"Reminds me of why I live down in town," he said and stepped out into the hall. "Have a good evening, Theo Waitley. You and your cat together."

* * *

Coyster was right, Theo thought, the rug did feel nice. Just sitting on it made her feel better. 'Course, it also made her feel better that, except for Coyster, she was finally alone, with hook and thread in hand. She closed her eyes, letting her fingers shape whatever they cared to, finding calm in the patterned movements. Her ribs hurt, and so did her head, and she should really get up in a minute . . . or two . . . jack in her 'book and finish her solos. Thread slipped between her fingers, the needle moved, and she sat cross-legged on the rug, Coyster's purrs helping the thread relax her; and relax her some more, until she was more asleep than awake, and—

Her mumu chimed.

Theo jumped, eyes snapping open; mumu at her ear before it sounded a second time.

"Theo?" Lesset whispered loudly. "How are you?"

"Terrible," Theo said. "Why are you whispering?"

There was a pause, as if Lesset had blinked. "I don't know," she said in a more normal tone.

"But—terrible, you said. Is your side hurting you?"

"Some," Theo admitted, "but . . ." She bit her lip and looked down at the shape her fingers had been making. Not a flower, but something kind of uneven and blobby. An amoeba, maybe.

"I had to see Marjene after teamplay," she told Lesset.

"Oh, no! Did she already have the report?"

"Worse than that, she yelled at me—"

"Your mentor yelled at you?" Theo could picture Lesset's eyes getting round, rounder even than her mouth.

"Close enough. And she acted like it's some kind of Crime Against Society to call Father like I always have, and . . ." Theo paused to draw breath, and ran her hand over the rug, watching the nap flow from green to blue.

"Well, it is," Lesset said. "I mean, not that it's a Crime Against Society. But it is kind of . . . strange to hear you calling Professor Kiladi 'father' when your mother's set him aside and—"

"Kamele has not set Father aside!" Theo interrupted hotly.

There was a pause. "He's not living with you, is he?" Lesset asked pointedly. Theo sighed. "He's not living with us right now, no," she admitted, feeling her stomach starting to cramp up again.

"Then she set him aside," Lesset said, like it didn't matter. " My mother says that's a good thing. Professor Kiladi has served his purpose, she says, and now Professor Waitley's sub-chair of her department, and—"

"That's only a temp assignment," Theo protested.

" My mother says Chair Hafley's out of favor with Admin. Your mother could be the next EdHist Chair. That would be tenured and published!"

Theo's stomach twisted.

"Will you invite me to your apartment on Topthree?"

"We're not going to Topthree," Theo said, breathless. We're going home, she told herself. Kamele's going to finish her temp post and then we'll go home!

"You don't think Professor Waitley's good enough to be chair?"

"She's at least good enough to be chair!" Theo snapped, then blinked, seeing the trap too late. "I just don't think Admin'll pick her, is all," she finished lamely.

"Well . . ." Lesset let the word drift off, unwilling to argue on Admin's side, and Theo grabbed at the chance to change the subject.

"What're you going to do for Professor Wilit's solo?"

" Whose solo?"

"Professor Wilit," Theo repeated patiently. Lesset tended to put off her work until the last second, which Theo had never understood. She probably hadn't even opened her 'book yet. "There's a—"

"Hang on," Lesset interrupted. A woman said something unintelligible in the background, to which Lesset answered, "Theo."

Something else from Lesset's mother, her voice fading as she moved out of mumu range.

"Yes, ma'am," Lesset said, and then, her voice louder, "Theo, I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow,

'k?"

"Okay—" she said, but might've saved the breath. Lesset had already cut the connection. Sighing, Theo put the mumu on the rug beside her. She picked up her handwork, but couldn't seem to focus on it. Finally, she put it next to the mumu and stretched out, carefully, on the rug. So soft . . . she thought, and closed her eyes—then opened them as Coyster put his nose against hers.

" Prrt?" he asked, amber eyes staring down into hers.

Theo rubbed his cheek. "Quiet," she said. "I've gotta think."

" Prrt!" Coyster stated, and curled around on her shoulder, purring immediately. The last thing Theo remembered was thinking how nice that was . . .

* * *

Kamele dropped her research book on her desk, and rubbed her eyes. She was going to have to stop running at triple speed soon—but there was so much to do! If she could get a decent night's sleep . .

. she shook her head, mouth wobbling. She'd thought the move back to the Wall would be . . . comforting. After all, she had come home . . .

. . . only to find that home had shrunk, or that she had grown in . . . unanticipated directions, so that the once-comfortable embrace of the Wall now chafed and irritated.

And it could hardly help matters that she had become unaccustomed to sleeping alone. Her head hurt. She reached up and pulled the pins loose, letting her hair tumble down to her shoulders. It was so fine that she had to keep it pinned tight, else it wisped and wafted around her face and shoulders. Uncontrollable stuff. And Theo had inherited it, poor child. Kamele massaged her temples, and finger-combed her wispy, unmanageable hair. She thought about going down to the faculty lounge to pull a coffee, and decided against it. She'd had enough caffeine for one day—no, she'd had more than enough—and caffeine was the only reason to drink coffee from the department's kaf.

She sat down at her desk, and pushed the 'book aside, glancing at the privacy panel as she did. Yes, the door status was set to "open." Office hours would be done by sevenbells and she could go home. Perhaps she'd stop at the co-op on her way and pick up a bottle of wine. She wrinkled her nose, remembering the last time she'd had wine out of the co-op.

Or perhaps not.

There being no students immediately in need of her attention and advice, Kamele pulled out her mumu and tapped the screen on.

There was a message from Ella in queue, assuring her that the Oversight Committee was already moving on their request for the forensic lit search. They, at least, said Ella, took the possibility of an accreditation loss very seriously indeed. Kamele nodded, pleased.

After Ella's note, there were a dozen or so routine messages from colleagues and Admin. Below them were two marked "urgent"—one from the L&R Department and the other from Marjene Kant. Panic pinched Kamele's chest. She took a deliberately deep breath to counter it, and opened the message from L&R.

Professor Viverain wrote a clean, terse, hand, and Kamele was very shortly in possession of the facts of Four Team Three's scavage game. Viverain took the trouble to state not once, but twice, that Roni Mason had put herself into a position of peril, in defiance of the rules of both the game and of good sportsmanship, and, upon being injured, had immediately begun to kick Theo, who had already been knocked to the floor by the collision.

In summary, Viverain praised both Theo's teamwork and her growing skill in scavage and hoped that Professor Waitley would not hesitate to contact her with any questions she might have about the incident. Kamele closed her eyes. Roni Mason was spoiled and unprincipled, following, Kamele thought uncharitably, properly in her mother's footsteps. Well. She opened her eyes. There was more, she was certain.

And indeed there was. The appended Safety Office report suggested that the incident might have been avoided, or at least stopped short of bloodshed, had Theo not been involved. The reporting Safety fielded the theory that Roni Mason had been trying to kick the dropped ball, not realizing, in her distraction and pain that (1) the game was over, and (2) that she was kicking Theo. This was so transparently mendacious that it seemed unlikely that anyone would believe it. On the other hand, Theo had a long string of notes in her file documenting instances of her horrifying clumsiness, all the way back to first form. Whatever her discipline problems—and Kamele had heard they were not inconsiderable—Roni Mason was not tagged as "physically limited." Lips pressed tight, Kamele called up the A-Team report: Theo had suffered bruised ribs; the A-Teamer had administered analgesic and muscle relaxant, suggesting that the same be given before bedtime to prevent stiffness and to insure a restful night.

Kamele took a deep breath and exhaled, forcefully. Unfortunately, the exercise did very little to prepare her for Marjene's message.

I feel compelled to inform you, it began without preamble, that Theo ended our scheduled meeting this evening precipitously, standing up while we were in the middle of a discussion and announcing that she was expecting a delivery. I understand that her problem on the scavage court had distressed her, and that the topics we had before us were unsettling, but this sort of rudeness toward one who—

Kamele closed Marjene's message and filed it. After consideration, she also filed Viverain's report, with attachments.

Half-a-dozen taps notified her students and the Department Chair that she had canceled what remained of her office hours. That done, she slipped the mumu away, changed the room status from

"open" to "closed," gathered up her 'book and left the office, walking rapidly.

* * *

Someone close by was singing something soft and abstract, like honeybumbles in the flowers. Beneath the song was the soft, familiar click of keys. Kamele sang like that sometimes, Theo thought, drifting comfortably awake, when she was concentrating. It was a different kind of singing than she did for the chorale—more like a cat purring contentment. Theo sighed, broke the surface of wakefulness and opened her eyes.

Barely two hand-spans away, Kamele sat cross-legged on the rug, her 'book on her knee, face down turned, fingers moving gently on the keys, her hair wisping around her shoulders in disorderly waves. Coyster was sprawled on the rug at her side, snoring.

Theo sighed again, and her mother looked up from her work, the song murmuring into silence.

"I'm sorry," Theo whispered.

Kamele's eyebrows rose. "Sorry for what?"

Sorry for the song ending, Theo thought, but what she said was, "There's another note in my file—probably two." She bit her lip. "I guess you got the report from Viverain . . ."

"Professor Viverain was extremely complimentary," Kamele said. "She praised your skill and your commitment to your Team."

Theo blinked. "She did?"

"She did," her mother answered, glancing down to fold up her 'book and set it aside. She looked back to Theo. "The Safety Officer was another matter."

"I know," Theo whispered, remembering the red-haired Safety. "She said I had a societal obligation not to hurt other people." She tried to sit up, gasping as her ribs grabbed, sending a bright spark of pain along her side.

"Easy." Cool hands caught hers, and Kamele helped her up. Theo closed her eyes, waiting until the sparks subsided into a sullen ache.

"The report said your ribs were bruised, and that the A-Teamer gave you an analgesic and a muscle relaxant. Have you taken anything since you've been home?"

Theo shook her head. "The rug got delivered, and then I talked to Lesset, and then Coyster and I . . . took a nap."

"An excellent idea," Kamele said, not even asking if her solos were done. "You haven't eaten anything?"

"I . . . had a cup of soy milk."

Kamele half-smiled. "That's something, I suppose. Well . . ." She pulled her mumu out, and sent Theo a questioning glance. "I'm calling for dinner. What would you like?"

"Um . . . veggie fried rice?"

Her mother nodded, tapped a quick message into her mumu and put it on top of her 'book. On the rug, Coyster extended his back legs, pink toes stretching wide, and relaxed all at once with a tiny, satisfied moan.

Theo smiled, and leaned over—carefully—to rub his belly.

"I went to see Marjene," she said slowly, watching Kamele out of the side of her eye. Her mother nodded, looking politely interested, which, Theo suspected darkly, she'd probably learned from Fa—

She took a breath and sat up, her hand braced on the rug next to Coyster's tail.

"Marjene says—she says there are drugs that can . . ." She stumbled, not liking any of the words available. Marjene had said cured, but was being clumsy an illness?

"She said, if I may make a supposition," Kamele said coolly, "that there are drugs which can prevent you harming other people through your well-documented 'physical limitations.' Is that correct?" Theo nodded, all the misery of the afternoon suddenly back, and her stomach starting to ache again.

"She said that—you refused them—the drugs—for me?" She paused, took a breath and said, properly.

"I'd like to understand why."

Kamele put her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. There was a tiny line between her eyebrows, and her eyes were serious.

"It's a complex issue," she said gravely, "but I'll do my best to answer, all right?" Theo nodded.

Kamele sighed, then said slowly. "It is, of course, our obligation to do what we can to promote order and safety within our society of scholars. In a perfect intellectual society, such as the Founding Trustees envisioned, tending to our personal obligations and responsibilities would be enough to ensure that order is preserved." She smiled slightly. "Unfortunately, the Founding Trustees had been . . . a little too optimistic about human nature. So, we created the Office of Academic Safety, to help us maintain the environment to which we aspire." She paused.

Theo nodded to show she was following this. She knew the story of the Founding, of course, but her teachers hadn't even hinted that the Founders were human, must less capable of what Kamele seemed to be saying was an . . . well, it was a protocol error, that's what—but Kamele was talking again.

"Sometimes, because it has so much to do, the Safety Office . . . becomes overzealous. When this happens, so some of us feel, it is our responsibility to oppose it, just as much as it is our responsibility to work for orderliness in our everyday lives."

There was a pause. Theo frowned.

"So you decided not to follow the Safeties' advice because of a . . . philosophical difference?" she asked slowly.

Kamele actually laughed. "Not quite. What I mean to say is that we're obligated to scrutinize the recommendations the Safeties make to us; to do our own research and to draw our own conclusions. We're scholars, and this is how scholars deal. So," she waved her free hand—maybe at her mumu, maybe at the desk.

"So," she said again. "When this issue of the drugs—of the so-called cure—first came up with the Safety Office, I did what any scholar would do; I did my research. And I found a number of . . . interesting . . . facts.

"The first is that there is a . . . small but significant . . . proportion of the population who share what the Safety Office terms your 'physical limitations' who . . . find that those difficulties resolve themselves at some point near their Gigneri."

Theo sat up straighter, ignoring the snap of pain from her ribs.

Kamele nodded. "Yes, that's an interesting fact, isn't it? But the second fact is even more so." She paused, as if to make sure she had Theo's full attention. "It seems that the recommended drugs are not . .

. quite . . . as benign as the Safety Office assures us that they are. Indeed, several of the offered 'cures'

measurably limit learning, and make it difficult to concentrate. These findings also seemed significant, especially for a student who is in the process of acquiring her Core Learning." On the rug, Coyster yawned, noisily, and rolled to his feet. He gave his shoulder a quick lick and headed for the back of the room, bumping Theo cheerfully as he passed by.

"Now," Kamele said. "Since Marjene has brought this issue to you and made it your responsibility, you may wish to exercise your right to research, and to form your own conclusions. I can, if you wish, send you citations from my own research, and that of Professor Kiladi. They may be helpful as a starting point, or you may wish to construct your own protocol, independent of our findings." Theo licked her lips, thinking of Marjene, of how certain she'd sounded. Maybe, she thought, Marjene trusted the Safety Office too much? That was an interesting idea Kamele raised, the notion that the Safety Office could—in some cases should—be opposed . . .

"I'd like the citations," she said, "very much, please, Mother." Kamele nodded. "I'll forward them to you tomorrow, along with the list provided by the Safety Office, of those drugs they deem safe and effective."

"Thank you," Theo said, around a slight shiver. Hadn't, she wondered, the Safety Office done its research?

She looked up. "I—Marjene's pretty . . . upset with me. If you haven't gotten a note, you will," she said slowly. "She—well, I left in the middle of our meeting. I didn't—"

"Marjene was pushing you," Kamele said tartly; "and interfering where she had no right. Perhaps a little distress will clear her mind." She straightened, stretching her arms wide. A gong sounded. Dinner, thought Theo, suddenly ravenous, is here.

"Right on cue," Kamele said and rolled to her feet. She held her hands down, and Theo took the boost. "I'll meet you at the table," she said, heading for the door.

"Kamele!" Theo bit her lip, but it was too late. Her mother turned, one hand on her door.

"Yes, Daughter? Is there something else?"

"I—will you—" she took a breath, feeling perilously close to tears. "Are you going to, to take another onagrata?"

Kamele closed her eyes, and opened them, looking tired.

"Not right now, Theo," she said quietly.

The gong sounded again; she slapped the door open and was gone, her footsteps sharp against the ceramic floor.

•

Twelve

Cultural Genetics Program

Bjornson-Bellevale College of Arts and Sciences

University of Delgado

Oktavi caught Theo curiously off-balance.

On the one hand, it had arrived with breathtaking speed, but on the other, so much had happened that it seemed years between the scavage game and the moment when she and the rest of the Team were finally able to close their 'books and put learning behind them for the day.

"See you tomorrow," Theo called generally, turning down the hall that led to the cross-campus belt, her pace increasing. She swung up onto the belt and winced as her bruised ribs protested.

"Ow," she muttered, and shifted the bag over her shoulder.

"If you keep jumping around like that," a husky voice said in her ear, "you're not going to give yourself time to heal."

"Kartor." Theo turned her head. "It's just bruises," she said. He nodded, settling his own pack. "But there's bruises and bruises. If the bones are bruised, that's more serious than just surface bruises. Hurts more. Takes longer to heal."

"I don't think the bones are bruised," Theo said. "The doctor didn't say so."

"You're lucky she didn't break your ribs," Kartor said darkly.

"Oh, I don't think she could've done that . . ."

"You don't? Roni's 'way bigger than you are and she had leverage. Do the math, Theo. I betcha the Review Board will."

He's really mad, Theo thought, throwing a glance at him. His face was tense, with hard lines bracketing his mouth.

She bit her lip, not sure what to say to make him calmer. The scavage game had been days ago, after all. If he was still upset about it—and it seemed like he was—then he needed . . . Theo hesitated. Kartor needs to talk to his mentor, she thought carefully, tasting the idea like it was brand-new, which was silly. Your mentor was there to help you work through bad feelings. Everybody knew that. But what if Kartor's mentor was like Marjene?

Theo bit her lip. The Eyes don't watch everything, she heard the whisper from memory. Even we know that.

Kartor shook his head and gave her a sideways look, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a kind of lopsided grin.

"By the way, mind if I ride with you?"

"•'Course not," Theo said, surprised. Kartor's mother worked in the Systems Group just off Central Station. He'd ridden the belt with her that far on more than one Oktavi evening.

"Notice how the Team's been working better the last couple days?" he asked, and Theo eyed him, wondering if he was going to try to pump her for details of the preliminary hearing, like Lesset had. The hearing had been frightening and infuriating. Roni's mother had immediately requested that Theo be put into Remedial Tutoring "for the good of the majority" until the Review Board had time to rule. Breath caught, Theo'd waited, wondering around a feeling of sick dread what her mother would say. But Kamele had only put her hand on Theo's shoulder, and hadn't said a thing. The Review Chair, though, looked over the top of her glasses at Roni's mother, and said, her voice light and perfectly pleasant, "The Committee has not yet done its work, Professor Mason. However, if you feel that your daughter is at risk in the Team environment, we will entertain a plea for a Safety Order, and place her in Small Group Study until a ruling is made."

Roni's mother had gotten red in the face, just like Roni did when she was upset, but she hadn't had much choice, since she'd brought the issue up. She'd taken out the Safety Order, which stipulated that Theo and Roni would stay away from each other until the Committee ruled, and accepted a temporary place in Small Groups for Roni.

That had been more than all right with Theo. And, surprisingly, it had been all right with the rest of the Team, too.

"We don't seem to be—I don't know— rushing so much," Theo said slowly, as the belt whisked them past the Center Court Coop.

"We're not as worried," Kartor said firmly. "I've been thinking about it, and you know what? I think Roni's an—an unacceptable strain on the Team."

Theo blinked. "You think the match program made a mistake?"

"I know it's not supposed to," he said, shrugging. "My aunt's in Team Management, and she says the algorithm's pretty solid. If that's true—then they put Roni with us on purpose." He gave her an unhappy look. "Do you think they wanted us to fail?"

Theo thought about that as the belt slowed through Central Station, remembering the sets protocol from math. Where did you put the set of all things that didn't match anything else?

"Maybe they just lumped all the misfits together," she said, and bit her lip when Kartor laughed.

"I didn't mean—" she started, face hot, but he held up a hand, still laughing.

"No, you're right! Look at us! Anj has bad wiring in her on-off switch; Estan's lost without his rule book; Roni has to tell everybody else what to do; Lesset's butter-brained, and I'm a slacker. You're the only one who's normal!"

"Oh, I'm normal, all right," Theo muttered, but Kartor was laughing too hard to hear. Somewhat miffed, she looked out at the corridor. Two more stops until the Cultural Diversity Wing—she swung back to Kartor, pointing.

"Talk about being butter-brained—you missed your intersection!" Kartor shook his head. "No, I've got an extra, down in the senior seminar space." Theo eyed him. "I thought you said you were a slacker."

He grinned at her. "Yeah, but I'm not stupid."

They rode for a few minutes in silence, before Theo's curiosity got the better of her.

"So, what's your extra?"

Kartor looked down at the belt, like he was suddenly embarrassed, then looked back her. " You won't laugh at me," he said, with emphasis, and took a deep breath. "Etiquette."

"Etiquette?" Theo blinked. Etiquette was pre-Team. Kartor couldn't be doing a make-up on that, could he? And then she remembered the other thing he'd said—

"The senior seminar room," she said out loud, and looked at him. Kartor looked back—warily, she thought, like he wasn't sure after all that she wouldn't laugh. "You're taking Traveler's Etiquette? With Professor Sandaluin? Kartor, that's a restricted senior seminar!"

"Well, I'm only auditing," he said, sounding apologetic. "It is supposed to be restricted, but my mentor applied for me to sit in without grades, as long as I keep up. If I do all right, Professor Sandaluin'll give me a letter, and that's really all I need, 'cause I'm going to have to pass the corporation's training, anyhow, after I'm accepted."

"Accepted where?" Theo asked.

Kartor's grin was tight at the edges, his voice a little too bright. "I'm going to get a job on the station." Theo thought about that. Kartor's family was only accidentally academic. His mother, his aunt, and his oldest sister were all in Information Systems. They had more of a knack for doing than for teaching—she'd overheard Professor Grinmordi say so, but not like she thought having a knack for doing was a particularly good thing.

"Doesn't your mother want you to go into Systems?"

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "My firstap's been accepted, and I'm scheduled to take the tests at the Interval." He shrugged again. "Ilsa's Gigneri's coming up, and my mother's pretty involved in that. I told her about the tests and she said it might be good if I was out from under foot for a couple days."

"The tests are given on-station?"

He nodded. "The corporation tests in groups over the Interval, so it's not like I'll be unsupervised. And if I can get a letter from Professor Sandaluin, that'll be a good note to have in my file!"

"It sure will," Theo agreed, remembering Father's comments about the professor in question. "She expects perfection, is what I heard."

Kartor shrugged again. "She's no worse than Appletorn," he said. "And I don't need a letter from him." He looked around, hitching his bag on his shoulder. "I get off here."

"Me, too."

They swung off the belt together and strolled down the long hallway, red, green, orange, and blue status lights twinkling at each door.

"Here's my stop," Theo said, turning right toward the door marked Jen Sar Kiladi, Gallowglass Chair, and Professor of Cultural Genetics. As she approached, the status light snapped out. The door opened and the man himself stepped into the hallway, his stick in one hand and his bag in the other.

"Theo," he said gravely, then looked to her companion. "Good evening, Mr. Singh."

"Professor Kiladi." To Theo's astonishment, Kartor bowed, wobbling a little because of the pack on his shoulder, and straightened.

One strong eyebrow rose. "Ah." He returned the bow, fluid and effortless despite his own burdens, and straightened while Kartor considered him ruefully.

"I see that I've got to work on my timing," Kartor said wryly.

"Indeed. But you must be of good heart. I swear to you that the thing can be learned." Kartor grinned. "Thanks," he said, and raised a hand. "I'll see you tomorrow, Theo."

"See you tomorrow," she answered, and turned to watch him walk away, in his loose-jointed, careless way. She turned back to a pair of noncommittal black eyes in a perfectly composed face, and had time to wonder what she'd done that was interesting before he inclined his head.

"Where shall you like to eat this evening, Theo?"

She hesitated, biting her lip, not knowing whether she should even ask . . .

"Speak," he said lightly. "If the scheme is more than my aged self can support, be certain that I will tell you so immediately. My sense of self-preservation is strong."

"All right," Theo said carefully. "I'd like to—" She cleared her throat. "I wonder if we can't just go—go hom—to your house and have toasted cheese sandwiches and tea?" He tipped his head, eyes slightly narrowed, then nodded.

"A rigorous course, but I believe I may withstand it," he said, motioning her to walk with him. "If we stop at the fresh air market on our way, we might also have a salad, if you'd like it." Theo let go the breath she'd been holding. "I'd like that," she said. "Very much."

"Then that is what we will do." They turned right into the service hall that led to the tiny faculty parking bay.

"Does your friend aspire to anthropology?"

Theo blinked. "Kartor? No . . ." She sighed and shifted her bag, wincing. "He's auditing Traveler's Etiquette. He wants to get a job on the station."

The click of the stick against the surface of the hall echoed oddly, almost as if he'd used it to punctuate something he'd thought but forbore to say aloud. His words, when they did come were fluid and thoughtful.

"Does he indeed? But surely his mother will want him with her in Systems."

"I think his mother is . . . more concerned with his sisters," Theo said slowly. "It sounds like, from things he's said, that she doesn't much care what he does, as long as he doesn't . . . get into trouble."

"Well, you mustn't blame her for that. I believe that many parents wish that their off-spring would refrain from getting into trouble."

Theo bit her lip, and the two of them strolled down toward Father's pride-and-joy—the car he delighted in describing to new acquaintances as a "burnished green neo-classic rally coupe." Some of his new acquaintances returned from his show-off ride smiling, others . . . did not. But he was serious about his joy, and periodically engaged in events put on by Delgado's only road rally club.

"How have you occupied your time during the last few days, Theo?" he asked, opening the little car's boot.

Theo slid her pack off and put into the boot next to his bag, then straightened and met his eyes.

"I haven't exactly been trouble-free," she confessed.

"Splendid!" He gave her one of his brilliant grins, slammed the boot, and waved her to the passenger's side. "You must tell me all about it."

Theo slid into the low seat, snapped the safety belt into place, then sat with her hands in her lap, chewing her lip. This isn't, she thought dismally, going to be easy. She'd tried to prepare; reasoning it out, reminding herself that she had been willfully ignoring social cues, like Coyster pretending that he couldn't see a bowl full of substandard cat kibble.

You've got to do this, she told herself; you can't keep on not calling him anything, and besides, it's probably . . . upsetting to him to be called Father when he's not anymore, really, and he's just been too kind to say so.

That this particular variety of kindness was hardly a hallmark of her companion's character did not occur to her until she had licked her lips and made herself say, "Professor Kiladi?" He turned his head, one eyebrow well up.

"Dear me," he murmured. "I apprehend that I have fallen into your black book, Theo. You must tell me how."

Theo considered him warily. "Black book?" she repeated.

"Ah." He inclined his head. "The reference is to a notebook in which the names of all those who have done one a mischief are recorded. Allow it to be one of those quaint off-world customs of which Delgado does not partake."

"Delgado doesn't seem to partake of many off-world customs," Theo commented, thinking of Gorna Dail.

"Yes, but it has a plenitude of its own, similarly quaint, not to say infuriating." He settled back into his seat without pressing the starter switch.

"That was a very credible attempt to change the subject. My congratulations. Now, if you please: Professor Kiladi? "

She took a breath and met his eyes. "I—Marjene said that, since you're not Housefather now, I—that it's antisocial to . . . to call you 'Father.'•"

"Ah! Marjene." He sighed the name, elongating it into something comically musical. "All is explained. And yourself?"

She blinked. "Pardon me?"

"Do you find Marjene's argument resonates with you?"

"Well . . . I—no!" she said suddenly. "I mean, she's right—I've been ignoring a social cue. And that's not . . . honest. But, if I'm being honest," she continued in a rush, "I'd rather not call you Professor Kiladi, unless—unless you'd rather I did."

"I am compelled to meet honesty with honesty: I'd rather you didn't." He touched the starter. The car shifted slightly as the engine engaged, like it was a live thing that gone from sleep to alert. Father went through a similar change—as if being in the driver's seat brought him to a higher level of awareness. Eyes front, he scanned the parking bay, and when he spoke, his voice was grave.

"Theo. Far from being offended, I would be honored if you choose to continue addressing me as

'Father.' If, after due reflection, you find that you cannot in propriety allow it, then I suggest 'Jen Sar' as comfortable for us both." He flicked a quick, dark glance at her. "Is that plain?" Chest tight, she nodded.

"Good. Unfortunately, and as much as it costs me to say so, Marjene's appeal to local custom is legitimate. Our relative positions being what they are, I see no choice but that Professor Kiladi must be fielded when we meet in public. I would consider it a kindness if you do not invoke him often." That made sense, thought Theo, and formed a workable compromise. She and Father could be comfortable—and so could Marjene and Lesset.

"All right," she said, and, with a vast feeling of relief, smiled. "Father."

"Hah." He put the car into motion with a touch. "Is that the awful whole, or is there more to your not-exactly-trouble-free existence?"

Theo sighed, her momentary glow of comfort fading. "There's more," she said dolefully. "A lot more. And worse."

"You must not keep me in suspense a moment longer, then! If you please, the round tale—and leave no detail unturned. I must have it all!"

* * *

There was a House Rule against talking about "critical matters" during the making and the eating of meals. "Too much angst curdles the milk," is what Father said. When she'd lived in the house, Theo had thought that particular rule was . . . stupid, especially since Father's rulings on what constituted "critical matters" tended to be frivolous. In her opinion. This evening, though, she was glad of the rule. Father had taken them the long way home, winding

'round the outskirts of Nonactown while she told the whole tale of the last few days—well, except for the bus ride; she had a feeling that he'd like that even less than Kamele had. He'd listened quietly, but with a worrisome sort of . . . immediacy, like he was experiencing everything she told him. She'd never felt anything like this from him—not anger, exactly, but—

She wasn't really sure.

Whatever it was, she was glad to be free of it for dinner prep. She set the table—the blue-and-white dishes and the faded blue cloth napkins, on the little table in the corner of the kitchen, next to the window that looked out over the garden.

While Father tended the sandwiches, Theo got out the wooden bowl, swooped Mandrin from the work counter onto a nearby stool, and mixed the greens together.

Across the kitchen, Father reached for the spatula. It slid out of his fingers, skittering away almost like it was alive. In her mind's eye, Theo saw it twirl and arc for the floor. She turned away from the salad, slid forward and captured the spatula in a left-handed snatch.

"My thanks," Father said solemnly, receiving it from her.

"Welcome," she answered, and got back to the work counter just in time to yank the bowl out from under Mandrin's nose.

"Cats are carnivores," she said, reaching for the oil. "That means you don't eat vegetables; you eat kibble."

"And the occasional toasted cheese sandwich," Father added. "You are a pampered house-bound creature, Professor Mandrin, who has never known the bounty of the land, nor the joy of dining on fresh-caught rodent."

"Father!"

He shot her a wicked look. "Does your appetite desert you? Will I be forced to eat two toasted cheese sandwiches myself?"

"You don't get mine that easy!" Theo told him, though, in fact, the idea of Mandrin eating a rodent did make her feel a little queasy. Well, the trick was not to think about it. She finished mixing the greens and carried bowl and tongs to the table. Picking up the sandwich plates, she took them to the grill, where Father bestowed a golden brown, and slightly sticky sandwich upon each.

At the table, Mandrin was inspecting the arrangements, her back feet on Theo's chair and her front feet set daintily between the silverware.

"You're more trouble than Coyster," Theo said, unceremoniously dropping her to the floor. Whether it was the insult of being compared to a cat so much her junior and orange, besides, or Theo's continuing interruptions of her business, Mandrin stalked off, the tip of her tail twitching. Theo grinned, the teapot hooted and she turned back, only to find Father ahead of her, reaching up to the shelf where the cups were kept. He grabbed one, but jostled the cup next to it, which spun, wobbled and danced dangerously toward the edge. Father had already turned away. Theo jumped forward, catching the dancing cup just as it leapt for the floor, then did some dancing herself, to keep from knocking into counter or stool.

"That was close!" she said.

Father looked at her over his shoulder, and plucked the cup out of her hand with a murmured thanks. Theo frowned at his back.

"Are you all right?" she asked, which got her another over-the-shoulder glance, as incurious as the first.

"Perfectly. Why do you ask?"

"Well," she said, following him to the table. "You dropped the spatula and knocked the cup off the shelf—and you never drop things!"

"Ah." He set their cups down and slid into his seat. Theo sat across, watching his face as he surveyed the table.

"This is very pleasant," he murmured. "It wants only some flowers, but in this season—"

" Father."

He looked at her, his face perfectly composed. "I'm a little tired, child. Nothing to signify. Thank you for suggesting the meal and the venue. Excellent choices, both."

She smiled. "I think so, too."

"We have an accord. Delightful. Eat, do!"

Theo took a bite of her sandwich and sighed aloud in sheer bliss, her eyes on the garden, where the shadows were already growing out from the walls. She had another bite of her sandwich, served herself some salad and continued to eat while on his side he talked about the weather and how it had been a bit too dry for the sinneas to get a good start, though there was a persuasive front on the way which he hoped might deliver rain overnight . . .

It wasn't until Theo had finished her dinner, feeling calm and almost sleepy, that she realized what he'd been doing.

"I'm not Kamele!" she snapped, sharply interrupting a discursive and lengthy wondering about the hedge on the southern side, and whether it ought to be removed or simply trimmed. He blinked, searched her face earnestly, and inclined his head. "I concur. You are not Kamele."

"You're talking to me just like you do—did—when Kamele would get upset . . ."

". . . and would require assistance in achieving calmness," he finished, and set his tea cup down decisively. "Consider it a service of the house. Are you done with your meal? Would you like more tea?"

"I'm done with my meal," Theo said, and pushed back her chair. "I'll get some more tea after I clean up—"

"Leave it," he said peremptorily. "I suggest that we adjourn to the common room, with the teapot. We will wish to be comfortable for this."

* * *

"Let us, by your kindness, deal with the simplest matter first," he said some minutes later from his accustomed chair next to the fireplace.

Theo nodded, and sipped her tea, wondering what was simple about any of her recent messes.

"It seems that Ms. Kant has been very busy on your behalf." He settled back in his chair, tea cup cradled in long fingers. "We shall leave for the moment the question of whether she has been too busy and if, indeed, it is your welfare which concerns her."

The blinked. "Marjene's supposed—" she began, and stopped when he raised his hand.

"I have read the same pamphlets that you have, Theo; though I have perhaps drawn different conclusions, old cynic that I am. To continue: Have you pursued the citations your mother has given to you?"

"Yes!" Theo assured him. In fact, she'd read the information with an increasing feeling of alarm. Even the mildest of the recommended drugs seemed to promise terrifying side-effects, up to and including slight, though apparently permanent, cognitive impairment.

"And has Marjene also shared her information with you?"

Theo snorted. "I read the files the Safety Office has on public key. Either they haven't done their research, or they chose to ignore contrary information . . ."

". . . in the service of the greater good," Father finished, with the air of quoting someone who was not entirely in good taste. "You'll find, I think, that Delgado has a bias toward the greatest safety for the greatest number."

"Kamele says that the Founders . . . made a mistake," Theo said tentatively, belatedly thinking that the relationship of this comment to their topic might not be as plain to him as it was to her. Father, however, had no trouble making the conversational leap. He cocked his head interestedly.

"Does she, indeed? She had used to walk out only so far as undue optimism. In any wise—you will find that Delgado errs on the side of safety for the greater number. It is therefore up to you, and to such trusted advisers as you may gather, to protect yourself and your interests. Which may, indeed, not always be either safe or best for all."

Theo blinked. "I don't think I—"

Father raised a hand, the twisted silver ring glinting on the smallest finger of his right hand. "The rules of society exist to make it possible for individuals to work together in harmony. There is, however, a tension between the rules imposed by society and the necessities accepted by individuals. When that tension fails, society declines and the individuals become at risk." She thought about that, while Father finished his tea and put the empty cup on the side table. Mandrin jumped into his lap and he stroked her, waking loud purrs.

"I consider you to be one of my . . . trusted advisers." she said slowly, silently adding, no matter what Marjene says.

He inclined his head. "You honor me," he said gravely.

She eyed him, suspecting sarcasm, or at least irony. "That doesn't mean you're not annoying." He laughed. "Entirely the opposite, in my experience!" He shook his head at her. "Please, I am serious. You honor me with your trust and I will strive to be worthy of it."

"All right." She tasted her tea, which was cold, and put the cup on the table. "I intend to do my own searches, but—based on what I've read so far, I . . ." She took a breath and met his eyes, which was both easier and harder than keeping Marjene's gaze.

"My preliminary finding is that . . . accepting even the therapy the Safety Office lists as 'mildest' is . . . not a good idea." She paused.

Father tipped his head, waiting for her to go on.

"What I want to ask, is what you think I should do," Theo said, suddenly plaintive. "Roni's mother wants me in Remedial, the Safeties think I'm a menace, and so does Marjene. I've got to stop hurting people, or the Safety Office is going to call Kamele up for harboring an unsafe condition, and that's just not—I can't do that!"

"Ah. I see that you have indeed been doing your research. You are correct; additional pressure can be brought to bear upon you, through your mother. I believe you are wise to think proactively in this case." Father sighed and rubbed Mandrin's ears, staring off into some distance visible only to himself. Recognizing the signs of deep thought, Theo folded her hands on her lap and tried to be patient.

"My suggestion," Father said, just as she had decided that it wouldn't be . . . too rude to go look in the anything drawer for the extra needle and spool she kept there, "is that you take up dance." Theo blinked. " Dance?"

"It may, for the moment at least, answer the call for rehabilitation," he said slowly. "Certainly, it will demonstrate that you are taking the concerns of the Safety Office to heart." He looked up and met her eyes. "In a word, it will buy time, giving you and your mother the opportunity to plan a strategy. It would seem that simply holding line until you are considered old enough to speak on your own behalf may no longer be possible."

"Why?"

He looked up and gave her a brief smile. "Because you have achieved enemies—people who actively wish you harm, as distinct from those who would cause you harm out of a sincere, if misguided, concern for your safety."

"Roni?" Theo asked, thinking that enemy sounded so . . . grown up. "But Roni's only a kid."

"True. However, Roni's mother—is not."

Theo stared.

Father bent forward to place Mandrin on the floor. He stood, in one of his flowing, effortless moves, and smiled down at her.

"Be easy, child. You have your own corps of defenders. And yours, may I say, are somewhat more able than the honored Professor Mason."

The mechanical clock in his study called ninebells, its chimes echoing through the house like a familiar, comfortable voice. Theo's eyes filled.

"I wish I could stay," she said, knowing she couldn't.

"I wish you could stay, too," he answered softly.

He held a hand down to her. "I'm afraid I've kept you late," he said suddenly brisk. "Come along." Theo let him pull her to her feet, like she had when she'd been a little kid. She went in search of Mandrin, finding her sprawled on the table among the dinner dishes.

"You are so bad," she said, and skritched the black-and-white chin. "I'll see you soon." Mandrin sighed and squeezed her eyes shut wearily. Theo grinned and followed Father out to the yard.

"I hope you don't mind a ride in the dark," he said, as he strapped in.

"Oh, no!" she assured him. "It'll be much more comfortable than the late bus!" She felt his glance on the side of her face.

"Have you taken the late bus recently, Theo?" he asked politely. Nidj! she scolded herself; but there was nothing for it but to tell him, now.

"I went to Nonactown to buy a rug," she said, trying to sound like it was perfectly reasonable, "and took the bus back."

"How exciting your life has become, to be sure!" he said lightly, guiding the car out into the dark street. "I'd be interested in your impressions of the long route, if you would honor me." Kamele's already grounded you, Theo thought; he really can't do anything else. Except give her one of his quiet, incisive lectures that were always, somehow, much worse than Kamele's.

And it's not, she admitted, like he didn't have cause.

So, she took a deep breath as the car swept 'round the corner of Leafydale Place and told him about the bus ride.

•

Thirteen

History of Education Department

Oriel College of Humanities

University of Delgado

"Thank you, Professor Waitley," Sindy Clemens said, soft-voiced and grave, as always. "I appreciate your time."

"It's my pleasure," Kamele said sincerely. "That's an interesting line of inquiry you're pursuing. I'd very much like to see the completed project."

Sindy smiled and ducked her head; she was a gifted researcher with a knack for slicing through airy euphemism and into the bone of the matter. Unfortunately, her social skills were not as well-honed as her intellect. And she would soon, Kamele thought unhappily, watching the best student she'd been privileged to guide walk out of the classroom, have to acquire the means to defend herself, or academic politics would destroy her before she'd properly begun her work.

Of course, Kamele acknowledged, as she packed up her 'book, Sindy might choose to go elsewhere to pursue her researches. Many did. Delgado University sent dozens of brilliant students out into the wide galaxy every year.

On the other hand, the letters she had from her own mother, who had removed to Serpentine to take up the directorship of a moribund diaspora studies program shortly after Theo was born, didn't encourage her to believe that a talent for pure scholarship was by itself enough to prosper in a community of scholars.

She put her hand against the door to sign out and stepped into the hall, leaving the room to shut itself down. Kamele yawned as she walked toward the main hallway and the belt station. The senior seminar was in the last class block of the day, and her consultation with Sindy Clemens had kept her another four eights beyond that. At least Theo would have spent most of the evening with Jen Sar. Kamele sighed, wishing she could have done the same. It would have helped, just to talk over the recent rash of . . . mess . . . as Theo styled it, with him. Not only did he know how to listen, but he brought what was very nearly a woman's understanding to certain matters. Talking with him, she had thought more than once, was like talking with a sister.

However, as Jen Sar was demonstrably and delightfully not her sister, spending time with him was a luxury that she certainly couldn't afford, not with Hafley just looking for a reason to bring all of the decisions made by her new and unwelcome sub-chair under review. Ella had reported that the Forensic Committee was moving with unprecedented haste. In fact, she was supposed to meet with Ella to—

"Destruction!"

Kamele yanked out her mumu, muted for the class period, grimaced at the reminder blinking on the screen, and touched Ella's quick-key.

"I regret to inform you that Professor ben Suzan has perished while awaiting a call from her adored sub-chair—"

"I'm sorry," Kamele interrupted. "Sindy Clemens wanted my input on her latest research and I couldn't—"

"Clemens scraped together enough courage to bring herself to your attention?" Ella interrupted in her turn. "Of course you needed to stay!"

"To bring her work to my attention," Kamele corrected. "The one hope I have for her eventual success is that she will dare much for her work."

"That may be enough."

"Geography," Kamele said darkly, "is everything."

"Speaking of geography, I'm in my office, if you'd like to reschedule our meeting for right now, give or take the time it takes you to get here. I'll get us some dark chocolate and coffee from the all-nighter." Kamele laughed as she rounded the corner to the beltway.

"I have to teach tomorrow morning—and so do you!"

"Bah. I can give them a reading to parse. And so can you!"

The beltway was all but deserted. Kamele brought her mumu away from her ear, glanced at the time and shook her head.

"It's late," she said. "Let me apologize profusely and offer to meet with you over breakfast at Citations."

"I must find what the sub-chair's draw is," Ella said musingly.

"I'm sure Hafley will tell you if you ask, and then be very pleased to add that she thinks it improper for a temp sub to access those monies."

"Oh, for—" Ella sighed sharply. "Come to the office, Kamele." There was an edge of . . . something in her friend's voice that caught Kamele's ear.

"It . . . can't . . . wait a few hours until breakfast?" she asked tentatively.

"I'd really rather it didn't."

Kamele frowned, identifying that something all at once. Ella was worried.

"I'll be there soon," she said. "Add some protein to the sugar and caffeine, will you? I'm starving."

* * *

"All right." Kamele sat in the visitor's chair in Ella's office, sipping all-nighter coffee, a tofu-and-mushroom sandwich still in its wrapping on her knee. "What is it that can't wait until breakfast?" Ella shook her head and pointed. "Eat your protein; it'll wait that long." Kamele sighed, leaned forward and pushed a pile of infoslips aside so she could set her cup on a corner of Ella's spectacularly messy desk. "I don't have a lot of time," she said, breaking the freshseal on the sandwich. "Theo . . ."

"Yes," Ella said darkly. "Exactly Theo."

Kamele looked up. "You don't know me nearly as well as we both know you do if you think I'm going to quietly sit here and eat this dreadful thing while you glower over my daughter's name."

"I'm not glowering," Ella objected. "As it happens, neither of my bits of news are particularly appetizing."

Kamele frowned at her, raised the sandwich, and still looking directly into Ella's eyes, took a large bite. It made the coffee seem like fresh roast. She waved her hand at her friend and reached for the cup. Ella sighed. "Well, if you will have it—Lystra Mason has given Theo's name to the Chapelia." Kamele inhaled—coffee, unfortunately. By the time she'd gotten her breath back, Ella had twisted her untasted sandwich into its wrappings and thrown the untidy ball at the disposal. She missed.

"Vile thing," she commented, though it wasn't clear if she meant the sandwich, the disposal, or Lystra Mason. She sipped her coffee and eyed Kamele. "All right, now?"

"No, I am not all right! Theo's name to the Chapelia?" She pressed her lips together until she'd swallowed what she'd been about to say, and satisfied herself with, "That woman is a fool."

"Yes, but a vicious fool. I happened to see her going into the Central Square Simple Circle and thought it odd enough to follow. She made the request to the person on duty at the desk, and was even so kind as to spell 'Waitley' for him."

"She's a child, " Kamele said. "She hasn't had her Gigneri."

"A child," Ella intoned. "But steeped in the evils of complexity."

"You're not helping."

Her friend sighed. "In that case, I will helpfully note that you are of course correct. Theo is a child, and subject to the discipline and control of her mother. Who, being the wise and sagacious woman I know her to be, will forthwithly make a donation appropriate to the sin and see the Call struck."

"Blasted nuisance," Kamele muttered.

"Exactly—done with malice aforethought, deliberately to shatter your attention and undermine your scholarship. Nothing that we haven't seen from Lystra before." Ella pointed at the sandwich wilting in Kamele's hand.

"Are you going to eat that?"

"No." She rewrapped it untidily and threw it at the disposal, where it hit the rim and tumbled in.

"Well, now that we've gotten the meal out of the way," Ella said brightly; "would you like to hear news of the forensic team?"

Kamele eyed her. "You know—something tells me that I don't." She leaned back in the chair and waved. "Go ahead. Spoil a perfectly lovely evening."

"If you insist." Ella reached to her 'book and tapped a quick series of keys. "Ah, here we are . . ." She cleared her throat and began, quietly, to read.

"Despite the fact that our team has not been long on its quest, we have identified certain matters which are of themselves unsettling, and, taken with the incidents of unethical scholarship perpetuated by former Professor Flandin, potentially dangerous to the entire academic structure of the University of Delgado. While fully cognizant of the many and heavy demands on the time of Sub-chair Waitley and Professor Liaison ben Suzan, the forensic search team does most earnestly seek a private meeting at the earliest possible moment. The committee holds itself ready to meet at any hour. We have nothing on our schedules that is more pressing than this unfortunate and complex issue." Kamele closed her eyes. Ella, uncharacteristically, was silent.

"All right," Kamele said with a sigh. "My office, tomorrow—" Ella cleared her throat. "I'm sorry to be wearisome, beloved, but, given the other hints and allegations contained within the committee's report—which I have forwarded to you—it might be best to meet somewhere . . . else."

Kamele opened her eyes. "Citations private parlor?"

Ella nodded. "I'll make the reservation for breakfast and let the search team know."

"Thank you." Kamele stood. "I've got to get home, Ella. Theo—"

"Kamele," Ella interrupted; "about Theo . . ."

"I'll handle the Simples tomorrow morning, after—"

"It's not just that," Ella interrupted again. "It's—you can't afford this. Not now." Suddenly cold, Kamele looked down into her friend's face. "Ella—" The other woman raised her hands. "Hear me out. You have a lot on you right now: Hafley's trying to discredit you; Mason's trying to discredit you—not to mention whatever has the forensic team in a panic. You must appear solid, strong. Purposeful. Releasing Jen Sar was brilliant—absolutely the correct move. And, while I don't expect that I do know how hard it was, I know that it was hard, yet you haven't wavered. You've shown the world that you can step away from personal considerations and take up the Scholar's mantle. You must take a similar step with Theo, or your work—all of your work, all of your care—all of your sacrifice!—is for nothing."

"What," Kamele said quietly—too quietly, to judge by the way Ella's eyes widened, "would you have me do?"

Her friend sighed and let her hands fall, fingers slapping the edge of the desk noisily.

"Play along with the Safety Office," she said, meeting Kamele's eyes defiantly. "Accept the therapy."

"You counsel me to drug my daughter."

Ella's gaze never wavered. "Six months. Schedule her Gigneri on the first possible date. Six months. It's not so much, Kamele, set against your career."

"It's too much," Kamele answered, the cold feeling in her chest infusing her voice. She picked up her

'book and turned toward the door.

Ella's mumu whistled cheerfully.

"Blast—it's Crowley—the forensic lead," Ella said, and thumbed the answer key. "This is serendipitous, Professor. I was just preparing to call you to schedule a breakfast meeting tomorrow—

Now?" she asked, sharply, and then said nothing else.

Kamele turned away from the door. Ella's face tightened, lines etching between her eyebrows.

"Just a moment, Professor," she said eventually, and sounding much subdued. "She's right here." She tapped "mute" and looked up, making no attempt to hide her concern.

"Crowley says it's just gone from bad to worse," she said tiredly. "Apparently Flandin wasn't just falsifying her cites; she was tampering with the accredited texts."

" What? " Kamele walked to the chair and sat down again. Her stomach fluttered, but she didn't think it was lack of food. She had thought—but this was worse than she had thought. "Flandin didn't have an archivist's key."

Ella sighed. "Then it's all the more worrisome, isn't it? What should I tell Crowley?" Kamele pulled out her mumu. "Tell him five minutes in the forensic committee's research room. Tell him I'll want to see everything. I'll be with you as soon as I text Theo."

* * *

The little car zipped into the Wall's front drive, chasing the beams of its own headlamps up the twisty ramp. Father accelerated through the last triplet of ever-tighter curves, designed to force moderate speed. Theo laughed—and laughed again as the car sped toward the far wall and stopped gently just before its nose kissed ceramic.

"Well!" Father sounded like he was laughing himself. "We're a sad pair of scamps, I fear, and deserve whatever scolding your mother cares to deliver us."

He touched the controls and the doors opened.

"She won't know you've been racing unless we tell her," Theo commented, reaching into the boot to retrieve her pack.

"If only that were—" he began—and stopped.

Pack in hand, Theo looked up at him, but he only murmured, "Well," and closed the boot, shifting his stick to his right hand as he turned.

Turning, Theo scanned the area to see what might have given him pause, an exercise that was, for once, easy. A Simple in full regalia stood in a pool of red light next to the door, a book held open between mittened hands.

"Theo," Father said quietly. "Give me your mumu."

It was almost, she thought, as if he were still in the driver's seat. That level of awareness, but . . . sharper. Not a time to argue, she judged, or to ask him why. She pulled her mumu out and handed it to him.

"Thank you. Now, let us return you to your new home, where your mother will doubtless fall upon you with gladdened cries, while she heaps scorn upon the head of he who has led you along the paths of—"

"I am shown a name!" the Simple called out from the pool of red light. The amplified voice hurt Theo's ears. It was the same voice all the Simples had—sexless and without inflection. Initiates accepted a talky-box implant; that's what she'd read. It was supposed to facilitate their melding with the group. Walking at Father's side, Theo wondered if it worked, and how it felt to hear your voice coming out of the mouths of everybody around you.

"I am shown the name of one who has supped with complexity!" the Simple called again. "Theo Waitley!"

"What!" She stopped, felt a strong hand connect with her elbow and move her along.

"Don't stop," Father murmured. "Don't stare. Don't give them an advantage. You are an honorable person going about your honorable, unexceptionable—and private—business."

"Theo Waitley approaches!" the Simple shouted. "My work begins!" If it had been up to her, Theo would have bolted for the door then, but Father's hand on her elbow held her to a deliberate, unhurried walk. The Simple stepped forward as they came into her pool of light, extended a mittened hand—and pointed directly at Father.

"Theo Waitley." The Simple's voice was quieter, now, which didn't, Theo was surprised to note, make it any more appealing.

"I am on a simple mission," Father said, never slowing down.

"What mission?" The Simple stepped into Father's path. He stopped, and Theo with him, her stomach tight.

"This minor child must be returned to her mother."

"One Chapelia will escort her."

"One will not," Father returned sharply. "That would invite complexity. My feet are upon the Path."

"What do you know of the Path, who goes uncovered and unique?"

"The Path is the journey and the journey is the Teaching," Father said, with the air of a student reciting a received formula. "Those whose feet are upon the Path must neither be brought aside nor delayed." He tipped his head.

"And," he continued, in a more conversational voice, "if your colleague at my rear and to the right does not cease her approach, regrettable things may happen. I protect this innocent child with every means at my hand." He hefted his cane, and . . . smiled . . . at the Simple.

"He has studied," came the voice—the same voice, but from behind them. "Perhaps he is on the Path."

"Consult the Name-Keeper while you await my return," Father suggested cordially. "Again, I escort this innocent to her mother." Theo jumped as his hand came under her elbow again, urging her to walk with him.

"Come, child."

"Yes, sir," she said meekly, and concentrated on matching his pace exactly. The back of her neck prickled and she wondered what the Simples were doing.

"Do not," Father murmured, "look back."

"What—" she began—

"And do not speak until we are inside."

The doors opened. They passed beneath the Eyes and walked past the Safety Station. Father nodded casually to the woman on duty as they mounted the belt for Quad Eight

"What're you going to do if they are waiting for you when you leave?" Theo demanded. He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. "Don't be silly, Theo. I'll go out by another door."

"But your car!"

"The car is locked, and its owner well-known. It will be quite safe." She took a breath. "How will you get home?"

"The bus." He inclined his head gravely. "I will, of course, be in no danger." Theo knew better than to take that bait. "Could I have my mumu back now?"

"Ah, yes. How careless of me." He pulled it out of his pocket and gave it to her. "You are aware that your mumu—I should say, that everyone's mumu—emits an ID?"

"I'm not a kid," she said impatiently. "And the Simple was just reading the IDs out of her 'book. What I can't figure out is why she didn't realize you were carrying two mumus."

"But, you see," Father murmured, "the ID emitter on my mumu is . . . turned off." Theo blinked.

"They turn off?"

He sighed. "Mind you, I don't say it's easy. Is this our stop?"

"Yes," Theo said, as the belt slowed. She swung off, Father at her side. "Would you have . . . hurt . .

. that Simple, really? If she hadn't stopped."

He looked down at her. "Yes," he said seriously. "I would have hurt her, really. Liad, I fear, is a barbarous place, where people defend their honor and those who fall within it by any means, including physical force. Even having been so long embraced by the enlightened customs of Delgado, I find that I cannot wholly put these violent tendencies behind me." He lifted an eyebrow.

"You have now been fairly warned. Do you wish to run away?"

"From you?" Theo shook her head. "Don't be a nidj, Father." He cleared his throat. "I will," he said, so solemnly she knew that he was trying not to laugh. "Do my best not to be a nidj, Theo."

He turned to survey the row of almost-identical beige doors set in at identical intervals into the white wall.

"Now, here's a pleasing aspect. Which door is yours?"

"Right the—" Her mumu warmed in her hands, and she glanced down, touching the screen. "I've got a text from Kamele," she said, and felt the full weight of his attention fall on her.

"Do you, indeed? Does she wonder when I'll bestir myself to return you?"

"No-oo . . ." Theo read the text again. Short as it was, it seemed . . . much less calm than Kamele's usual messages. She looked up into Father's black eyes. "She says she has a very important meeting that can't be put off. I'm to stay in, lock the door and not answer, if someone should ring."

"Perhaps she has received news of the Chapelia's interest," he murmured.

"Looks like," Theo agreed, chewing her lip and glancing down to read the message a third time. Would it be so bad, she wondered irritably, for Kamele to part with a little information now and then?

"Why?" she asked suddenly, looking up. "Why did the Chapelia have my name in their book?" Both eyebrows rose. "Theo, you astonish me."

"No, I don't," she said shortly. "You and Kamele are always telling me to question things."

"Indeed, but the quality of the question must also count for something—and of late yours have become . . . most interesting. So. Shall you let me in and show me this rug Gorna Dail has sold you?" She considered him warily. "I'd like that. It's pretty late, though, and if you're going to have to go all the way around to the East Door . . ."

"It's scarcely late at all," he interrupted, and of a sudden gave her a smile. "I see I am found out. If you must have it, I crave a moment of Coyster's attention."

"Oh!" Of course he wants to visit with Coyster, she thought, turning toward the door; he was used to having the younger cat underfoot. And her, too. And Kamele.

"Is it . . . very lonely . . . with just you and Mandrin?" she asked, putting her hand against the plate.

"It is . . . quiet," he allowed, following her into the apartment. He glanced around the little hall while Theo locked the door. When she turned back, he was looking down at Kamele's rug.

"I think she meant it to . . . cheer the room up," Theo said awkwardly, unable to read the expression on his face.

"I'm certain that she did," he answered, his eyes still downcast. "Well." He swept a hand out, inviting her to lead on, and followed her down the hall.

"This is very pleasant," he said a few moments later as they sat together on the blue-and-green rug. Coyster was on his back between them, paws waving in ecstasy as Father tickled his belly. "Ms. Dail has done well by you."

"I hope so," Theo said, running her hand over the nap and watching the fascinating, waterlike flow from green to blue. "Do you know how to—to dicker?"

Grinning, he gave Coyster a final chuck under the chin. "In fact, I do. However, I believe that your mother would not thank me for introducing you to the art at this point in your education. First, master consensus and teamwork, then apply to me again."

She grinned. "Done!"

He laughed. "I see that you came away not entirely unmarked." He sobered. "It is, as you mentioned, quite late. Perhaps even late enough for a young student who has had a remarkably adventurous few days to seek some well-deserved rest."

"I'm . . ." Theo hesitated. She was sleepy. A little. But—

"I think you ought to stay here," she said, "until that Simple forgets about you. They probably put somebody on the East Door, too, you know . . ."

Father tipped his head, his face serious, though she could see the smile in his eyes.

"Well, lacking appropriate encouragement, she's not likely to forget about me; nor are they likely to have forgotten the East Door. Which is to say that I agree with you. I should, indeed, stay here for a time. Thank you."

Theo considered him doubtfully. She could usually tell when Father was joking. "I—" He raised a hand. "No, Theo. I am quite serious. Thank you for your care." He rolled to his feet and extended a hand to help her up.

"So," he said, smiling fully now. "Shall we say next Oktavi, same time?"

"Yes . . ." She blinked and cleared her throat. "Yes!"

"Good." He touched her cheek, his fingers warm, then ruffled her hair like she was a kid. "Sleep well, child."

•

Fourteen

History of Education Department

Oriel College of Humanities

University of Delgado

The coffee in the research room was fresh-brewed. Kamele sipped hers and sighed aloud. Some one on the forensic team had her priorities straight.

Unfortunately, the pleasure of real coffee was negated by the methodical unveiling of data in the Group Space at the center of the table.

"As you can see," Professor Crowley murmured, tapping the light keys, "we have located no further discrepancies between Professor Flandin's publications and the material she cites. Everything, in fact, checks perfectly, and the committee had all but achieved a consensus accepting that those two . . . erroneous citations which resulted in the professor's loss of tenure were the only two incidents in existence."

Kamele sighed quietly, sipped coffee and recruited herself to patience. To judge from the patient expressions of his two team members, Professor Crowley was one who must tell the thing in whole and in order. And who for all of that, she thought, would not have insisted on a meeting right now only to say that the committee had found that there was nothing to find.

"In fact," Crowley continued, "the committee was well on its way to declaring that there was nothing else to find. It was only . . ."

"It was only," Professor Emeritus Beltaire spoke up from her seat at the far end of the table, "my own vanity, colleagues, that led us to explore what at first appeared to be the most minor portion of Professor Flandin's work: an encyclopedia entry on the subject of Vazinty pelinTrayle."

"The Saint of Panvine?" Ella sounded startled, as well, Kamele thought, she should. The Saint had been . . . opposed to the diversity of thought which the University of Delgado—for instance—held to be the treasure of higher learning.

To put it mildly.

"The so-called Saint," Professor Beltaire said dryly. "As it happens, my family holds the dubious honor of having once been enclosed by the pelinTrayle phulon. When the Beltaire patriarch embraced schism as preferable to genocide, he wisely brought away such papers, documents, and primary sources as he could lay hand to—for protection, you understand, should he need to place his jenos under a patron strong enough to withstand what blandishments Vazinty might make." She smiled.

"As it happens, Vazinty shortly had many more problems to deal with than the repatriation of an errant jenos. Beltaire settled upon Melchiza and eventually the original papers passed into the House of Planetary Treasures there." She paused to sip coffee. "Before surrendering them, the patriarch of course made copies, which the jenos retained, as part of our private archives. Eventually, the patriarch's great-granddaughter, who naturally had access to the history of the jenos, became, more by accident than design, an expert on Vazinty pelinTrayle."

She raised her cup again. Professor Crowley folded his hands, his eyes dreaming on the cluttered Group Space.

"So," Kamele said to Professor Beltaire, "you were uniquely placed to recognize an error in the relevant citation."

The elder scholar nodded. "Indeed I was, and I flagged the passage. Imagine my . . . surprise . . . when Professor Able—" she nodded at the last member of the committee, who appeared to be napping with her eyes open—"told me that the cite matched . . . precisely." Kamele put her cup on the table.

"An error of memory, perhaps?" Ella murmured. "Even an expert is sometimes mistaken."

"My precise thought was something less gentle regarding the memories of old women, but—yes," Professor Beltaire said. "Cursing my failing faculties, I checked my hard copies . . ."

"She can't have altered the source documents!" Kamele protested. "That would have required an archivist's key." Or an archivist, brought in on the plan, and if that were the case—Kamele shivered.

"But she did just that," Professor Able said, apparently not napping, after all. "I have no idea how she did it, but I went through those documents line by line, comparing every word, and—the library sources have been altered. Only a bit, mind! Nothing more than a few words; sometimes only a point of punctuation."

"Nothing important, " Professor Crowley said, leaning back in his chair, and looking 'round the table at them. "Taken in isolation."

"In sum, however," Professor Beltaire murmured, "these . . . corrections . . . draw a portrait of Delgado and Panvine standing . . . much closer together, philosophically, than we know to be the case, and, indeed, suggests that the current head of the Panvinian Administration is an adviser to the Delgado Board of Trustees."

" What? " Kamele looked at Ella, discovering an expression of bewildered outrage on her face that was probably, Kamele thought, a mirror of her own. She leaned forward, pressing her palms against the cool surface of the table as she ordered her thoughts.

"What I hear the committee say is that there is strong evidence that a . . . series? of source documents have been tampered with. Leaving aside for the moment the how, I would ask why." Professor Able shook her head. "Flandin is the person to give the definitive answer to that. Unfortunately, we let her go."

"Though compelling, why does not fall within the scope of this committee's work," Professor Crowley added. "We were charged to survey the literature in order to ascertain if other . . . scholarly transgressions had been made which might damage the university. Evidence of such tampering has, alas, been discovered."

Professor Beltaire shook her head. "With all respect due to my honored colleague, I must disagree. What this committee has discovered is a discrepancy between the documents maintained by the research library and the documents held in private by an acknowledged expert. It is worth noting, colleagues, that both sets of documents are—copies."

"Certified copies!" Able corrected.

"As you say. But copies nonetheless. There is room for doubt. The copies are demonstrably not identical. What we cannot demonstrate from where we sit is—which set has been altered." There was silence in the research room. Kamele closed her eyes, but she still felt the weight of her colleagues' regard. She was sub-chair; this investigation was her responsibility, begun for the best and most noble of reasons. The reasons for carrying through had just become . . . an imperative. If a whisper that Delgado's most closely held records had been altered escaped into the academic universe . . .

"I understand and value your argument," she said slowly, opening her eyes. She let her gaze go round the table, touching the face of each in turn: Beltaire grimly amused, Able only grim; Crowley resigned; Ella plainly horrified.

"I would be interested in hearing the committee's suggestions for a . . . quick and quiet resolution of this situation."

"Quiet will be difficult," Able said, "but I don't despair of finding the proper public relations angle."

"There must be an absolute determination made first, " Crowley said sourly. "The copies must be compared to the originals."

"I agree," Beltaire said crisply. "If it is found that Delgado's copies have been compromised, then it is time for public relations to bake us an airy confection, and for the university to purchase a comprehensive doc-check of its archival material."

Kamele's stomach sank. The cost! And yet, the cost—if students stopped coming to the University of Delgado, if the results and facts reported by Delgadan scholars were automatically assumed by their colleagues elsewhere to be erroneous . . .

"Where are the original documents?" she asked Beltaire.

The old woman smiled. "Why, they are still safely locked up in the treasure house on my homeworld, Professor Waitley. Melchiza."

* * *

She is not ready!

Horror—hers, though it scarcely mattered—flooded him. He closed his eyes and spun a Rainbow; the very first thing taught to hopeful scoutlings, and perhaps the most useful. Together, he and Aelliana relaxed inside the benevolent colors.

"Tell me," he murmured, when his heartbeat had steadied; "upon what day and hour did I become a monster?"

If her Gigneri is brought forward . . .

". . . which we will only suggest if it transpires that I have accurately recalled a particular bit of trivia I read years ago while in pursuit of something else entirely. It could be that I am mistaken; and in any case, the final word rests with Kamele—in whom I believe you repose complete confidence?" I repose complete confidence in no one, Aelliana stated with an airy bravado that almost had him laughing aloud.

"That is, of course, very wise," he murmured, quellingly. "Now. If I might have a moment's peace in which to pursue my research?"

Certainly, his lifemate replied, and faded from his awareness.

* * *

She had the entirety of the committee's notes, recommendations and matches in her 'book. She had Ella's promise to get Hafley, the forensic team, and the Dean of Faculty into the same room tomorrow, utilizing whatever means seemed good to her. She had a hastily downloaded schedule of the current Quester's Fees, and the location of the nearest Simple Circle.

She also had a bottle of deplorable wine from the Quad Eight all-nighter, with which she hoped to counteract the jitters bestowed by adrenaline and too many late-night cups of coffee. Her hair was wisping into her eyes. She shook her head, which of course only resulted in bringing the rest of it down. Well, the door to the apartment was scarcely six steps away. She'd be inside before she frightened the neighbors.

The at-home light was dark. Kamele blinked, her heart suddenly in her mouth. Theo wasn't home yet? Surely Jen Sar wouldn't have kept her this late! What—

She slapped the lock without any memory of having crossed the intervening distance. The door opened, she swept inside—and stopped so suddenly her shoes squeaked against the floor. Jen Sar looked up from his mumu. A smile glinted in the depths of his dark eyes, though his sharp-featured face was grave.

"Good evening, Kamele. Theo asked me to stay."

She let her breath out all at once, and raised her free hand to shove her hair out of her eyes. "She's home, then. The door—"

"Forgive me. I felt it reasonable, in light of . . . certain events . . . that the door be persuaded to something less than complete candor," he said. Despite the rote "forgive me" he was as unapologetic as always for his tampering. "I'll put it right before I leave, if you wish."

"I don't know," she said shortly, and sighed, suddenly feeling all the hours of her day. "Jen Sar. We have to talk."

"Indeed we do." He rose, neat and supple, his grace making her feel even more disheveled and grimy.

"Come now," he said snatching the thought out of her head as he so often seemed to do, "I've had an hour to sit and recoup my strength after an evening with your daughter, while you are obviously new-come from some chancy venture." He tipped his head slightly. "Shall I pour wine while you refresh yourself? My topic will wait, if yours will."

A shower, her robe, and, after, wine in the garden with the stars spread above like some fantastical tapestry—Kamele spared a sigh for the impossible, and handed him the bottle.

"That is, hands down, the best thing anyone has said to me today." His eyebrows rose as he took the bottle and walked with her toward the dining alcove.

"A chancy venture, indeed," he murmured, so seriously that she had to laugh, though it sounded a little high in her own ears.

"I'll be out soon," she said, dropping her 'book on the counter. Jen Sar moved his shoulders. "You needn't rush on my account. I'll sit here quietly and plan my retreat."

That brought her around to frown at him.

"Jen Sar?"

He glanced up from his perusal of the wine label, face attentive. "Yes?"

"Why," Kamele asked, "did you gimmick the door?"

"Ah. Because the Chapelia have Theo's name and I couldn't be certain that they would not come here, since we had thwarted them at the gate. While your instruction that Theo not answer the door was sage, I felt it would be far less fatiguing for all if the door merely . . . discouraged visitors." Kamele felt her shoulders sag. "I didn't expect them to be that—wait!" She reviewed their conversation thus far, and unhappily concluded that at no time had he said that her daughter was home. It was important, when speaking with Jen Sar, to keep track of those things that had not been said, as well as those which had. In fifteen years, she had acquired some facility, but tonight she was so tired . . .

"Where," she asked firmly, "is Theo?"

He sighed, deeply. "It is my fate to be found an abuser of youth." Kamele took a breath. "Does that mean she's with some Simple, being—"

"It means that the child is asleep in her bed, with her cat on her pillow," he interrupted sharply. He threw his arms wide, theatrically. "I am altogether cast down and forlorn! Who could have supposed but that I would have been so incompetent as to allow a brace of unranked Simples to bear a child of my house away from beneath my very nose?"

Almost, she laughed, which was of course what he wanted her to do. She bit her lip and tried to look stern. "How much did you pay them?"

He gazed at her reproachfully. "Kamele, the exigencies of the day have disordered you. Surely you are aware that a mere male cannot buy a minor child from the Simples. That is for her mother to do."

"Yes . . ." she said, with strained patience. "So why didn't the Simple 'escort' her?"

"Because the Simples believe me to be Theo Waitley," he said, with the air of confessing all. He folded his hands before him and gazed up at her, his face bearing an expression of improbable innocence. Kamele closed her eyes. Opened them.

"I am going to take a shower," she said, enunciating every word clearly.

"An excellent plan," he answered gravely, and gave her a small bow.

•

Fifteen

University of Delgado

Faculty Residence Wall

Quadrant Eight, Building Two

Feeling considerably less grubby and somewhat refreshed, her hair in a loose damp cloud around her robed shoulders, Kamele paused to survey the dining nook.

Two places had been set, a disposable cup, plate, and napkin at each. The wine bottle was unsealed and sat ready to hand, as was a kaf-dispensed "hostess tray" of assorted crackers and cheeses. Jen Sar sat in what had already become "Theo's place" in Kamele's mind, his back against the wall and his attention almost palpably on his mumu. She loved to watch him this way, wrapt so close in thought that he seemed to quiver, oblivious to all and everyone around him.

Of course, Jen Sar was never entirely oblivious to his surroundings.

He looked up, blinking as if just roused from a pleasant sleep, and gave her a dreamy smile.

"There now, that's more in the mode."

She laughed slightly and slipped onto her stool. "You have a very odd idea of mode, sir."

"No, there you are out!" he answered. "I have an expert's idea of mode." He reached for the bottle, the twisted silver ring that he never took off gleaming on his smallest finger.

"Wine?"

"Please," she said with feeling.

"This day of yours begins to take on the proportions of an epic," he murmured, pouring for them both. "Or was every sweet fruit served at the late meeting?"

Kamele took the cup from him and sipped, womanfully not wrinkling her nose at the taste. She had gotten much too accustomed to Jen Sar's wines, purchased from a merchant in Efraim, who imported cases from mountainous Alpensward. Jen Sar's draw, as the Gallowglass Professor of Cultural Genetics, was dizzying levels above hers as a newly minted full professor, even counting the absent sub-chair's percentage. The annual bonus he inevitably collected for his part in attracting quality students to the associated colleges comprising Delgado University didn't hurt either.

Carefully, she sipped her wine, hoping it would taste less dreadful this time. It had been a long time since she'd chivvied herself for resting comfortable on the laurels of her onagrata. She must be more tired than she'd thought.

"The day," she said, putting her cup down, "was long. The meeting," she looked into Jen Sar's attentive face, "was both unexpected and . . . horrifying."

"Dear me." He pushed the cheese tray toward her. "Please, fortify yourself and tell all."

"I think you would have needed to be present for the full impact of the horror," she said, absently choosing a pepper cracker and a slice of soy cheese. "The telling of it is short enough: Flandin—the forensics team believes it was Flandin, and I hope their instinct is right. I'm really not equipped to handle a university-wide conspiracy! But, the sum is that Flandin appears to have gotten into the college's archives and altered the documents on file to match the citations published in her papers."

"I'll allow that to be terrifying." Jen Sar sipped his wine; Kamele thought he put the cup down with a bit more alacrity than usual. "How was the deed discovered, if the source matched the cite?"

"Professor Beltaire is an expert in the subject of one of the . . . falsified cites. She had her own copies of the material held in the archives."

Jen Sar tipped his head. "Copies."

"Yes, precisely. The originals are on Melchiza."

"Ah." He gathered up a cracker and a bit of cheese.

"Professor Beltaire describes herself as too elderly to undertake the journey," Kamele said, glancing at her cup and then away. "I think there may be some . . . political . . . anxieties there, too. Crowley will go, and Able."

Jen Sar sent her a sideways glance from beneath thick dark lashes. "And yourself?"

"Oh, yes," Kamele said, grimly. "I'm going. After all, I started this; it's up to me to see it done, and done correctly." She rubbed her eyes and against her better judgment reached again for the wine cup.

"Which brings me to my topic. I'd like to leave Theo with you while I'm gone." Both eyebrows rose—never a good sign—and a shadow of what might have been shock passed over his face.

"Leave Theo with me!" he exclaimed.

She raised a hand. "I'll take care of the paperwork, if you agree. Normally, of course, I would leave her with Ella, but after this evening—" Her voice caught and she looked away, raising the cup for a swallow of wine.

"Ella, this evening," she told the tabletop, unable to quite meet Jen Sar's eyes; "counseled me to accept the Safety Office's therapy for Theo. For the good of my career." Jen Sar would hear the hurt in her voice, and she was sorry for it. He and Ella had never become comfortable with each other, though they tried, for her sake. But Ella—she and Ella had been friends since secondary school; they'd shared junior scholar quarters in the Lower Wall. In the normal way of things, Ella would have been Theo's secondmother, as involved in her education and well-being as Kamele herself . . .

"I can't leave Theo with Ella," she finished, finally raising her eyes to meet his.

"I understand," he murmured. "Certainly you would not wish to place your daughter into a position of potential peril." He frowned slightly. "What I fail to understand is why you must leave Theo on Delgado." She stared at him. "But—take Theo to Melchiza?"

"Melchiza is hardly the end of the galaxy," Jen Sar observed dryly.

"I . . . Her education; I'd have to remove her from her team just when she's coming to understand consensus. She'd miss—"

"I do not for a moment believe," he interrupted, "that Professor Kamele Waitley would find the oversight of her minor daughter's education inconvenient in the least. Surely the school will provide a curricula, exercises, reading lists, self-tests."

"I—"

"Kamele . . ." He extended a hand and put it over hers. "Think! This solves—many problems. It preserves custom, removes Theo from peril, and expands both your base and hers. Sub-chair Waitley of course accompanies the forensic team on its mission. Of course she has her daughter, the precocious and alarming Theo, at her side. It is mete. Theo is, after all, expected to follow her mother's path. Such a trip, with its insights into collegial collaboration and the ethics of scholarship must be invaluable to her education."

He did make it sound a like a tenured opportunity, Kamele thought. She sat back, delicately slipping her hand out from beneath his.

"Speaking of expanding bases," she murmured pointedly, and had the rare opportunity of seeing him chagrined.

"Your pardon." He inclined his head briefly, then looked into her eyes. "Over-enthusiasm aside, it does answer many difficulties."

She sipped her wine, considering. "It seems to," she said slowly. "But when we come home—Jen Sar, she'd be odder than ever! And an absence will give the Safety Office time to write a recommendation. Without me here to deny it—"

"Yes—exactly so. Which is why you will be canny and schedule her Gigneri immediately you are both returned."

Kamele stared at him. A sister's understanding, indeed! she thought, anger sparking.

"She's too young!" she snapped. "If I won't drug my daughter for expedience, what makes you think that I'll push her into a—"

"Allow me to be utterly sympathetic to your concern," he interrupted. He pulled out his mumu and tapped the screen.

"I put my time to profit while awaiting your return," he said. "And I find that—you may contrive."

"Excuse me?"

"There's a loophole," he explained, putting the mumu on the table before her, pointing at the screen.

"Look."

"As recently as fifty years ago, the Gigneri and the First Pair were distinct as rites of passage. First, one is entrusted with the full tale of one's genes. Then, when one has had a bit of time to adjust and to—expand one's base—one fully participates in a celebration of joy, as a new and potent adult." He sat back. " Much more rational than piling every shock and discovery into one event." Kamele listened to him with one ear while she read his précis.

"You might remember that I told you of my mother's best friend," she murmured, most of her mind on reading. "She came from Alpensward, where they kept to the older ways." She looked up, eyes bright.

"She was a secondmother to me, and I miss her still."

"I remember." Jen Sar smiled. "What better tribute to her memory than to induct your daughter into adulthood as she would have wished?"

Kamele nodded, chewing her lip, then handed the mumu back to him. "Send me the cites, if you will."

"Of course." He touched a quick series of keys. "Done."

"Thank you." She reached for another cracker and some cheese.

"When will the committee depart?" Jen Sar asked.

Kamele sighed. "We need to get Hafley's approval, the dean's approval, the directors' approval, then the Bursar's office—you know the procedure. We could have something in two days—or by the end of the semester."

He nodded, looking thoughtful.

"I believe, then, that we must address my topic." He gave her a wry look. "I do know that it is late, but I must plead necessity."

Necessity, as Kamele had learned, was not invoked lightly. For Jen Sar to do so must signal an overwhelming concern.

She nodded, and held out her cup. "Pour, then speak."

He poured, going so far as to refresh his own cup, though the wine must be even more dreadful for him, Kamele thought, than for her. He did not, however, immediately speak, but sat for some few moments, his hands curled 'round his cup, staring into the unsatisfactory depths. Kamele sipped, and recruited herself to patience.

At last, he looked up.

"Theo has given me what I believe to be the round tale of her last few encounters with the Safety Office," he said slowly. "In addition, this evening I took the liberty of administering a few very small tests of physical reaction." He paused, looking at her.

Kamele nodded for him to continue.

"Based on Theo's report and my own tests, I believe her to be . . . quite near to that point we had discussed previously, where all of her powers align. In my view of the matter, it would be . . . tragic for the Safety Office to be allowed to interfere at this juncture. I therefore proposed to Theo, and now to you, that she enroll in a dance class."

"A—dance class," Kamele repeated, blinking at him. Had she drunk that much wine, she wondered?

But, no; Jen Sar's points were often oblique. "Please explain."

"Gladly. Dance is a marriage of mind, body, and—soul, if you will. Taking such a class will demonstrate to the Safety Office that you are seeking to treat Theo's 'agility problems.' Indeed, dance is a well-documented therapy for clumsiness and certain so-called 'physical limitations.'•"

"It is," Kamele noted, "mid-term. And I'm afraid, my friend, that I am not acquainted with anyone in Dance."

"But I am," Jen Sar said, not altogether surprisingly. "I have this evening been in communication with Visiting Expert of Dance Professor Noni, who tells me that she has room for a novice in her Practical Dance class, and will be pleased to send the student's mother the necessary card." Kamele shook her head. Jen Sar did meddle, though usually not so blatantly as this. He must, she thought, be very worried.

"If Professor Noni will still agree to include Theo in her class after she is informed of the . . . uncertainty of her continued attendance," she said slowly, "I'll be pleased to receive the card and to approve the change in my daughter's academic schedule."

"I will relay that message to her." He picked up his mumu, tapped a rapid message, thumbed send, and slipped the device away.

"Thank you, Jen Sar," Kamele said, and smiled when he looked up. "It's late," she added.

". . . and neither propriety nor our current circumstances allows me to remain for what is left of the night," he finished lightly, and slid to his feet. "I believe I may repair to my office and get some work done. Do you think you will have the matter with the Chapelia settled by the time I leave the Wall . . . later today?"

"Yes; I'll take care of it first thing," she promised, slipping off her stool and walking with him to the door. "Was Theo—very alarmed?"

"Curious, rather. Though . . ." He paused and turned to face her. "I fear that I have made a misstep. She now knows that it's possible to turn off the emitter."

"Oh," Kamele said, feeling slightly giddy, "no!"

"I trust it will take her a few days at least to puzzle out the method."

"A few days—" She looked at him helplessly, then giggled.

"Well," she said. "It ought to keep her out of trouble." She giggled again and shook her head.

"Indeed it ought," Jen Sar said solemnly, and touched her cheek, very briefly.

"Good-night, Kamele. Sleep well."

•

Sixteen

Number Twelve Leafydale Place

Greensward-by-Efraim

Delgado

Kamele spun on her toes in the center of the common room, looking down into the floor mosaic. Leaves, and birds, and cunning furred animals moved beneath her feet.

She laughed as Jen Sar came into the room, wine glasses in hand. "I thought you said small." He lifted an eyebrow and looked about, as if just discovering his environment.

"Small," he said, stepping forward and offering her a glass, "is a relative term. The house I grew up in was larger." He looked about again, and bowed gently. "Many times larger, in fact." He sipped wine. "Of course, it enclosed the clan entire."

Liad, Kamele thought, raising her own glass, was certainly a strange place, with an abundance of odd customs. She would have gladly heard more of those customs, but Jen Sar was disinclined to talk much about the world he had left. Kamele theorized some disagreement with the directors of his kin group, which had resulted in his taking up the role of traveling scholar, until nomination to the Gallowglass Chair brought him to Delgado.

"Can you see the stars from your garden?" she teased him.

"I can and I do," he answered with a gravity that was belied by the quirk of a brow. "Shall I show you?"

She hesitated, belatedly covering her hesitation with another sip of wine. "That would be lovely," she murmured, "but the stars rise late, don't they? I need to be back to the Wall before—"

"Yes, of course." He hitched a hip onto the arm of the couch and looked about him, glass held casually in long, clever fingers, the silver ring a sly gleam against his golden skin. Kamele bit her lip and walked over to sit on the couch near his perch. He looked down at her, smiling, and her stomach tightened.

Her friendship with Jen Sar Kiladi had grown deeper over the last two semesters; the pleasure she took in his company as surprising as it was satisfying. But Ella was right, she acknowledged. Satisfying as it was, it was time to alter their relationship, or cut the association entirely. People were beginning to talk, the more so since Jen Sar had declined Professor Skilings' offer. She'd heard from Skilings' assistant, who had been working, forgotten, in the next room when the offer was made, that Jen Sar had professed himself honored, obliged, and desolated not to be able to accommodate her. Skilings had not been pleased. No one had ever turned her down, not, so rumor went, since she'd moved to Topthree. Mortified, she had looked about her for a reason for Jen Sar's refusal—and her eye had inevitably fallen on Associate Professor Kamele Waitley, who spent a great deal of time in the company of a very senior scholar. And, as Ella so reasonably pointed out, Kamele could not afford to have Skilings as an enemy.

It would be best for everyone, Ella said, for Kamele to end the friendship. Ella, Kamele reminded herself, liked pretty men.

"Jen Sar . . ." she began, sounding breathless to herself.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Yes, my friend?"

"I . . . that is . . ." Her voice failed her entirely, and she looked away, biting her lip. It wasn't as if she was inexperienced! She'd had two previous onagrata, not counting her Gigneri pairing—and here she was acting like a green girl, stumbling over her first offer!

"Kamele?" Jen Sar's deep voice carried concern. "Are you well?"

"Yes, I—yes." She leaned forward and awkwardly put the wine glass on the side table with a bit of a clatter, then turned to face him, looking up into his sharp, unhandsome face. She took a breath.

"Jen Sar," she said firmly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "It would be . . . an honor to accept you as onagrata."

Both eyebrows rose, his lips parted—and then there was that moment of arrested movement that had become familiar to her, and the odd feeling that Jen Sar had . . . stepped away . . . from himself. Abruptly, he smiled, a sweet, open expression she had never before seen from him. He leaned forward and put his glass next to hers on the table.

" Tra'sia, cha'leken! " he said gladly, and bent down to kiss her on the mouth. Strictly speaking, she should have initiated the kiss, but Kamele found she didn't mind that he had taken the lead. Indeed, it was some time before she could speak, and some little while more until she cared to.

"What did you say?" she asked eventually, her cheek snuggled against his shoulder. "Before you . . . kissed me?"

Jen Sar sighed lightly, ruffling her hair.

"A Liaden—expression of joy," he murmured, sounding . . . chagrined. Kamele laughed, and reached for him again.

•

Seventeen

Leisure and Recreation Studies: Practical Dance

Professor Stephen M. Richardson Secondary School

University of Delgado

Dance was . . . unexpectedly interesting.

She'd had to swap out of the multi-Team free study session, which meant having to do more of her solo work after school, but, Theo acknowledged, that wasn't exactly a burden, since she was grounded, anyway.

But dance . . . it was like math, and lace making, and scavage, all together; and it was almost like the patterns she saw in her head. Better even than that, she thought as she stripped out of her Team coveralls and pulled on the clingy leggings and stretchy sleeveless shirt, once everybody in the class had the pattern down, they all did what they were supposed to do, when they were supposed to do it, and nobody got hurt, or fell, or bumped into anybody else.

Not even her. Theo Waitley, the clumsiest kid in Fourth Form.

She grabbed the bit of lace out of her bag, slammed the locker and headed for the dance floor. Bek was already there, propped up on an elbow and doing lazy leg lifts. She dropped cross-legged to the floor next to him.

"Hey, Theo." He gave her a friendly nod, like he always did. Bek had been in class since the beginning of the term, and he was good; one demo was all he ever needed to pick up a dance move. She wouldn't have blamed him for being annoyed that Professor Noni had teamed him with the new kid. Instead, he actually seemed happy to have her as a partner.

"What've you got there?" he asked, sitting up in a boneless move that reminded her of Father.

"This?" She held the lacy web outstretched on her fingertips. "It's a dance."

"Really." He leaned forward, gray eyes slightly narrowed as he traced the connections. "I'm not sure I see—oh! It's the new suwello module we started last time! I can see the wave . . ." He extended a careful finger and traced the line. "And here's where we all spin out into a circle . . ." Bek sat back, grinning, and running his fingers through his heavy yellow hair. "That's pretty smart. How'd you think of it?"

"Well . . ." Theo bit her lip. "I make lace for a—for something to do with my hands. And I was thinking about how dancing was like math and like making lace, so I—what's wrong?" Bek was staring at her. " Dance is like math, " he repeated, and shook his head. "What an idea!"

"But it is!" Theo said, surprised, and then looked at him closely. "You're joking, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not joking," he assured her. "Dance is an escape from math!"

"But you're so good at it! Dance, I mean."

"That's because," Bek said patiently, "dance is nothing like math." He put his hand over his heart.

"Two repeats and four remedials in Fractal Trigonometry. I'm not wrong about this, Theo."

"What is it, then?" she demanded. "If it's not math?" Bek looked surprised. "A conversation," he said, reasonably. "What else?"

"A—"

"Well, well!" Professor Noni's high and somewhat unpleasant voice cut across Theo's response. "I don't know whether to be delighted or horrified to hear that the argument between theory and art continues unabated. The heat death of the universe will doubtless find them arguing still." She clapped her hands. "Everyone up! Stretches! Sequence Five!"

* * *

"Ms. Waitley, stand forward, if you please," Professor Noni said. "I need your assistance in a demonstration."

Theo blinked. Professor Noni always called on Bek and on Lida—the class's lead students—to assist during demos. To call on the newest student— I've only had eight classes! Theo thought, her fingers tightening on the bit of lace.

"Go on, Theo. You'll do great." Bek leaned over and worked the lace free. "I'll hold this for you."

"I am waiting, Ms. Waitley."

"Yes, ma'am!" Theo took a deep breath and stepped forward. She met Professor Noni's eyes and consciously straightened her shoulders.

The dance professor's lips bent in one of her chilly smiles. "A good stance from which to begin almost anything," she said. "Now, Ms. Waitley, what I want you to do is . . . answer me." Theo blinked. " Answer you, ma'am?"

"Precisely. Dance, as Mr. Tehruda has expressed it, might be seen as a conversation. I will make a

'statement' and you will answer me, whereupon I will reply, and so on, until our conversation is by mutual agreement, completed." She inclined her head.

"Or, to put it another way; I will propose a equation, you will refine it, and we will collaborate until we have achieved agreement. Now. Attend me."

Theo watched worriedly as Professor Noni moved her left foot forward, back-extending her right leg, and raised her right arm until it was a straight line from her shoulder, hand bent at a right angle, fingers pointing toward the ceiling. And that was a completely familiar move; nothing other than the opening move in Stretch Sequence Three. Theo relaxed into the second move in the sequence, dropping back on the right leg, stretching the left in front, bringing her left arm up to join the right. Professor Noni moved into the third phrase, Theo answered with the fourth, and Professor Noni responded, a little more quickly. The room and the small noises made by her classmates as they watched faded from Theo's attention, as she concentrated on the moves—statement, answer, statement, response. At some point they left the familiar stretches; at some point, they sped up. Theo barely noticed, her mind's eye filled with the pattern they made as it would become, while her body responded to the pattern as it was now.

They moved, describing circles and squares; they approached, retreated, sidestepped, and the conversation went on, and on . . .

Professor Noni spun on a toe and lunged. Theo leapt, spinning—and suddenly the pattern in her head and the pattern of the dance diverged. All during the dance they had maintained a distance of between six and eight steps, and now—

Now, they were going to be too far apart!

Theo twisted, lunging in an attempt to mend the error, while the pattern in her head shattered and flew apart. Professor Noni skipped to one side, spun lightly and came to rest, feet flat and hands folded. Theo staggered and went down hard on one knee.

"Enough!" The dance instructor raised her hand. She was, Theo saw, breathing hard, and visibly sweating. Now that she was noticing, she was sweaty, too, and taking deep breaths.

"Tell me, Ms. Waitley—why did you correct your statement?"

"I'd . . . miscalculated," Theo gasped. "We'd been dancing at the same distance, and suddenly we were going to be farther apart . . ."

"I see. And yet it is . . . a natural human interaction—to come together, to part, to meet again." Professor Noni paused, then nodded. "Despite that last . . . miscalculation—I am impressed, Ms. Waitley. A very interesting conversation, indeed!"

The second bell on the session sounded then, startlingly loud. The professor looked out at the rest of the class, sitting so still they hardly seemed to be breathing. Bek's grin was so wide Theo thought his face must hurt.

"We break for an eighth," Professor Noni said. "Be ready to dance the suwello when you return, students."

* * *

Dancing the suwello really woke you up, Theo thought, as she finished sealing her coveralls. She felt—she felt like she was—like she was smooth; like all her muscles were moving in sync. And that was an . . . interesting thought. She paused with her dance clothes in her hand, staring down into the depths of her bag, thinking.

Did her muscles usually feel like they weren't working together? No, she decided after a moment; mostly she felt like she was . . . stiff, and so afraid of tripping somebody else up, that—

"•'Bye, Theo!" Lida called, interrupting her ruminations.

She looked up as the older girl and her two friends moved past on their way to the door.

"•'Bye," she said, giving the three of them a nod and a smile. "Looking forward to next time." Jinny—the tallest—grinned. "Me, too! The suwello sure does sharpen you up!" The three of them laughed and hurried by. Theo blinked at the dance clothes still in her hand, quickly stuffed them in her bag, sealed it, and headed for the exit, moving quick and smooth. Bek was lounging against the wall across from the dressing room. Theo grinned. When he wasn't dancing, Bek looked lazy and boneless, like an especially spoiled cat. Like a cat, though, once he started to move, it was was with precision and strength.

Like now. He straightened out his lean and swung in beside her, matching steps like they'd practiced the whole thing.

"Hey, Theo, where do you go now?"

"Home," she said, feeling a little of the spring drop out of her step. "Over in Quad Eight."

"Mind if I come with you part of the way? I've got a tutorial over in Merton." She looked at him from beneath her lashes. "Fractal Trig?"

"Oh, no!" Bek said cheerfully. "I'm out of Fractal Trig. My mentor got me a 'change into Consumer Math. I started mid-mester, so I've got to do the make-ups, that's all." They came to the belt station and went up the ramp, walking light and quick, and stepped onto the belt still in sync, without even the breath of a boggle. Theo sighed in pure pleasure.

"You going to the Saltation on Venta?"

"To what?"

Bek blinked. "The Saltation. Started I don't know how long ago. All us dancers get together and—dance. There's freeform, and competitions, and—you'd like it, Theo." She looked at him doubtfully.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "I wouldn't know anybody, and I'm not really a dancer—I mean, I just started, and I don't know any of the dances, really."

"You're a natural!" he told her, eyes sparkling. "And today—Professor Noni was testing you—you know that, don't you? And she said she was impressed. I don't think I've ever heard her say that to anybody before."

"But you—"

"I've been taking dance whenever I had a free-study since I was a littlie," Bek interrupted. "But you, you just came in cold, and picked up the moves really fast. You're already better than Jinny, and she's been taking dance as long as I have!"

Theo laughed.

"What's funny?"

"You are—no, I am!" She shook her head, and laughed again. "Bek, I've got at least a thousand notes in my file saying that I'm physically challenged. I bump into people and trip over things that aren't there."

"Really?" He shrugged. "Looks like dance is just what you need, then." He took a breath. "So," he said, speaking a little too quick; "I'll be going to the Saltation." Theo looked at him, seeing the tinge of pink along his cheeks. Her stomach tightened. Bek wanted her to go—as his partner? He'd said there were competitions. But he was being polite, giving her a hint, and hoping she'd ask him . . .

"I—" she cleared her throat. "I have to ask my mother," she admitted, feeling like a littlie, herself. She met Bek's eyes and felt her mouth twist into a half-smile. "I'm grounded for the rest of the 'mester, except for school and teamplay and . . . some appointments."

Bek smiled. "Tell her it's for extra cred."

"Is it?"

"Well—Professor Noni comes sometimes."

"I'll ask Kamele," Theo said, suddenly decisive. "If—if she okays it, I'd . . . I'd like you to come with me, Bek."

His smile got wider, and his cheeks got pinker. "I'd like that. A lot." He looked around. "My stop's coming up. Text me, Theo, Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed, her stomach still tight and her head feeling light. "G'night, Bek!"

"•'Night!" He swung off the belt and jogged down the ramp.

Theo looked down at her feet—and smiled.

•

Eighteen

University of Delgado

Faculty Residence Wall

Quadrant Eight, Building Two

Kamele had a meeting. Again.

Theo sighed. She was still feeling . . . sharp . . . from dance—and she wanted to talk to Kamele about the Saltation. Maybe it would be good for her to go, she thought. It would show the Safety Office that she was taking her responsibilities to society seriously. And if she and Bek won a competition, then wouldn't that show them that she was getting better?

She'd put the argument to Kamele that way. If she ever came home.

Theo shoved her mumu into its pocket, and danced a few suwello steps on her way down the hall. In the kitchen, she drew a soy cheese sandwich and a cup of juice from the kaf and carried them back to her room.

Coyster was curled up in the center of the rug, more or less, snoring with his tail over his nose. Theo grinned and sat down at her desk. She had a response paper to write for Advertence and some math problems to finish up.

After that, she thought, touching the keys lightly, she'd have another go at finding the turn-off code for her mumu. That project had gotten so frustrating that she'd put it aside, to "let it grow some leaves," as Father said. She realized now that she'd started with the wrong set of assumptions. She'd expected it to be easy—and maybe it was, once you figured out the trick. But figuring it out—that had to be hard. If it wasn't, then everybody would turn their mumus off, and the Simple at the gate wouldn't have been fooled at all.

There was another suspicious circumstance, Theo thought darkly. Even though they'd had several Oktavi dinners together since the Simple called her name, Father hadn't once asked her about her progress with her mumu, though he must've known she'd try to find out how to turn it off. Of course, she hadn't mentioned it, either. She was going to figure it out herself, and not ask Father for help.

Not that he was likely to tell her.

"Solos first," she said aloud, scrolling through what she'd already written while she had a bite of her sandwich. Father would say that it was disrespectful of the food to concentrate on work while one ate. On the other hand, she thought, going back to double-check a secondary cite, Father had probably never tasted soy cheese out of the kaf.

The cite checked. Good. Halfway through Social Engineering, she'd been struck with the conviction that she'd flubbed it—or misunderstood the content. She put the sandwich back on its plate and began to type.

She was sipping juice and rereading her response, tweaking words and patching sentences, when a flicker of green tickled her peripheral vision. Frowning, she looked down at the bottom left corner of the screen, and the dark green Serpent of Knowledge.

Chewing her lip, Theo considered the icon. None of the rest of the Team had gotten a mystery assignment; she'd asked. She'd even gone back through Professor Wilit's public class notes, and there was no mention of solo assignments made on the date the Serpent icon had first showed up on her screen.

All that being so, and after giving it some careful thought, Theo had deleted the icon. And now it was back, pulsating gently while it waited for her attention. Well, she thought, it could just wait, that was what. She had other things in queue before it. Determinedly, she turned her attention back to her response paper, finished the editing and saved it before opening her math solos.

Despite Lesset's repeated claims during their commute between classes, the problems weren't hard. In fact, Theo thought, as she double-checked her work, they'd been kind of boring. Sighing, she closed her math space.

The Serpent icon was still there at the corner of the main screen. Waiting. Theo stuck her tongue out at it. Pulling her mumu from her pocket, she dropped to the rug next to Coyster, who stretched out of his curl, and relaxed bonelessly, licking his nose, all without opening his eyes. Theo tapped her mumu on and called up the advanced diagnostic. The one thing she had figured out, before she'd gotten too angry to think, was how to circumvent the self-test program. Which hadn't been particularly easy to do. If she'd been even a little advertent, that would have told her that the rest of the problem was going to be tricky.

"The thing is," she told Coyster, "that the trigger has to be something simple—on and off. Because, if you're never on the grid, somebody'll notice. So it needs to be fast, so you can go off-line immediately in an emergency—and come back just as fast. Or faster."

Coyster yawned. Noisily.

"You just feel that way because you don't have a collar that tells everybody where you are all the time. Think if you were a dog."

Coyster opened one eye, glared at her pointedly, and closed it.

"Sorry." Theo turned her attention back to the mumu.

The key had to be in the advanced diagnostic, she told herself for the eighty-eighth time. She tapped the toolbox open and sat frowning at her choices:

ISOBIOS

Grid Calibration

Schedule

Unitize

Cloud Absorb

None of the sub-routines was helpfully labeled Turn-off ID emission. In fact, there was no mention of the ID-shouter at all, though every kid knew that their mother could track them through their mumu. You only had to be where you weren't supposed to be once, for that lesson to stick. Frowning, Theo touched Schedule, even though she knew the list of sub-routines by heart. Schedule a self-test, schedule a back•up, schedule a grid calibration. Grumbling to herself, she chose schedule a self-test and glared down at the next set of choices: diagnostic or complete?

"Chaos-driven, nidjit programs . . ." Theo muttered—and froze. She'd been through this screen dozens of times. Why was it only now that she wondered what exactly a complete self-test was?

Cautiously, she made her choice.

Her mumu emitted a strident, drawn-out beep. Coyster flicked an ear and put his paw over his nose. On the screen, words appeared, limned in orange.

This diagnostic will thoroughly test every resident system. Several functions may be unavailable or taken off-line during diagnosis. These include any function that requires syncing with the local Cloud or Grid. Voice messaging will remain unaffected. Theo held her breath.

Do you wish to continue? Yes/No

She touched yes.

The next screen was a configuration chart. She could, Theo quickly learned, instruct her mumu to conduct up to sixteen consecutive test sessions. She could also dedicate a key combination to initiate testing from outside of the diagnostic program, though she was warned to choose a nonintuitive combination, so that a test session would not begin in error.

"I found it," Theo breathed to Coyster, who greeted this information with no visible sign of awe, joy—or even consciousness.

She thought for a moment, staring at the mumu's keypad and thinking about combinations that were easy to code, but that she wouldn't likely hit by accident. Finally, and deliberately, she keyed in the trigger combo. After further consideration, she set the loop to nine consecutive checks, reasoning that she could hit the hot keys again, if she needed more time off-grid.

Needed for what was a question she had been studiously not asking herself, even as she had pursued the answer to the puzzle. Instead, she reminded herself that the Simple at the door would have taken her under study if Father hadn't been prepared. Being prepared was very close to thinking ahead, and it seemed to her that an advertent scholar—which Father demonstrably was—ought always to be prepared.

"I should test it," she said, holding the mumu in her hand. It wouldn't be thinking ahead if she just assumed it was going to work. In fact, it would be wishful thinking, which was almost as bad as making excuses.

"How?" she asked, putting the mumu on Coyster's side. His skin rippled in protest, and he flicked his ears, but he didn't bother to open his eyes.

Obviously, she didn't want to just vanish off the grid; even she could see that would be reckless. She might, she guessed, tell Kamele what she'd done and ask for her help, in the spirit of scholarly exploration.

On second thought, that wasn't such a good idea. Theo plucked the mumu off of Coyster and held it in her hand, staring down into the screen. She'd wait until Oktavi, she thought, and ask Father to check her. That was fair. In a sense, she'd gotten the assignment from him.

It wasn't the best solution—she wanted to test her work right now, and Oktavi was days away. On the other hand, it would have to do; and anyway, it wasn't like she planned on actually using it; it was only a precaution. In the meantime, she had more than enough to keep her busy—worrying about the Review Board for one, and why they'd asked for an extension to decide her case. Kamele seemed to think that the extended time for additional discovery and deliberation was good news. Theo—or, at least, her stomach—thought otherwise.

She could also, she told herself firmly, think about dance, work on her lace, and do extra-credit solos.

And, if she got bored, she could see about scrubbing the Serpent icon and the program that generated it from her school book.

As a matter of fact, she had an idea about that.

She rolled to her feet and approached the desk. The Serpent of Knowledge was still down in the left hand corner, still pulsing, oh-so-patiently waiting for her attention.

Sighing, Theo slid into the chair and tapped the icon. Once.

A menu bar appeared in the center of her screen.

• Theory, Annotated

• Safety Office History, Delgado University

• Surveillance History, Delgado

• Map, Interior

• Map, Exterior

• Timetable, Real Time

• Algorithm

Theo blinked.

Whatever it was, the Serpent had done exactly what she'd asked it to do, and more thoroughly than any search program she'd ever used. She bit her lip, one hand fisted on her knee, the other hovering over the selection key.

There isn't, she thought, any assignment.

On the other hand, she was interested in the information. So what if there wasn't an assignment?

Information for its own sake was—

"Theo?" Kamele's voice echoed down the hallway. "I'm home! I hope you're hungry!"

* * *

"Admin has okayed the trip," Kamele said, sounding tired and relieved and anxious all at once. At least she was eating, Theo thought, helping herself to another slice of spice bread with veggie-paste stuffing. 'Course, it was hard to turn down spice bread.

"When will you be leaving?" Theo asked, trying to remember where Melchiza was, exactly, with reference to Delgado.

"The in-time to make the next outgoing liner—call it two days," Kamele murmured, and Theo put her bread down, staring.

"That's, um . . . really soon," she managed.

Kamele nodded. "It is. We're very fortunate that Vashtara is due in at the station, and has room for passengers."

Theo chewed her lip. "How long—how long will you be gone?" She'd stayed with Lesset for a day or two at a time when Kamele and Father had gone on short trips, just like Lesset had stayed with her when her mother went away.

At least twice, Theo had stayed with Aunt Ella in her cluttered apartment, while Kamele and Father traveled.

"The return trip may be a day or two sooner or later, depending on transition links. I thing we ought to assume most of two hundred days."

Theo sat back on the stool, a gone feeling in her stomach.

"Close your mouth, Theo. You look like one of Jen Sar's prize fish." Kamele had a bite of spice bread.

"You're going to be gone—" I'll miss you! Theo thought, and blinked her eyes to clear a sudden start of tears. She cleared her throat, and tried to sound calm and matter-of-fact. "I guess I'll be staying with Aunt Ella, then."

"Oh, no." Kamele shook her head and reached for her cup. "You'll be coming with me." Theo gasped.

"Coming—to Melchiza?" she repeated. "I can't go to Melchiza!" Kamele looked up. "Of course you can. Tomorrow, you'll file for solo studies from your teachers; I've already transmitted my authorization. I have an info packet from Vashtara, which I'll send along to you; they include guidelines for what and how to pack. Your immunizations are up-to-date, but they'll screen us on-station, anyway." She paused, looking at Theo consideringly. "Coyster will need to go live with Professor Kiladi. I'm afraid cats aren't allowed on cruise ships." She was going to strangle, Theo thought, around the buzzing in her ears. Her chest was tight and she was suddenly very sorry that she'd eaten quite so much spice bread.

"But, I can't! Not for—what about dance? There's a freeform that I wanted to dance in on Venta, Bek—What about the Review Board? I—why can't I stay with Father, too?"

"Because you're not a cat," Kamele said crisply. "Really, Theo. You're behaving as if this were a punishment instead of an opportunity to learn."

"I don't," Theo said breathlessly, " want to learn." That was stupid. She knew it the second the words tumbled out of her mouth. But of course, it was too late to call them back.

Kamele shook her head. "The situation is quite settled, Theo. Whining isn't going to change it. I must say, however, that I'd never expected to hear my daughter say that she doesn't want to learn." Theo bit her lip. "Kamele—"

Her mother raised a hand. "It's a shock, I know. Very sudden. Unfortunately, there's nothing to be done. I suggest that you sleep on it."

•

Nineteen

Number Twelve Leafydale Place

Greensward-by-Efraim

Delgado

The article was finished, polished, and on its way to the journal that had commissioned it; all of the mid-term student papers had been perused, marked up, and returned to their authors, who would hopefully learn something from his comments. He had finished reading his entire backlog of journals, and was now reclined in his chair, one ear on the audio from the Orbital Traffic Scanner, and both eyes closed.

"Truly," he murmured to Mandrin, who was napping in her usual spot on the desk, "it's nothing short of amazing what one can accomplish when one is unencumbered by child and mistress." Mandrin vouchsafed no reply to this observation, if indeed she heard him. Indolent creatures, cats. Well.

" Scallion, " the OTS crackled around the permanently irritated voice of the second shift master on Delgado Station. "If your vee isn't adjusted by my next refresh, that's a megadex fine."

"Ain't nothing the matter with our vee, Station Master, 'cept a big, griefen cruise ship in the way."

"If you wanna pay the fine, Scallion, that's—"

"This is Vashtara, out of Ibenvue." The new voice was crisp, no-nonsense and bore a heavy accent that was neither Liaden nor Standard Terran. "I infer that it is we who have muddled the station master's calculations. It is suggested that the pilot of the ship Scallion bring the vessel to a slightly tangential course which retains the precious vee, perhaps on the propitious heading oh-two-seven, oh-four-seven, oh-eight-seven. This heading will avoid holing the big, griefen cruise ship, which will please me perhaps even more than it will please Scallion."

There was a pause, while pilot and station master likely did their math, then the rather subdued voice of Scallion' s pilot. "That's good to do it. Station Master?" The sigh was audible even through the static. "Adopt and amend course, Scallion." Jen Sar Kiladi shifted in his chair, lazily considering the exchange. The pilot of the Vashtara had been

. . . marginally within her melant'i. That she had broadcast the amended course, rather than beaming a private suggestion to the station master hinted at deeper tensions between cruise ship and station. He frowned slightly. Ibenvue, was it? He had lately been reading some interesting news out of—

From downstairs . . . a sound.

The man in the chair opened his eyes and came silently to his feet. On the corner of the desk, Mandrin had raised her head, ears pricked, staring at the doorway.

The sound came again, stealthily. The sound of the garden door. Being closed. Silent, he glided across the revolving star fields, plucking the Gallowglass cane from its place near the door as he passed through. He paused in the shadow at the top of the stairs, the stick held cross-body at waist level, fingers curved 'round the handle.

Quiet footsteps came from below, and the sound of soft, irregular breathing. He took a breath himself, deep and deliberate—and waited.

On Delgado, a handgun was unlikely. On Delgado, let it be known, sneaking into a house uninvited was all but unheard of. Which meant that he might in a moment face someone desperate to the point of foolhardiness.

Or a professional. He wondered, briefly, if he were any longer the equal of a professional. The footsteps passed from carpet to wood—and did not strike the tuned board. He let the point of the stick go, free hand flashing out to the switch as Mandrin rushed past him, taking the stairs in one long leap. The hall light flared from dim to brilliant. At the bottom of the flight, a thin figure with pale, wind-knotted hair threw an unsteady hand up to shield her eyes.

"Ow," she said. And, then, as Mandrin hurled herself against canvas-clad knees. "Hey." At the top of the stairs, he took a careful breath, and if he leaned a moment on the cane, it was not . .

. only . . . to be certain that the blade was well-seated.

"Good evening, Theo," he said— Calmly, he cautioned himself; the child's half-frantic already. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?"

She blinked up at him, dark eyes wide and cheeks reddened with cold. "I have to talk to you," she said, her voice wobbling, though he thought it was adrenaline, rather than fright. "I—Necessity, Father." He sighed quietly, and inclined his head.

"An appeal to necessity must of course be honored," he acknowledged gravely. "However, as survival is also an imperative, I must ask if your mother knows that you are here." Theo blinked up at him. "No," her voice voice wavered. She cleared her throat and repeated, more strongly. "No, I came on my own decision."

"I see."

He descended the stairs, taking care to move slowly. When he reached the bottom of the flight, he touched her cheek gently, finding it chill, indeed.

"I will make tea, I think, while you go into the common room and call your mother. Please tell her that I will bring you home, discreetly, when you and I have finished our business, and that you are quite unharmed." He raised an eyebrow and made a show of scanning her hectic person. "You are quite unharmed, are you not, Theo?"

She gulped. "Yes sir."

"Good." He nodded toward the common room. "Call your mother."

* * *

"You're where?" Kamele sounded more shocked than angry. Theo wished she knew whether that was a good thing or not. "Why?"

Okay, she thought, tucking her hand left hand under her right arm. Should've expected that. She took a breath. "Necessity," she said firmly.

Silence. Theo bit her lip. Necessity was—Kamele knew that you didn't fib about necessity. Not to Father. But whether she would want to know more, right now, and how to answer her if she did—

"Very well," Kamele said. She was starting to sound mad, now, Theo noted unhappily. "I will expect a full explanation when you get home."

* * *

"Now you must tell me, Theo," Father said, handing her a cup of tea, "precisely how you arrived here. Not, I trust, the late bus again?"

She pulled her legs up under her and cuddled into the corner of the double chair. It was funny, now that she was starting to get warm, she was shivering.

"No-o," she said as Father settled back into his chair. "I . . . used a Skoot."

"Ah." He sipped tea, meditatively. Theo did the same, smiling at the notes of orange and elmoni—and smiled again when Mandrin jumped up and curled without preamble against her.

"I feel compelled to mention," Father murmured, stretching his legs out before him and crossing them at the ankles, "that the Skoots do call in."

"I know that, " Theo said, though she hadn't until she'd asked the Serpent icon.

"Indeed," he said politely. "Therefore, you intended to be caught out?"

"No," she said, looking down to stroke Mandrin. She looked up and met his eyes. "I ran it on manual."

One eyebrow rose. "Forgive me, Theo. The fact that you've had training on the Skoots momentarily slipped my mind."

"Well, I haven't," she blurted. "And I did have a couple seconds where I thought maybe I'd made a mistake. But then—it was easy."

There was a small pause while he sipped his tea. "Just so," he murmured. "Easy." There was another small silence while they both addressed their cups, then Father spoke again.

"I apprehend that you have mastered the puzzle of turning off your mumu's ID emissions. But I do wonder about the Eyes."

She looked down, watching her hand slide along Mandrin's glossy fur. "I—I found a map of unwatched exits and streets," she said, which wasn't exactly a fib.

"Fascinating," Father murmured. "One wonders—forgive the prying ways of an elderly professor!—one does wonder, however, where you . . . found . . . this map." It was never a good idea to try to slide a fib—even a half-fib—past Father. Theo sighed and looked up, reluctantly.

"I have a . . . research program on my school book," she said slowly. "It found what I needed."

"Well! What a delightfully useful program, to be sure! You must show it to me when we return you to your mother's arms. But, where have my wits gone begging? Here I am wasting your time with pleasantries, when you have pled necessity! Please, unburden yourself." Here it was. Theo nodded and sipped her tea, trying to settle her suddenly unsettled stomach, then sat holding the empty cup in her hand for the count of one, two, three . . . She looked up and met dark, inquisitive eyes.

"Kamele's research trip has been approved by Admin," she said, having told him about the application for this over an Oktavi dinner. He nodded.

"Right. They're leaving in two days, and—she wants me to go with her." Her voice quavered a little, and she shrunk against the chair. Someday, she thought, she'd learn how to keep her voice reasonable and calm, no matter what she was feeling.

"This is certainly excellent news for your mother," Father said, "but I fail to see how it warrants a desperate midnight escape to my door." He raised an eyebrow, eyes stern. "Much less an appeal to necessity."

Theo's stomach was suddenly even more unsettled. Father usually understood so quickly—but, she reminded herself, he hadn't been living with them day-to-day. He'd probably forgotten all about the Review Board.

"I have to stay here—on Delgado," she said, forcing herself to speak slowly, like she was giving an oral report. "The Review Board called for an extension, and if we go to Melchiza, then we won't be here when they announce their findings."

Father nodded, and moved his hand slightly, signaling her to continue.

"If they decide that I'm a Danger to Society—" Which, she added silently, they would. Why should they be different than the rest of the world? "We won't be able to appeal the decision, if we're traveling. When we come home—if there's a DtS in my file, the Safeties won't have to ask for permission to give me any drug they think will keep me from hurting anybody else."

She took a deep breath.

"So, if I leave Delgado now, I'm putting myself—and Kamele—in a position of peril." Father sat very still in his chair, gazing intently at the toes of his slippers. Theo gulped and put her hand flat on Mandrin's side, trying to take comfort from the vibration of the cat's purrs against her palm.

"I see," Father said, and looked up. "Plainly, you have thought this situation through, and plainly, given the facts you have marshaled, you have cause for concern." He paused, then inclined his head.

"Did your mother share with you the probable length of your voyage?"

"Two hundred days."

"As few as that? And yet—even if your worst-case scenario should come about, two hundred days is sufficient to produce a radical, positive change in your abilities. You are on record with the Safety Office as attempting to address the issues that concern it. There is no reason that you cannot—and every reason that you should—continue exercising and dance during your time off-planet. If you are seized by the Safety Office upon your return, you and your mother would be justified in calling for a secondary review to determine if, in fact, you have overcome the difficulties noted in your file." Theo thought about that. "Do you think," she asked, her voice sounding almost as small as she felt,

"that I will have overcome the difficulties noted in my file, Father?" He smiled. "Are you still enjoying dance as much as you were when last we spoke of it?"

"Even more!"

"Then I believe that there is a better than good chance that you will be able to demonstrate great improvement to the Safety Office, should it come to that." He considered her gravely.

"Have we dealt adequately with your necessity?"

Theo thought about it, and finally nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent." He stood and placed his cup on the side table before holding his hand down to her. "It is time I took you home. With only two days until departure you doubtless have an errand-packed day before you. It may be beneficial to have an hour or two of sleep to support you." Theo sighed, and looked up at him. "Kamele says Coyster needs to come—to come home."

"I will be pleased to have him, of course," Father said gently. Theo blinked sudden, silly tears away, shifted her legs and reached up to take Father's hand. His fingers were warm, the ring he always wore slick against her skin. She paused, and turned his hand over, looking down at the intricate twists of silver. It was an old ring—when she'd been a littlie, she'd thought it was at least as old as Father himself. It was so much a part of him that she had never thought to wonder at it, or even ask the question.

"Where did you get your ring?"

There was a small sound, almost as if Father had caught his breath.

Theo looked up, but he was smiling in that fond, gentle way he sometimes did, and squeezed her fingers.

"I had it from my grandmother," he said softly, and pulled her to her feet. "Come along, now, child. Let us not subject your mother to any more anxiety than necessity demands." She followed him out of the room, marking how lightly he moved—like Bek, or Lida, or—

"Do you dance, Father?" she asked.

He laughed as he moved across the kitchen. "The social climate of Liad made dance a necessity, child. Come along, now." He opened the door onto the star-washed garden.

"The Skoot!" she cried suddenly, remembering.

"I will take care of the Skoot," he said repressively. "For tonight, however, we shall ride in the luxury of my car, and you—" he extended his hand to touch her cheek—"you will attempt to stay awake. Recall that I will want a demonstration of that useful program of yours when you get home."

* * *

"I've . . . never seen anything like it," Kamele murmured, staring down at Theo's school book. After conducting a brief demo, the owner of the 'book had yawned herself off to bed, leaving bemused adults in her wake. The fact that she was merely bemused rather than horrified, Kamele thought, must be an indication that she was becoming hardened to the impossible.

"Yet you must own that it is quite amusing." Jen Sar murmured, and she laughed.

"Amusing is one word." She rubbed her eyes.

"Indeed, and a number of others do suggest themselves." His fingers hovered above the icon, but he did not touch it. "I would welcome a chance to study that 'research wire' in greater depth." Kamele considered him. "Why?"

"It's an oddity," he said, and looked up, flashing her one of his less-real smiles. "And one must of course be interested in any new oddity."

"Of course," she said politely, and added, with a surety born of long association with him, "but there's another reason."

Another dandle of long fingers just above the icon. "Well, if you will have it, I wonder how much of an . . . accident the assignment of this particular apartment was."

"Housing never has accidents," Kamele told him—and blinked, recalling. "This was Flandin's apartment."

"So it was. And that wire is not standard." His glance this time was serious. "One must wonder—is the fact that it remains here beyond Professor Flandin's departure a sign of intent, or merely sloppiness?" At least, Kamele thought, one must wonder such an outrageous thing if one were Jen Sar. She covered a yawn and looked down at the screen, frowning at the patient glowing Serpent. It did also bear recalling, she told herself, that Jen Sar's suspicions were very often correct.

"You're assuming that this . . . program, and the non-standard wire are linked," she pointed out. Jen Sar inclined his head. "Indeed. And I may be entirely in error." Another smile, this one rather more genuine. "You only feed my desire to inspect that wire, you know." Kamele shook her head. "Well, if you must inspect it, you'll have to appeal to Ella. For lack of a better plan, I'm going to drop it in her lap."

"An excellent idea," Jen Sar said surprisingly. "Well, then." He stood, gathering his cane to him. "It is dreadfully late, my friend. Allow me to bid you good-day, safe journey, and prosperous scholarship." Kamele felt her eyes sting. "Thank you, Jen Sar," she said softly. She walked with him to the front hall. Coyster was curled atop the table, palpably asleep.

"Now, that's fortuitous," Jen Sar murmured. He bent and deftly swept the cat up, tucking him firmly beneath one arm. "I'll just have this young rascal off, before he arranges to pack himself again." Kamele laughed once more. He looked up, black eyes glinting. On impulse, she bent, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Hah," he said softly, and his smile this time was tender.

"Take good care, my dear." Kamele murmured, and opened the door to let him go.

•

Twenty

Vashtara

First Class Dining Room

Senior Scout Cho sig'Radia strode toward dinner with her mind more than half occupied with the report she was composing. Gone ahead of her, likely by the somewhat improper use of the crew corridors, was her immediate second on this mission, Trainee yo'Vala. She shrugged Terran-style to herself as she moved along the public promenade toward the dining hall; soon enough the trainee would discover that courtesy of ship varied considerably. That crew on this ship respected a pilot's jacket—was good to know. That the trainee had the happy gift of making friends was—well for the trainee.

For this portion of the trip, Scout sig'Radia had herself eschewed pilot leathers, wishing some relief from what had been a tedious, if necessary, chore of inspecting and certifying a new flight school. Too, she traveled at the expense of Ibenvue's planetary government on this newest of its cruise-passenger ships, a touching show of faith that she felt, in Balance, ought to be rewarded by a similar exhibition of discretion. That this reciprocity of good manners also allowed her the opportunity to explore the ship as if a mere tourist was—a bonus.

The school now, the certification of which had been so very important to Ibenvue's self-declared pacifistic and newly outward-looking government. Quite an interesting school, with the capability of producing . . . quite a number . . . of pilots. She had certified it, of course—how could she not? The school employed two Terran master pilots as trainers, either capable of approving a pilot's skill—and signing the all-important license. It was said—many times said, by the escort she and yo'Vala had been provided with—that Ibenvue's school sought to train pilots who would train pilots, thus bringing the homeworld fully into galactic commerce, and for this laudable goal both Terran Guild and Scout approvals had been sought.

An interesting venture, to be sure, this expected export of pilot-teachers. Match it against the investment of a staggering portion of Ibenvue's Gross Planetary Product in the acquisition of large, easily convertible "luxury" ships—such as the gracious Vashtara—and an enhanced military—necessary of course for the protection of both pilots and of ships, and one had a situation which . . . bore scrutiny. Perhaps even close scrutiny, and by those who were not put boldly forth as a Scout Inspector Specialist. Which suggestion she had made, very strongly, in her report.

Well, she told herself, as she approached the junction with the hospitality module, best to put the report and thoughts of the report aside for the next while and instead partake of those diversions created by one's fellow passengers. This being, by reason of a lack of handwritten invitations from the captain, an informal meal, tables were formed from random groups of hopeful diners, and the luck of the draw often provided amusement, and not infrequently, useful information.

From the corridor opposite came a sudden din, closely followed by its authors, the same small handful of academics she had briefly encountered yesterday.

That meeting had produced something akin to amusement, for the loudest of the group had mistaken her for a tour-aide and demanded her assistance. Professora, perhaps an attending bedmate or two, and a female halfling trailing, quiet and large-eyed, behind, all expectantly waiting for her to solve the universe in one quick answer. Well, except for the halfling, whose attention had been claimed by a pair of buskers, autopipes at volume, and donation dish well over the docking line.

The solving requested of Cho had been simple enough—she had simply pointed to the nearby help terminal. The buskers, alas, had not fared so well. A crewman, directed by a flutter of the dock steward's fingers, bore down upon them, snarling what Cho had taken by tone to be an insult in the local dialect. Scooping up the bowl, he'd thrown it at the taller musician's head, after pocketing the few coins it had held.

The halfling had seen it all, so Cho thought, though by then she had been on her way up the ramp, surrounded by the noisy confusion of her elders.

The professorial group burst into the corridor ahead of her, their talk filling the space with echoes. Cho took a deep breath in protest of the hubbub, and stood to one side, observing. The first into the intersection was the halfling, skipping lightly through the change of the gravity field at the lock boundary as if she were born to such things. Behind her, one of the elders tripped, and bounced sharply against the wall. The halfling turned, one hand extended—

"Theo, please don't . . ." a woman's fine voice said, perfectly audible beneath the elder's loud exclamations. The halfling—Theo—spun deftly on one toe, removing herself from danger as the elder staggered, colliding with the other side of the passage. She barely kept her feet, her lamentations increasing in volume and degree, her uninformed actions elevating her rapidly toward a risk to passengers and to ship.

This, Cho thought, would not do.

Moving away from her watching place, she brought up her brightest meet-the-Terrans smile, and called out with calm good cheer, "Yes, these grav-interfaces can be quite shocking, can they not? That is why these yellow-and-green stripes line the walls—to warn of the coming field differential." Now she was among them, pleased to see that they slowed in response to her tone and her posture of relaxed goodwill. With luck, the rest would avoid a repeat of the loud woman's misadventure. Alas, that woman, rather than sensibly awaiting rescue, had wallowed into a turn and now blundered back across the divide, smacking the wall for a third time. She would, Cho thought dispassionately, have bruises on the morrow, which would have been well enough, had there been any remotest possibility that she would have also learned something.

"My stomach . . ." the clumsy woman moaned, clinging to the smooth wall and closing her eyes tight.

"Why must we cross this chasm for every meal?"

A younger and considerably fitter woman moved toward the now-stable sufferer, her posture somewhat stiff, but well-enough for a grounder approaching a change of gravity.

"Chair, we needn't come to the dining room, after all," she said, her voice coolly matter-of-fact. "Our meals can be brought to us, if we like . . ."

"Chair" seemed to consider this point; at least her vocal agitation subsided. The cool-voiced woman turned slightly and directed a half-bow to Cho.

"Ma'am, you appear to travel comfortably. Do you take all of your meals on-board in public, I wonder?"

Cho gave the bow back, pleased to meet good intent with courtesy.

"I tend to do so, traveler, unless duty keeps me at my desk. Much of my joy in travel comes from the people." This was perfectly true, and something she often said. If certain travelers therefore assumed that they were the cause of joy—what harm done?

"Then you are an experienced traveler?" The woman's voice was trained—perhaps, Cho thought, she was a singer, or a teller of tales. She appeared not only sharp and alert, but also seemed to be one who had perhaps dealt closely with Liadens. The careful inflection, and the deliberate structure of a yes-no query was very nearly a challenge.

Cho laughed out loud, in fellowship more than amusement, and inclined her head.

"Travel is my life, I warrant! I do not willingly stay long on any world. It is not, you understand, that I dislike worlds, but that I prefer space."

Her interlocutor smiled, perhaps in shared fellowship, and several others of the group laughed softly, as people will who have recognized humor without entirely catching the joke. Beneath these sounds, Cho detected another, and glanced aside to discover the ignored halfling—winsome Theo—amusing herself with the gravity nexus. She leaned playfully forward, allowing the field to keep her upright, pale hair flowing—

"Theo, surely that's not safe!" Chair snapped. From Theo's blink and the stiffening of the woman with the storyteller's voice, Cho surmised that this input was both out-of-bounds and unwelcome.

"But I'm not having a problem, Professor Hafley," Theo said, holding her arms out at her sides, as if she were a bird gliding down a placid breeze. "It's like leaning into a wind!" The thin young face was almost impish with the joy of her play and it took Cho's best effort not to laugh.

"Certainly leaning into the wind isn't safe!" Chair—but no, Cho corrected her thought— Professor Hafley—snapped. "You'll fall flat on your face when it changes direction!"

"Chair," the woman who knew Liadens murmured; "I think Theo has demonstrated that she's not in danger—"

"Even if she isn't, she's making me queasy! In my day, junior scholars stood up straight, kept still and displayed a proper respect for their elders in learning!"

"Orkan," the prettiest of the group's two males spoke up suddenly, his voice plaintive. "It's time for our seating, and I, for one, am hungry."

Cho's stomach quite agreed with the need for food; and the pretty one's complaint seemed to carry weight with Professor Hafley, who turned with heavy-footed care to face her nemesis once more. Moving quickly, Cho dodged past, waving Theo to her side with a wink.

"Youngling, if you'll favor me, we may walk ahead and claim a table for the group." Theo glanced over her shoulder, but apparently whoever held her in care gave permission, for she came along willingly; and if she skipped a little in the lighter gravity of the access hall, who, thought Cho, could blame her?

* * *

They'd claimed the last full table—or rather, the woman with the short gray hair had, calmly telling the steward that, "the rest of our party comes at leisure, while we two madcaps raced before." The tables in the dining hall were round, which Professor Crowley said neatly solved many potential problems of precedence and protocol. That it didn't solve all problems of precedence Theo had learned only at breakfast, when she had mistakenly taken the chair at Kamele's right. That chair also being to the left of Clyburn's onagrata, it was, so he had informed her—and the rest of the dining hall— his. Mere children were to stand respectfully aside until the adults were seated, and then quietly take the chair which that had been left for them.

"Favor me, child," the gray-haired woman murmured; "and sit at my right. I am desolated to perceive a lack of mine apprentice, derelict in his duty to keep me upon my mettle." The tone was suspiciously close to Father's over-serious voice. Theo looked into the woman's polite face, catching the faintest twinkle in the brown eyes.

"I'll gladly do that ma'am," she said carefully. "But what if your apprentice comes—later?"

"Why then, he shall sit at your right to observe such technique as you will display, and to bask in my displeasure at a survivable distance."

Theo laughed as she took the chair the woman indicated. "We didn't do introductions," she said. "I'm Theo Waitley."

"I greet you, Theo Waitley," her seat-mate replied, with a heavy nod—almost a seated bow, Theo thought. "My name is . . . Cho sig'Radia."

Theo copied the nod. "I greet you, Cho sig'Radia," she said.

Her companion smiled—a smile quite different from the smile she had worn at the intersection lobby. As if, Theo thought, the other smile had been . . . deliberate, somehow . . . The sudden babble of familiar voices disrupted these musings. Theo turned to see the rest of their group at the steward's station.

"The remainder of our party joins us! How delightful, to be sure!" Cho sig'Radia exclaimed cheerily. Theo glanced at her, and saw the other smile in place, too bright and too obvious, and then the others arrived, conducted by the steward. He held the chair for Professor Hafley and saw her safely seated with her napkin on her lap before leaving them in search of their waiter.

"Theo Waitley and I have introduced ourselves, as we had overlooked this nicety in the press of other matters. I immediately seek to amend this affront to civilized behavior by making the group aware that I am Cho sig'Radia."

There was a pause, so long that Theo began to worry that Professor Hafley was still upset enough to be rude. Across the table, Kamele frowned, which probably meant she was worried, too. Finally, Professor Hafley produced a stiff smile, with no trace of liking or pleasure in it. "Cho sig'Radia, I am History of Education Chair Orkan Hafley," she said formally.

"Professor Hafley," Cho murmured, inclining her head.

Theo relaxed as Kamele introduced herself, "History of Education Sub-chair Kamele Waitley," she murmured, and raised her eyebrows in Theo's direction. "Mother of Theo Waitley."

"Ah, is it so? Allow me to compliment you upon your most charming offspring." Kamele laughed softly. "You are too kind," she answered, and the introductions moved on.

"Emeritus Professor Crowley; Emeritus Professor Able; Clyburn Tang . . ." Theo let the introductions slide past her ear, watching Cho sig'Radia as she acknowledged each. The smile, she thought, like the earnestly polite expression Father showed to strangers, was a kind of mask. Like it was . . . amped up, unmissable, the emotional equivalent of speaking slowly and distinctly.

"Behold, the lost is found!" Cho exclaimed and rose from her chair, hand sweeping out to show them the boy with the rumpled hair and the leather jacket who approached their table.

"To the Delgado scholars I am pleased to present Trainee Win Ton yo'Vala, who has taken the not-so-short route to dinner."

The trainee bowed to the table, while the fingers of his left hand danced a pattern in the direction of Cho sig'Radia.

"Delgado scholars, I greet you," he said, his accent tickling the inside of Theo's ear. "Captain, I am at your feet. You were, as always, correct."

"Flatterer!" Cho reseated herself and waved him toward the seat next to Theo. "Comport yourself with courtesy, I pray you. When we are at leisure, I will entertain reasons why you should not be spaced."

"Ma'am." He bowed again, fingers quiet now, and moved smoothly 'round the table to Theo's side. Cho turned her attention once more to the scholars, and he leaned close to whisper, "Have pity on me, I beg you."

Theo turned her head, looking directly into a pair of merry brown eyes. She smiled at him without meaning to.

"What do you want?"

"Only to live out my allotted span," he said, smiling back. "Depend upon it, she will grill me on the names and occupations of everyone sitting to dinner, and if I do not have them . . ." he sighed, not convincingly. "Why, then, it's the airlock for me." He bent his head, and sent her a glance from beneath reddish eyelashes. "Without a suit."

Theo bit her lip so she wouldn't laugh, and shook her head. "Cho sig'Radia said I was to keep her on her mettle, since you weren't here."

"Look at her," he returned. "Have you ever beheld a woman more mettlesome? Were she any sharper, she would be a danger to herself."

Theo's rescue this time came in the shape of their waiter, who approached bearing a tray full of beakers.

"What's that?" she wondered.

Beside her Win Ton yo'Vala laughed softly. "Oho. Perhaps we might trade, Sweet Mystery." She looked at him. "Trade?"

"Of a certainty. We each hold knowledge which the other lacks. Commerce may therefore go forth." He paused as beakers arrived before them.

"Here," he said; "I will show my earnest. This . . ." He touched the pale green glass with a light finger.

"This, Sweet Mystery, is chilled vegetable broth. It is meant to prepare the palate for the delights to come. One sips it directly from the container."

A quick glance showed Cho and Kamele and Professor Crowley lifting their beakers as described, hesitantly copied by others of their party.

Theo glanced back to Win Ton. "My name isn't 'Sweet Mystery,'•" she told him, picking her beaker up carefully. "It's Theo. Theo Waitley."

Win Ton's smile widened and he leaned closer to touch his glass to hers. "So," he said conspiratorially, "the trading begins."

* * *

By the time the plates bearing what Win Ton assured her was the "main course" arrived, he was in the possession of the names and positions of each of the Delgado party, and Theo had learned how to

"address" three different "befores"—one cold, one tepid, one hot—and the uses of the various utensils provided at her place.

This was much better than breakfast, she thought, as she tried to imitate Win Ton's use of the tongs. At breakfast, the scholars had discussed their project, leaving her Clyburn for company. Since he considered himself above talking to children, except to issue directions, that meant she'd spent the meal trying to figure out a conversation she clearly wasn't meant to understand, and wishing she was back home.

As near as she could figure it in her head, it would be about time for Advertency. She'd wondered how Lesset had done with the last solo—which turned out to be a bad idea, because that made her eyes sting, and she wasn't going to cry in front of the whole Research Team; and especially not in front of Clyburn. Happily, the waiter had come to tell them that their table was needed for the second meal-shift before Theo scandalized everybody by pulling out her mumu and calling up a game. She tasted a bit of what Win Ton said was poached Siclarian Walking Mushrooms, catching her breath at the unexpected burst of hot spiciness, and reached for her water glass. With two strangers at the table, the scholars had to be polite, and to converse on topics comprehensible to everybody. Surprisingly, it was Emeritus Professor Crowley who carried the bulk of the conversation with Cho sig'Radia, admitting to her supposition that their destination was Melchiza. Questioned regarding their purpose, he had tipped his head, ironically, Theo thought, and murmured,

"We are to perform a literature search, ma'am. Quite tedious and scholarly. And yourself? Can we hope to have the pleasure of your company all the way to Melchiza?"

"Your hopes are fulfilled," she assured him with one of her real smiles. "We have business on the station there, my disgraceful apprentice and I."

"What business?" Theo asked Win Ton, as Clyburn—too long ignored—began a rambling commentary on the clothes worn by passengers at other tables.

"We are assigned to retrieve a ship," he said, matter-of-factly, and sent her a sharp glance.

"You sigh, sweet Theo! Is it possible to hope that you will miss me?"

"How could I will miss you when I've hardly met you?" she asked prosaically. "But—'assigned to retrieve a ship' sounds so much more interesting than 'stuck at boarding school, studying'!"

"One may acquire a fondness rapidly, don't you find? As for study, there will be a wealth of that on my side, as well, I assure you! No one who travels with my captain is safe." He smiled. "Perhaps I will lose credit with you, but I confess that not a few of the lessons available to passengers of this ship tempt me. History, drama, the science of star travel, lectures on the arts and culture of the ports we approach .

. ."

She blinked at him. "You make it sound like fun!"

He laughed. "And so it is fun! Shall I prove my point?"

"How?" she asked doubtfully.

"Meet me tomorrow at fifth gong in the morning lounge. They call it 'Breakfast All Year' because someone is always on a schedule where breakfast is the meal they need. From there we two shall visit the daily lecture at the Pet Library. Tomorrow is to be 'Introduction to Norbears,' if I recall correctly."

"What's a norbear?" she asked, and his smile became mischievous.

"Behold," he murmured, "an opportunity to learn. "Have we a bargain, then?"

"My tutoring should be over by fifth gong . . ." she said slowly, doing the time conversion in her head. Professor Able said they'd get used to ship's time quickly, but for now, her body still thought it was on Delgado.

"Send me a message via ship's web if circumstances overtake you. I am Passenger Nine-nine seven, six four-four. Otherwise, we shall test my proposition, eh?"

"All right . . ." Theo said, and then smiled. "Passenger ninety-nine, seventy-six, forty-four. I hope I can make it."

"I hope you can make it, too."

"In fact, no," Cho sig'Radia was saying to Clyburn, "the truth is that the attire you so admire three tables over is not worn by the least of those seated, but the first. I have been away from fashion this while, and so may be in error. However, he appears to be wearing the very latest from Rombert's, and would be welcome in any of the finest halls on Liad dressed thus. Alas, here he is—a bit too grand. Perhaps he thought to sit with the captain."

Clyburn didn't like to be corrected. He drew a breath to answer—and was quelled by a look from Chair Hafley, which warmed Theo toward her slightly, and mumbled his way into silence.

"It is difficult when traveling," Win Ton said into the small quiet that followed this, "to correctly read clothing and position." He paused and looked about, saw that he had the attention of the table and continued.

"The—you will forgive me, that I have no proper word in your tongue—the melant'i of those around one can only sometimes be determined by dress, or lack of it, when one travels. I have had cause . . ." He looked toward Cho, his cheeks darkening slightly. "On this very trip, I myself had cause to be surprised at a meal. A man dressed all in white, with the smell of spice and oil about him, and perhaps, too, a dash of sauce upon a sleeve, came to our table . . . I thought him a . . . servant, perhaps a worker in the kitchens. Rather he . . . wore the ring!"

Here he paused, fingers rippling, as if he were handing something past Theo to the woman on her other side—

"Rather," Cho sig'Radia said, taking up the tale, "he was Zed ter'Janpok, Clan Tangier. Tangier Himself, you will apprehend, whom one values as an old friend, come to visit." She paused to sip from her glass. "Mind you, the impulsive young apprentice had not entirely mis-observed, for my good friend is a chef of the first water, and so, indeed, a kitchen worker." She cocked an ironic eyebrow downtable. Professor Crowley and Kamele laughed in appreciation, echoed by the others.

"And now, unless I mis-observe myself—yes! It is our servers, with dessert!"

* * *

"Do candied dromisain leaves with sour sauce not please you, Sweet Mystery? You might call for a sorbet, instead, you know."

Theo blinked, her face heating. She'd dozed off, like a kid kept up past her bedtime.

"Stop calling me that!" she whispered fiercely. "It's stupid." There was a small pause. A glance at Win Ton's face showed him suddenly serious, his lips pressed tight.

"I'm sorry." Impulsively, she reached out and put her fingers on his leather sleeve. "I'm—I'm not on ship time yet, and I'm falling asleep. And I miss my cat, and Fa—Professor Kiladi. But none of that's your fault, and I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"Ah." His mouth softened and he inclined his head. "It is forgotten. And it is my fault, I think, a little. You had told me your name." He frowned down at his plate and put the spoon carefully aside.

"In truth, the sauce is somewhat too sour for my taste," he said, and tipped his head, his eyes bright again. "Tell me about your cat."

There was a note of . . . wistfulness in his voice.

"Do you have a cat, too?" Theo asked.

Win Ton moved his hand in a sharp gesture, like he was tossing something away. "I, a cat? Never think it. My delm dislikes the creatures and refuses to have them in clan house or garden. So you must tell me: What is it like to have your own cat?"

"Well," she said slowly. "Sometimes, it's a lot of trouble . . ."

* * *

The conversation grew more interesting with dessert, which Cho welcomed—and welcomed again, as the beautiful Clyburn was effectively silenced by the ebb and flow of discussion. Truly, a vapid individual. On the other hand, his lady seemed pleased with his secret charms, and that of course must be what counted.

The senior traveler Crowley was sharp and quiet at once, and the Sub-chair Kamele Waitley—ostensibly second to her Chair!—was both sharper and quieter. Interesting melant'i play it was to see the discussion moved about at apparent random, where the Chair was sometimes at a loss, while the Emeriti appeared very much interested in the opinions and the process of the Sub-chair's thoughts. That this was not lost upon Chair Hafley was also apparent, and promised more adjustment of melant'i in future. It was to be hoped that the elder scholar would be wise, though Cho thought that she would be . . . otherwise.

Too, perhaps young Theo's presence could not be dismissed simply as a doting mother's whim companion. There was little of the doting parent in Kamele Waitley. And how convenient, to have another of one's house as extra ears, in what was surely a situation fraught with tension?

The halflings had kept good company, to the benefit of both. Their present topic . . . Cho spared them an ear, and hid her sigh inside a sip of wine. Cats! The gods send that there would be no opportunity for the boy to adopt a cat before she handed him off to other trainers.

"But it's the old 'unlimited energy' canard, brought to a new face!" That was Crowley, taking fire from what was apparently a favorite topic. "We in education know—I can prepare cites if you like!"

But there, the youngest of them was nodding off in the midst of a recitation of the wonders of her personal cat, her dessert uneaten, spoon drooping in her hand.

Cho glanced aside, meaning to draw the mother's eye, but the sharp and formidable Kamele had seen, and was already in motion, pushing back from the table with a smile all around.

"Scholars, apprise me in the the morning if you solve this. I'm afraid Theo and I are not yet in sync with the ship's clock. Perhaps tomorrow evening we'll be more in tune."

"I wonder if I may suggest," Cho murmured for Kamele's ear alone as Win Ton helped Theo to her feet and deftly rearranged the chairs to clear her path, "that your daughter join some of the lectures and events offered to passengers. I know she will have lessons—as does my scamp of an apprentice—but with a table full of educators to draw upon it ought not be difficult to assign value to something far more—interactive—than rote read-and-repeat . . ."

Kamele gave her a sharp glance, and Cho produced a small bow for a mother's consideration.

"It must be admitted," she said, more quietly still, "that Win Ton has asked Theo to accompany him to a lecture at the Pet Library. If you are able to allow it, I would own myself in your debt, for the boy needs to practice his Terran against a native speaker."

"Ah." Kamele smiled as she put her hand on her daughter's shoulder and turned her toward the entry.