Free A Talent for War by Jack McDevitt

I flew with the Tenandrome on its last mission. Research team. A couple of us would like to put together a reunion. But we've lost touch with most of the others. I was wondering if you could supply a roster, or let me know where I could obtain one."
    "The last Tenandrome flight? Let's see, that would be XVII?"
    "Yes," I said, after hesitating just long enough to suggest I was thinking about it.
    The image, in turn, looked thoughtful. He had thick brown hair, a pleasant smile, and a face with a nose that was a trifle too long. Management undoubtedly wanted to project intelligence and congeniality. In some types of businesses, like antique merchandising, it would work well.
    There, in that bland unimaginative setting, these qualities just clashed with the furniture.
    "Checking," he said. He crossed the room and stood inspecting the black hole while he waited for the computers to complete their run. I crossed one leg over the other, and picked up a brochure that invited me to consider a career with the Agency of the Future. Good pay, it said, and adventure in exotic places.
    The holo turned abruptly, and pursed his lips, reflecting the imminence of an unpleasant duty.
    "I'm sorry, Dr. Scott," he said. "That information has been classified. You, of course, should have no difficulty obtaining it. I can provide you with a form to complete, if you wish to apply for a waiver. You may do that here, if you desire, and I will see that it gets to the right place." He indicated one of the terminals. "You may use that position. You'll need identification, of Page 29

    course."
    "Naturally." I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Was the interview being recorded? "Why would it be classified?"
    "I'm afraid the reason is also classified, Doctor."
    "Yes," I said. "It would be. Okay." I sat tentatively at the terminal, and then glanced at an overhead clock as if suddenly remembering a late appointment. "I'm a little pressed just now," I said, reaching toward the headband.
    "Fine," he replied amiably, giving me the document code number. "You can call it up anytime.
    Just follow the instructions."
    I gathered from Gabe's comments that he wasn't on the best of terms with the Center for Accadian Studies. Still, most of the archaeological work originating out of Andiquar was coordinated from that venerable institution. So I arranged an interview, and linked in to a brisk young woman who smiled tolerantly when I mentioned his name. "You have to understand, Mr.
    Benedict," she said, pressing her index finger pointedly into her cheek, "that we really had no connection whatever with your father. The Center restricts itself to professionally mounted operations, supported by approved institutions."
    "He was my uncle," I said.
    "I'm sorry. In any case, we really had no contacts with him."
    "You're implying," I remarked casually, "that the level of my uncle's activities does not quite measure up to your standards."
    "Not to my standards, Mr. Benedict. We're talking about the Center's standards. Please understand that your uncle was an amateur. No one will deny he was talented. But still and all, an amateur."
    "Schleimann and Champollion were amateurs," I said, growing somewhat testy. "So were Towerman and Crane. And several hundred others. It's a tradition in archaeology. Always has been."
    "Of course it is," she said smoothly. "And we understand that. We encourage people like Gabriel Benedict in whatever informal ways we can. And we are gratified by their successes."
    That evening, I was sitting lost in thought, listening to the fire, when the lights dimmed and went out. A dazzling white object, about the size of a hand, appeared in the center of the room near the coffee table. It was roughly spherical, I thought, though its exact outline was difficult to perceive. Brilliant jets spouted from either side, fell back toward the object, and enshrouded it.
    Clouds of blazing light expanded, swirled, reformed. The object lengthened, and took a familiar