foreign language, but his French and German were quite understandable. In English, he was almost incomprehensible.
    Lejeune's French had been smooth and fluent, as with a native speaker, but with a trace of an accent. Between the accent and the given name, Richard assumed he was Belgian.
    "Very well, Mr. Fitzgerald," Osterhoudt said. He nodded toward his two associates. "I've given them a summary of what I propose to make your assignment, and they have a few questions they'd like to ask."
    There'd been a slight emphasis on the word "few." Richard suspected that neither of Osterhoudt's underlings was happy with the situation—but Osterhoudt was making clear that he'd made up his mind already.
    Richard gazed at Maffucci and Lejeune, his expression as bland as he could make it. Which was surprisingly bland, in fact—he'd practiced in front of a mirror—given that Fitzgerald's face was composed of harsh planes and angles and decorated with three scars, one of them quite visible.
    Lejeune cleared his throat. "Mr. Fitzgerald, I'm puzzled as to the reason you're requesting so many people for this assignment. Nine people besides yourself, given that the entire company of the Odin isn't much more than a hundred people, seems an exceedingly large security force."
    Richard was tempted to point out that in his negotiations with Osterhoudt, he hadn't "requested" a team of ten people. He'd insisted on it. In fact, he'd made approval of that number a critical item in the dickering.
    But there was no reason to rub a flunkey's face in his own status. So, politely, he replied: "Yes, I realize that the number must seem unnecessary—and, if this assignment were anywhere on this planet, I wouldn't have asked for more than five or six. But we're to be engaged on an interplanetary mission, Mr. Lejeune. Furthermore, we have no clear idea how long the assignment might last. It could go on for years before we return."
    "Oh, nonsense!" snapped Maffucci. "Months, certainly. One or two years, perhaps."
    Richard transferred the bland gaze to her. "Or three years, Ms. Maffucci. Or four years. The truth is that we have no idea how long we'll be gone. If we turn up evidence of another Bemmie base somewhere in the asteroids or the outer solar system, we could be gone for a very long time indeed."
    "The projections—"
    " Projections, " Osterhoudt interrupted, "are even more apt to go astray once you leave the Earth's atmosphere than they are on the planet itself. And they're quite apt to go astray here. Leave this be, Chiara. Fitzgerald is just being realistic."
    "And given that the length of the mission might become very protracted," Richard continued smoothly, "I need a large enough security force to handle attrition. I won't be surprised at all if one or two—possibly even three or four—of my people become