Forty-Three: 3031 AD

He returned to Edgeward after two grueling months Brightside. What had seemed a cramped, constricted city earlier now appeared so vast as to make him nervous. All a matter of viewpoint, he told himself as he tried to stretch and relax, free of the moment-to-moment survival worries of the Shadowline.

He discovered that he was a comparative unknown. Half the Edgewarders seemed unaware that the Legion was on Blackworld. The other half did not care. The war had not changed daily life.

Storm did not know whether to be pleased or dismayed. Blake had stirred up no hurrah at all. His employers usually went the reverse route.

He had a feeling Blake was a little ashamed of what he was doing.

His first day back he went through a rocky session with the Corporation's directors. They demanded action. Exasperated, Storm offered them weapons and transportation. "You know more about this business than I do," he told them. "I'm perfectly willing to run you out there and let you handle it yourselves."

After his initial aggravation, he enjoyed baiting them, delighting in their aghast expressions. He would love to have a chance to pull the same thing with the political pirates who ran Confederation. How many wars would there be if the warhawks themselves had to go put their fat asses on the firing line? The armchair warlord was one of the grotesqueries of post-feudal civilization. The Dark Ages were brutal, but then the ruling classes got out and whacked on one another . . .

There were no takers when he offered an inspection tour of his Shadowline operations, either. Blake, he discovered, was the only one of them ever to have crossed the Edge of the World.

Typical of the breed, he thought. Never been out of their plush chairs.

A week after his return Blake invited him to a City Hall party for Edgeward's elite. Pretty spy Pollyanna was on hand, looking more comfortable and vivacious than he had seen her since her wedding day. She was a different creature in her home milieu.

"Gneaus!" She greeted him with a kiss and an unselfconscious hug. "I hope you haven't been too miserable out there."

"Miserable isn't a word that will touch it. It's too good. I can't think of one that's low enough."

"Come on. I'll introduce you around."

"I hit Blake up pretty good on the contract, but I'm beginning to wonder if he isn't getting off cheap anyway. My men don't get to come in for these R-and-R breaks." Helmut, who had traded jobs with his brother, trailed Storm, looking like a grumbling thunderhead seeking a target for its spears of lightning. He was followed by the Sirian warhounds. Helmut scowled fiercely at those Board members who had a habit of sticking their long noses into the new Legion offices downstairs. Cassius had moved them there to take advantage of the Corporation's superior communications facilities.

The first person Pollyanna introduced was Albin Korando.

"We've met," Storm said. "How are you, Mr. Korando?"

"Still kicking, Colonel."

"Albin's sort of my brother," Pollyanna said.

"Must be a pretty thin genetic relationship."

"Oh, no. Not by blood. We were both adopted by Frog. Albin's an exile from Twilight. Frog brought him in. Got him into hogging. You should swap lies with Albin someday. He's got some stories to tell about the old days."

Korando grinned. "Anything before last week is the old days to these kids."

"Uhm. Maybe we should slip off and swap a few over a bottle. After the amenities."

"Oh, no you don't," Pollyanna told Storm. "I've got plans for you."

He began to fear that he had misread her, that she had not changed after all. "Lucifer . . . "

"The break is official. No hard feelings. It was good for a while, when we could both be ourselves. When we tried to be what we thought somebody else wanted, well . . . No. I don't want to bore you. Just say I don't regret it. Most of it."

Storm doubted that there were no hard feelings. This would mark Lucifer for years. The boy would throw himself into soldiering, trying even harder to become what he would never be. He did not disabuse Pollyanna. He could sense that she would hurt for Lucifer, knowing she had hurt him.

Next was Blake's wife, Grace, whom he hadn't known existed. She was a short, slim, retiring, elfin woman, who was socially ill at ease. She looked much younger than her probable age.

"Mrs. Blake." He put on his courtly manners, bowed to kiss her hand. A bit of ancient chivalry might put her at ease.

A part of his mind watched cynically. How we love to play at being paladins, he thought. Hired killers pretending to be knights of the Round Table. Dragons slain. Maidens rescued. Ogres dismantled. No, no, that's not really innocent blood taking the shine off the old armor. Just a spot of rust.

"Is it? . . . Is it dangerous?" Mrs. Blake said, staring at the ravenshrike on Storm's shoulder.

"Only if he decides you're edible." He tried a boyish smile. "Nothing to fear. He's not fond of sweets."

She became flustered. He moved on to Blake, who gave him a frosty, "Good evening, Colonel." He seemed painfully aware of Storm's philandering reputation. His gaze darted to the warhounds. "I hear you're quite skilled with an ancient instrument called a clarinet. Would you favor us by playing?"

Storm became quietly reserved. He could not be comfortable playing for strangers. He seldom played to an audience at all.

Blake sensed his discomfort. "Oh, not for the mob. For Grace and myself, after dinner. And Pollyanna, of course. Grace's request. She's a musician herself. Favors classical strings."

"An honor, then. Perhaps the lady will join me in a piece or two?"

Grace Blake stared at the floor and nibbled her delicate lower lip. She really was a timid creature. Pollyanna squeezed his arm. She whispered, "You're overdoing it."

People were watching. Several faces betrayed the thinking behind them. A few women were eyeing him speculatively. Men turned up their noses at his menagerie or calculated their chances with Pollyanna. Both sexes envied his access to the throne.

He spotted a grim face behind the partiers. Thurston pushed through the crowd, trampling toes and egos alike. He was supposed to be on duty downstairs.

Storm murmured, "Dinner and music may have to wait."