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no-nonsense tone, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to it."

But as she was starting to head away, Sheridan noticed something: a particular report that was the top sheet on her stack of papers. "One second ... is that a copy of the hieroglyphs you found on the artifact?"

Trent said, "Yes!" her exasperation in full bloom.

Sheridan said, "That's Vorlon."

That stopped her, as if he'd thrown a sizeable bucket of cold water upon her. Her gaze flickered over him, as if she were endeavoring to reassess him. Trent's entire motivation was to learn that which she did not know, and she had thought she had

Sheridan fairly well pegged. This latest bit of information was disconcerting, and she wasn't sure which bothered her more; that Sheridan was, in some way, on par with her, or that she might have been wrong about him. She'd always trusted her gut, and she disliked the notion that there might be any reason to doubt herself.

"You know Vorlon?" she said slowly.

He smiled grimly. "You'd be surprised," he said, as much to himself as to her. His mind seemed elsewhere for a moment, then he shook it off. "But any good xenoarchaeologist would recognize it. And a decent one would mention having found it."

The cutting remark was, of course, aimed at her. She chose to ignore it, and turned away from him. But Sheridan wasn't done as he called after her, "I'm giving you another forty-eight hours, then I want a full report on your findings. If I don't like what I see, I'm pulling the plug. Is that clear?"

Trent said impatiently, "Fine, fine, whatever ..." and she stepped into a convenient transport tube, the doors closing behind her.

Sheridan was not happy about the resolution of their conversation; indeed, it felt as if it hadn't been resolved at all.
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