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diverged from their programming. They swarmed around the hull, anchored themselves as this one has, and—”
    â€œDetonated their power packs, I presume,” Springer said, stepping forward to see more clearly.
    â€œQuite. Which ought to be impossible.”
    â€œEvidently not,” Falcon said. “The question is, why hasn’t this one gone up?”
    Embleton took a breath. “We need to be grateful it hasn’t. If it had, much of the ship’s habitable areas would already be flooded. As it is the ship’s in trouble. We were already a little below our nominal cruise depth of sixteen hundred feet, and now we’re heading steadily down. Our crush depth is twenty-four hundred feet, but we ought to survive some distance below that—well, it’s to be hoped. This century-old bucket has flaws we discover every day . . . We have support in the sea and in the air; the President goes nowhere without cover. This is the weak point, actually. If this window holds we have a chance of getting everybody off in time. If .”
    Webster asked uneasily, “Is it still the tradition that the Captain’s last to leave the ship?”
    â€œTo hell with tradition. This Captain’s going nowhere until she knows who or what has threatened her ship—”
    â€œSimps know.”
    Falcon turned to see a party of simps approaching. The Ambassador, Ham 2057a, was in the lead, and a gang of his colleagues were dragging a human with them—a crewman, judging by the uniform.
    More crew followed, weapons in their hands, uncertain. One reported, “Captain, we’ve trailed the simps from the Bosun’s compartment. Thesimps grabbed Stamp, here, and we weren’t sure what to do. The Ambas­sador was very insistent—”
    â€œStand down, Lieutenant Moss. Ambassador Ham, this is one of my crew. I’ll listen, if you release him into my custody.”
    Ham shrugged theatrically. “Simps’ job done.”
    The chimps dumped the man, Stamp, to the deck. At a nod from Lieutenant Moss, a couple of his men took Stamp’s arms and hauled him to his feet. Stamp looked young, Falcon thought, no more than mid-twenties, with pale features, red hair. His face was scratched, his ensign’s uniform torn from the rough handling of the chimps, but he seemed unharmed.
    The great ship creaked as it listed further, helplessly plunging deeper into the depths.
    Embleton turned to Ham. “Ambassador? What’s this about?”
    Ham gave a wide grin, and knuckle-walked up to her. “Simps heroes, that’s what. One of my team, her name Jane 2084c. Works computers. Smart. Went to Bosun room, interested, fan tour. There was Stamp, doing what he was doing. Took no notice of her. Kept on doing it. Only a simp, simps don’t matter, can’t understand. Ha! Jane understand.”
    Falcon said, “The sprites are controlled from the Bosun.”
    â€œQuite.” Embleton walked up to Stamp. “Well, Ensign. Suppose you tell me what you were doing.”
    Stamp straightened up and saluted. “Sir. I was destroying this ship, sir, and killing you all.” He had a strong English accent, probably London, Falcon thought.
    â€œYou changed the Bosun’s programming—”
    â€œI locked in new commands for the sprites. They were to attach to the hull and self-destruct. Those things are dumb, their programming simple. The safety blocks were pitifully easy to overcome.”
    â€œWere they? And why did you— No, tell me this.” She gestured at the window, the sprite locked in place. “Why has this one not blown yet?”
    â€œBecause I wanted you to understand,” Stamp said, sneering. “I want you to know you will die—and so will the world—because of what this ship is. What it represents.”
    Webster frowned severely. “And what is that?”
    â€œThe hegemony of the United States.” He glared at