She felt the blood rushing to her face and let it. Any watchers would assume that was genuine emotion.

“You! I have to admit that I haven’t forgotten you, not one . . . single . . . thing.”

This time, he was the one to blush. She hoped it satisfied whoever was doing the surveillance but she thought the actual transcript would prove deadly.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said “Don’t worry! At this stage they’re still letting me arrange the surveillance. We’re relatively safe as long as we don’t do something outside their plans.”

Their plans or your plans, she wondered. She wanted to trust Zebara: she did trust the Zebara she’d known. But this new Zebara, this old man with the hooded eyes, the grandchildren he wanted to save, the head of External Security, could she trust this Zebara? And how far?

Still, when he reached for her hand, she let him take it. His fingers stroked her palm and she wondered if he would try something as simple as dot code. Cameras might pick that up. Instead, a fingernail lightly drew the logo on the FSP banner, then letter by letter traced her name. She smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and hoped she was right.

The next day’s work at the Center went well. Whatever Bias thought, he managed not to say and no one else asked uncomfortable questions. Lunzie came back to her quarters, feeling slightly uneasy that she hadn’t heard from Zebara but her message light was blinking as she came in. She put in a call to the number she was given, and was not surprised to hear his voice.

“You said once you’d like to hear our native music,” he began. “There’s a performance tonight of Zilmach’s epic work. Would you come with me?”

“Formal dress, or informal?” asked Lunzie.

“Not formal like the Governor’s reception, but nice.”

She was sure he was laughing underneath at her interest in clothes. But she agreed to be ready in an hour without commenting on it. Dinner before the performance was at an obviously classy restaurant. The other diners wore expensive jewels in addition to fancy