"I think I can allow that."

The two departed. Win Ton reseated himself, and Cho returned her attention to the remaining scholars, who had taken up a debate of the educational opportunities available on-board. Cho smiled and leaned back in her chair, pleased that the politics of unlimited energy had been, for the moment, put away.

•

Twenty-One

Vashtara

EdRec Level

Pet Library

Theo jumped out of the elevator at the EdRec Level following the blue lines marked "Education" to the right, while most of her fellow passengers went left, pacing the glittery orange sparkles to

"Recreation."

She'd looked Breakfast All Year and the Pet Library up on the shipmap, then scanned the info-page for the library.

Sadly, there were no cats listed in the Pet Census, though the entry did say that the kind and number of creatures on inventory was subject to change. She'd been about to look up norbears when the Tutor in her traveling school book noticed that she'd finished the math solo it had set her to, and the self-test, and called her attention to the next lesson in series. That one had been a little harder, and the Tutor had insisted that she finish the self-test for it, too.

"I'll be late for an appointment," she told it, half of her mind on the self-test. Skillset remediation: Time Management, the Tutor noted.

"I manage my time just fine!" Theo said hotly, her fingers continuing to work out the problem while she spared a glare at the dialog box. She'd heard that the AIs in the traveling 'books were old, but nobody had mentioned cranky. Just her luck to draw one with a disciplinarian streak. Had you moved on immediately to the next lesson, you would have completed your work early, the Tutor answered. Instead, you chose to do unauthorized research, and wait for a prompt. A prompt that the Tutor, Theo suspected darkly, had put off providing until it knew she'd have to rush to finish. She stuck her tongue out at the dialogue box, and filed the answer to the last problem with a tap that was harder than it needed to be.

There was a long moment when nothing happened at all, then the Tutor's dialog box flashed green. Self-test satisfactory, it allowed— grudgingly, Theo thought. The student may undertake mother-approved social project. Next lesson is chemical theory, at eighth gong. Theo tapped the "recess" button as she came out of her seat. The door had closed behind her by the time the screen blanked.

Even with the Tutor's nidjit delay, Theo thought she'd have plenty of time to get to Breakfast All Day. Unfortunately, she had reckoned without the sheer size of the ship.

While it was very true that the belt to the 'vator bank serving the EdRec Level was directly across the Retail Concourse, that area was far larger than the shipmap had led her to expect. Nor had she counted on the other impediments in her path.

The belts—the few that were in service—moved slow, and none of the other passengers seemed to be in a hurry. They ambled from one side of the main promenade to the other, peering into shop windows, playing with the auto-vend units, stopping dead in the center of the walkway to talk to each other . . .

She'd never seen so many adults with nothing to do—and so inadvertent in doing it!

At long last, the 'vator bank came into view. She slid in between leisurely closing doors, last one in, and very shortly first one out, remembering to walk-not-run, though surely it was all right to walk fast when you were going to be late for an appointment. . . .

Walking fast, Theo outstripped the eight passengers who had turned to follow the Ed lines with her. Directly ahead an ID shimmered above a store front, resolving, as she came closer, to a graphic of a large yellow cup with steam rising from it. The cup faded, replaced by the words, "Breakfast All Year." A subdued and genteel gong sounded down the corridor, counting five.

"Chaos!" Theo did run the last few steps across the hall, dodging the cluster of chatting adults blocking the entrance—and froze just inside, stomach sinking.

I'll never find him in this! she thought dismally.

Hundreds of glossy dark tables and chairs stretched away and up three curved, bright yellow walls. It might, Theo thought, have been meant to create the illusion of being inside of a coffee cup. Inside of a full-to-overflowing coffee cup.

She strained high on her toes, scanning the room without much hope. The restaurant was so crowded that one boy with reddish brown hair and a black jacket wasn't going to stand out—

"There you are—and prompt, as well!" His voice was so close that she jumped. She took a breath and settled slowly flat-footed before turning her head to look at him.

"Late, you mean," she said.

"Arrived directly on the fifth gong," he retorted. "I insist that this is on time—and well done, indeed, if you navigated the public halls. You might think yourself at Festival, with so many dawdlers and pleasure-seekers blocking the ways!"

"But you—come by the . . . private halls," Theo said, remembering his arrival last night—and Cho sig'Radia's apparent displeasure with his chosen route.

He laughed softly. "Never think it! Today, my captain has decreed that I am to go as a passenger-guest upon this vessel and thus sample humility."

She eyed him. The jacket he'd worn last night was gone, though he was dressed neatly enough in a brown vest over a shirt like pale sunshine, and dark trousers.

"You were kind of late for dinner," she commented.

"Kind of, I was," he agreed, then brought the tips of his fingers sharply against his temple.

"Bah! In addition to my lack of humility, I have no manners, and even less address! First, I must beg your forgiveness. This place is never so full, being in an unpopular hall of an unpopular level. The manager must have noticed this, as well, for what should there be this morning on the public band but a discussion of this little-known treasure of our ship—" He flicked his fingers at the crowded interior. "With this result."

"You couldn't have known," Theo said. "I am glad you saw me, though . . ." He smiled. "But how could I overlook you, Theo Waitley?"

"A lot of people do," she told him seriously.

"It becomes apparent, then, that a lot of people," Win Ton announced, turning toward the entrance,

"are a fool. I suggest that we continue our conversation as we walk, if we are to arrive at the lecture on time."

"Oh!" She turned with him. The noisy group blocking the doorway had grown—waiting for tables, Theo thought. Win Ton threaded his way effortlessly through the blockade. Following, Theo wondered if he would teach her how to do that.

"Are the private halls less crowded?" she asked, once they were able to walk side-by-side. Win Ton glanced at her, looking down, she realized, but not such a long way down. She was used to being the shortest one in every group, but it was pleasant not to be so much shorter than her companion.

"For some," he said slowly, "there are private halls—and only at some times. Most usually, they are less crowded and more direct, being less concerned with—" He swept his arm out in a grand gesture that seemed to include Vashtara's entire interior—"the art of space." He grinned at her. "Or the enticement of tourists."

Whatever, Theo thought, the "art of space" was. Still, she liked to hear him talk; he had a nice voice, and his accent was . . . interesting. Rounded and . . . flowy, like he'd buffed all the sharp edges off his words.

"Did your jacket let you get into the back hallways?" she asked, which gained her another glance from beneath long, reddish lashes.

"In some measure," Win Ton said slowly, "the jacket allowed me into the private ways. Be aware, though, my friend, that the jacket is both a burden and a joy, as my piloting instructor was somewhat over-fond of telling us."

Theo blinked. "What—" she began, but Win Ton was angling toward a wall mounted with a dozen or more screens, each showing a different animal.

"The Pet Library!" he exclaimed. " Now we shall see wonders, Theo Waitley!"

* * *

In light of her long service to the Liaden Scouts, as well as her position in a clan that had given many to a similar service, it would not be wrong to suppose that Cho sig'Radia had a lamentable tendency to . .

. meddle in matters that did not, perhaps, fall directly within her duty. Indeed it could with some accuracy be said that the Liaden Scouts as an entity stood as the galaxy's premier meddler—witness her most recent assignment.

Despite which, one did not wish to unnecessarily disturb the peace of chance-met strangers, nor meddle too nearly—or at all!—in a collegial situation fraught with nuance one could not hope to master within the space of one brief seating.

And, yet . . .

Unless matters Melchizan had altered considerably since her last briefing session, there was perhaps more peril attending the scholarly group's so-dry and tedious search of literature than might be realized. One would dislike, Cho thought, rising from her desk and running her fingers through her short hair, to find that the lack of a word in the right ear had placed innocents in the way of danger. One would dislike that, extremely.

* * *

"Many base creatures adopt a social order," the lecturer said, in his abrupt, disapproving way. Theo couldn't figure out if he disapproved of his audience in general, of the cranky littlie who had several times announced that he wanted to "see bears now!" in particular, or if it was the subject of his lecture that he found annoying. Disapproving or not, though, he did have a number of interesting facts about norbears to impart, for which Theo was willing to forgive his uncordial lecturing style.

"Norbears are highly socialized creatures. Typically, a family group will rally around a chieftain, and claim a certain territory as their own. When the family group grows too large for the chosen territory to comfortably support, a secondary chieftain will arise, and lead a portion of the group to another territory, where they will settle and live, until force of numbers triggers the rise of a tertiary chieftain who, in his turn leads a sub-group to a new territory."

The lecturer paused. In this small silence, the fidgety littlie sighed, and asked his mother in a loud whisper to make that man be quiet.

"Norbears have few natural enemies," the lecturer resumed, carefully. "However, their natural habitat is unregulated and quite wild. Fluctuations in the availability of food are common, and, as base creatures will do, the norbears have produced a biologic coping mechanism. When food is scarce, fewer cubs are birthed. Strangely, it has been noted that domesticated groups, such as we have here on Vashtara, adapt themselves to their artificial but far safer conditions by also birthing fewer cubs." He looked out over the audience.

"In just a moment, those of you who wish the opportunity may follow our pet librarian, Mr. Rogen, to the norbears' enclosure. Before you go, however, I would like to speak a little about expectations.

"As I have said, norbears are natural empaths. However, they are also base creatures. If you expect intelligence, or cognition, you will be disappointed."

Another pause, and then a glance to the back of the room.

"Mr. Rogen. If you would take over, please?"

* * *

The cafe on the atrium deck was, in Cho sig'Radia's experience, underused. It had perhaps been the intention of the designers that it be a quiet place for contemplative study, or for sweet privacy of other sorts. Certainly, the tables tucked well into the embrace of fragrant foliage, and the numbers of flowering vines artfully scaling the walls spoke of a certain thoughtfulness in the matter. That the designers had designed poorly—well, no. The place was very pleasant, for those who valued solitude. Woe to the designers that not many, at least, of this passenger compliment, desired solitude.

Cho herself was more often to be found on the Promenade Level when she was at leisure, sitting at a small table with a glass of wine to hand, and a keen eye on those who passed her by in their pursuit of pleasure. It was a pure marvel, how much people told of themselves by the simple acts of walking and talking. Her work, however, she engaged in the privacy of her cabin, venturing out when she had need of stimulation, or to beguile herself with observations and guesses while serious business sorted itself out in her backbrain.

Her quarters were quiet, despite the proximity of the young apprentice, who for all his youth addressed his studies with a serious intensity that might alarm a fond senior, if she had not also detected a similar intensity in his . . . less weighty . . . activities.

There were some, however, whose quarters were perhaps not so convivial as her own, and whose work might best be pursued away from the possibility of busy eyes.

It was just such a one that Cho sought now, moving casually down the wending pathways. Conscious of her mission, she made a special effort to brush up against leaves and to tread firmly upon the rare fallen stick. There was no need to startle as well as surprise.

Aha! She had not guessed wrongly! There, boldly framed in scarlet blossoms, her screen open before her, pot and cup to hand, sat Kamele Waitley. Yet, having run her quarry to ground, Cho hesitated, not wishing to add herself to the list of prying eyes, inconvenient questions, and interruption of duty.

A moment's study of the scholar at work failed to entirely reassure her. The screen was extended, yet it seemed that Kamele Waitley gazed beyond it, her face soft, her eyes unfocused. She made, Cho owned, a charming picture thus, with fawn brown hair wisping out of the knot in which she sought to confine it, and curling bewitchingly along her pale cheek. Indeed, she looked not so much like a scholar at study, or an administrator at her regulations, as she seemed a woman considering some pleasurable, but regrettably distant, item. Perhaps she thought of a favored companion; or of a particular garden-nook, of which the surrounding artful greenery was but a thin charade. Cho dropped back a step, bestirring neither leaf nor branch, unwilling to disturb such contemplative delights. The woman at the table blinked, her eyes sharpening as she turned her head. Discovered! How embarrassing, to be sure.

Cho stepped forward immediately, swept the bow between equals, and straightened, remembering to smile.

"Good shift, Sub-chair Waitley," she said. "Pray forgive the interruption. I do not," she added, with perfect truth, "often find an acquaintance here."

* * *

"Remember what Mr. Chorli told you, now," the pet librarian cautioned. "Norbears are natural empaths. Each one can hear a slightly different—let's call it 'music.' What you'll want to do is let them make the approach, don't rush them or show any fear. These are domestic animals; they won't hurt you." There was a slight pause while Mr. Rogen—an extremely fit man with yellow tipped black hair who Theo thought looked more like a Leisure and Recreation instructor than a librarian—gazed at the six people who had decided to brave a visit to the norbears.

The area—room was far too quaint a word for the airy and multicolored space they stood in—flowed into distinct ecological sections differentiated by lighting, color, and floor covering, as well as by the vegetation visible in the interiors of those sections.

"Twelve!" Win Ton said, approvingly.

Theo looked around her—Oh! There were twelve eco-sections. He had quick eyes!

Between the sections and the public were portals of varying transparencies and shades. Their group stood in front of one with nearly clear door. Through it, the interior's inviting greens and blues appeared ragged.

"It could be that one or even two of you won't be approached," Mr. Rogen continued. "That only means that an animal able to hear your particular music isn't present in the group.

"So, with all that said . . ." he slid opened the gate to the eco-section, and waved them through. Theo quickly slipped 'round the edge of the enclosure and went down on one knee with her back against a thicket of skinny boughs. The floor didn't merely look ragged, it was ragged—and unexpectedly soft and springy. A closer inspection showed that it was made of vines and lichens, all woven together to form a comfortable, crinkly habitat.

The norbears—nine plump, rough-furred mammals—were on the far side of the enclosure, some half-buried in the floor-stuff, some lolling about on top, all seeming oblivious to presence of humans in their space, going about what the lecture had told them was typical norbear business—eating, wrestling, grooming, and sleeping.

Except, Theo thought, watching them with a critical eye, there wasn't much sleeping going on. Oh, there were roly-poly recumbent bodies nestled into the vines, eyes closed while rounded ears twitched and pivoted, tracking soft footsteps—or maybe listening to the new songs, measuring each against some secret norbear standard.

Which was remarkably catlike behavior for creatures that looked so very different from cats . . . Suddenly, there was a flurry, a rustle of vegetation, and one of the norbears was on the move, rocking from side to side as she made her way across the enclosure, straight for the little boy with red hair who'd been so cranky during the lecture.

But, that's not catlike at all, Theo thought. There was no mystery about the approach, no measuring glance over one shoulder, no sitting down to groom—no suspense. Instead, the norbear bumbled merrily onward until she had run her round head practically into the boy's knee. The littlie gave a shout of laughter, and promptly sat down in the blue-green expanse, gathering his new friend into his arms.

As if that had been a signal, the rest of the norbears were suddenly moving, fairly charging the gathered humans. Theo was bumped by a white norbear with a brown spot on her spine. She reached down to pet her, and discovered that the rough-looking pelt wasn't rough at all, but plush against her skin, while—

"She's purring!" she exclaimed, glancing over to Win Ton, comfortably cross-legged on the woven floor, a black norbear snuggled against his hip.

He placed his hand gently against the charcoal fur and smiled.

"Is this catlike, then?" he asked, softly, as his friend suddenly sat up on her hind legs and grabbed his sleeve with a tiny hand.

"Not quite," Theo said. "The resonance is—it's like I'm hearing half the sound inside my head!"

"Ah. Perhaps that is the so-called 'natural empathy' at work?"

"You mean, since they can't hear on—on every frequency . . ."

"Precisely! It may be reciprocal. In fact, it must be reciprocal. Is it not the same with the cha'dramliz

—ah, your pardon! I mean to say—" He blinked and sent her a wry glance. "Your pardon again, Theo Waitley. I find that I do not know what I mean, speaking in Terran."

"Maybe if you describe—" Theo began, and blinked, interrupted by the sudden arrival of a second, much skinnier—maybe younger?—norbear, who charged up her knee, grabbed onto the front of her sweater with tiny hands and climbed until she had gained the height of Theo's shoulder, where she sat up on her back legs, one hand clutching Theo's hair to keep from rolling over and down. The shoulder-sitter was purring, too, and the interweaving of the two "sounds" inside her head was—energizing.

She laughed as the first norbear, not to be outdone, despite the fact that she was considerably more portly, grabbed onto Theo's pants leg, and began to haul herself up, hand over hand. Laughing again, Theo scooped the creature into her lap, and cuddled her. The norbear relaxed against her, purrs intensifying. Theo shivered pleasurably, and looked around the enclosure. The littlie was rolling in the vines with his norbear, squealing with laughter. Two of the adults were sitting down, norbears at cuddle and grins on their faces. The oldest of their group was standing, his back against the wall, norbear on his shoulder, furry cheek pressed against his ear. The man's eyes were closed and he was smiling.

Mr. Rogen stood off to one side of it all, hands behind his back, face expressionless; the only one of their group not visited by a norbear.

"Have some manners!" Win Ton exclaimed from beside her, over a sudden frantic sound of claws scrabbling against cloth. "It's hardly my fault you were lost in dreams!" He extended his hand and raised it slowly, a ginger colored norbear no bigger than his hand curled down on his palm, ears quivering.

"There," he murmured. "No need to be distraught . . ." The sounds in her head increased again, like she was maybe hearing Win Ton's norbears, too. She wondered, if she listened closely, if she'd be able to tell which purr belonged to each norbear. Theo closed her eyes for a moment, the better to concentrate—and jerked as the librarian called out.

"That concludes our lecture for the day! The norbears are available to passengers in cycle every shipday, please consult the Library's schedule for exact times! Now, please rise, and place your animal gently on the leaves. There may be a moment of dislocation as the empathic bond is—they have very little range—Yes. And please now leave the enclosure."

Theo put her norbears on the green-tangle with a pang made sharper by the skinny shoulder sitter wrapping tiny fingers around the base of her thumb, as if pleading with her not to go. Win Ton was standing, though, and the rest of the group was filing through the gate, the little boy still giggling softly to himself.

"I've got to go," Theo whispered to the skinny norbear. "I'll come back and visit—promise!" She forced herself to pull her hand back, stand up, and follow the rest of the group out of the enclosure.

* * *

Kamele smiled and inclined her head easily, neither scrambling to stand and bow in return, nor ignoring the courtesy offered. She had not, Cho thought, been simply given a rule, for there was a naturalness to the gesture that mere rule-learning could never attain. Rather, it was the gesture of someone who had learned by proximity, over time, until the easy courtesy was part of her social repertoire.

"I came down to do some work," Kamele said, "but I think that work has done with me." She moved her hand, showing Cho the empty chair across from her. "Please, won't you join me? The coffee is quite good."

"Ah." Cho slid into the offered chair. "The tea is also entirely drinkable, as I have had occasion to discover. Also, there is a small cheesecake—small in size, but large in delight. May I order one to share, and more coffee for yourself?"

The blue eyes sharpened on her. Cho kept her face as innocent as may be, displaying restrained pleasure at this chance meeting. She was, as most Liadens were, all praise to the lessons of the homeworld culture, very good at schooling her expressions. And yet there was a moment, fleeting but poignant, in which she was convinced that Kamele Waitley had pierced her small veil of deceit. Whatever discoveries the professor may have made, she decided not to remark them. The moment passed, and Kamele Waitley once more inclined her head.

"A sweet shared with an ally would be very pleasant, I thank you." Hah. Now, that, Cho thought, had more of the feel of received information, as opposed to practical understanding. Still, even scholars might hold truce over table.

Cho touched the discreet button set into the tabletop and entrusted her order to the smiling young person who shortly arrived at their alcove. By the time Kamele Waitley had folded her screen away, the server was returned, bearing a tray with two pots, two cups, the single sweet and the utensils with which to address it. These were deftly set out with a murmured wish that the diners enjoy, and they were once again in private.

Kamele poured coffee. Cho poured tea, looking up to see what the other would do—and delighted to find that she took but a single sip from her cup before placing it gently on the tabletop, her eyes steady on Cho's face.

Here indeed was a fully capable woman, Cho thought, admiringly, and stifled a sigh at the memory of the person to whom she sat second.

Well.

Cho took the ritual sip and likewise put her cup aside, returning Kamele Waitley's regard.

"At our shared meal last evening, the so-delightful Professor Crowley allowed me to know that the scholars of Delgado travel to Melchiza, there to undertake a search of literatures."

"That's right," the other woman said, a small line appearing between delicate brows. "We checked the Advisories available to us and found no warnings of . . . danger more than would await any traveler, ignorant of local custom."

Gods, the woman was quick! Cho inclined her head.

"The Advisories are . . . adequate for most travelers. Melchiza values its tourists even more than it values its trade. What concerns me is this search which your team would undertake. For Melchiza holds its intellectual treasures close, and does not easily share."

Kamele Waitley's face smoothed. Almost, she smiled. "I thank you for your concern," she said softly.

"But we go as scholars to scholars, with an identical regard for the treasures of the intellect. That common bond will, I think, bridge our differences." She reached for her cup and raised it, apparently of the opinion that the meat of their interaction was consumed. "We've been in contact with the curator of the items we wish to examine, and she's been everything that's obliging and scholarly." Well, and perhaps not so quick, after all. Cho picked up her cup. But no, she chided herself, as she savored the truly excellent ship's blend—that was unkind, and likely also untrue. Kamele Waitley thought in terms of her team's mission, and those arrangements that scholars made between scholars. Of those other influences upon her mission which were yet outside of it—of those things, she was ignorant. And how not?

"It is," she said softly, "doubtless exactly as you say. Certainly, there are those ports where I would scarce dare set foot, except for the surety of meeting a like mind." She would, Cho thought, consider a bit more, and weigh whether the warning repeated, and more strongly, might cause more harm than good. There was time. And it might, after all, be true that the scholars would stand sheltered within the shadow of their kin in research and never catch of glimpse of the more . . . peculiar . . . aspects of Melchizan culture.

In the meanwhile, she smiled and nodded at the untouched sweet between them.

"Please, let us enjoy this together." She picked up the spoon that had been set by her hand, and saw with a breath of relief that Kamele Waitley also picked up hers. She had not offended. That was well. One did not like the notion of offending Kamele Waitley.

* * *

Theo's head was buzzing, like she still heard the norbears purring there; and she felt—charged with

'way too much energy, and if she didn't do something to channel it, or contain it, then—

"I need to make lace!" she exclaimed, feet jittering against the deck as they walked away from the pet library.

"And to think that they are merely domestic norbears!" Win Ton's voice sounded like her head felt, bright and full of unexpected edges. "How might we have fared, faced with—what?" He looked down at her, brown eyes glittering. "You need to make— lace?" She hadn't realized he was so close; she could feel the excitement jumping back and forth between the two of them, arcing, like electricity . . .

"No," she said, and forced herself to stop, to keep both feet firmly on the deck and both arms at her sides. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to think through the buzz. When she had the thought firm, she looked up at Win Ton, who was standing forcibly still, not even a hand's breadth away.

"I don't want to make lace," she said, speaking slowly and clearly. "I want to dance." He grinned. "Now that may indeed be the tonic that cures us! Hold a beat." He spun rapidly on a heel, arm shooting out and up, pointing at the sign that flashed and spangled across the wide hallway. Arcade.

* * *

Like everything else on Vashtara, the arcade was too big and too ornate; certainly it was too noisy. Theo followed Win Ton through the sliding gates and was nearly overwhelmed by the racket. Such a blast of sound and distracting lights would never have been allowed on Delgado; it couldn't be either safe or secure to have so many things going on at once!

On the other hand, with the norbear buzz still in her head and the feeling she had, the will to dance so strong, the noise seemed to echo and . . . almost . . . satisfy some craving she hadn't 'til this minute known she'd had.

Win Ton had a plan, so she kept his shoulder close to hers as he slipped deeper into the noise and the crowd.

He paused, and she thought he'd found it . . . but maybe he was watching the woman with the stupidly tiny skirt walk by—as were half the people on deck it seemed like. Pffft . . . she didn't move half as well as Win Ton himself . . . but then his gaze traveled on. He jerked his head, like he was pointing with his chin.

"There! Will that satisfy you, Theo Waitley?" There was a note of—of challenge—in his voice. She looked in the direction he'd pointed.

There was a trio of platforms, one barely above floor level and swathed in a pulsing green light. The next level, up a ramp to the right, was bathed in a lurid red light with a double pulse. The third platform was higher still, glowing with a blue-silver nimbus, a dozen smaller overhead highlights reflecting off its glittering hardware.

The beat from the first platform was plain and simple; it was occupied by three adults, trying to do something . . .

Win Ton leaned comfortably into her shoulder, murmuring so softly that she had to practically put her ear against his lips to hear him.

"I said, Theo, that we need not start on the base platform if you don't wish to. It only goes up to level nine."

The three adults, Theo saw suddenly, were dancing—sort of—

in a semi-coordinated kind of way, each following a pattern that was projected in Tri-D in front of them. The image showed them where to place their feet next, with hints for tempo and hand location . . . and they weren't all that good at it. There were . . . scores they must be, at the top of the Tri-D, points for doing things right. It looked like the three dancers were being corrected quite a bit by the machine; though they'd managed to make it to level three. The man in the center . . . he wasn't too bad, she decided, watching him catch the beat with his hips and start to move a bit more easily.

"Have you danced this way before?" Win Ton asked.

She shook her head no. The guy in the center had it now—he was really moving with the beat . . .

"I've never used one," she said to Win Ton, "but I see how it works."

"There is room on the second platform," he said, his breath tickling her ear, "if you can give over gawking . . ."

The beat and the movement and the patterns on the Tri-D were sort of mesmerizing, and watching people was good . . . but she felt there'd been something else he thought was funny in that phrase. She turned her head so that she could see him, and caught a look on his face like—well, like Father's, when he thought something was interesting.

"Will you dance with me, Theo Waitley?" Win Ton asked, his accent making the words into something exotic and exciting.

"Yes," she said, like her stomach didn't feel suddenly odd. Her fingers were tingling with energy, and her feet kept shifting against the floor, feeling out the beat.

Win Ton smiled, brilliant, and offered his hand. She took it as they skirted the first-level adults, and arrived at the red-bathed platform. Here were two younger dancers, on the first and third of the level's four dance pads. The music was louder, and Theo saw Win Ton's free hand move as if he was saying something to her . . .

"What?" she asked, leaning in, because . . .

"I said," he said against her ear, "that this machine goes up to level eighteen, though these tourists are hardly more skilled than the first level people, and surely not worthy of us. Up with you, she who dances, up!"

Theo tried to give him a quieting glance, but he was already on the ramp, heading for the third level, and there was nothing she could do but follow him.

The silver platform was more than a tall head's height above the common floor, and a fair number of people were watching the two dancers on the leftmost pads.

The scores for both dancers were rising steadily, the right one more rapidly than the left. Forcing herself to concentrate, Theo watched them, noting that the nearer dancer's eyes were half-closed, as if he was barely watching the pattern while his body wove from move to move. His partner, on the other hand, was staring intently at the pattern, every motion deliberate.

Theo leaned against Win Ton's shoulder and put her mouth next to his ear. "That's not very fair," she murmured. "The man on the right is—is a dancer, and the other one isn't!" It seemed that Win Ton shivered, but it was probably only the norbear buzz and the excitement of the lights and the noise. He moved his hand in a gesture that was almost dancelike, then bent to speak into her ear.

"You may be right. Still, the one on the left is making a good effort. Effort should count for something, should it not?"

There was question underneath the question—she heard it without understanding what it was—and then was distracted as the dancer on the right abruptly stumbled and stepped off the pad. Laughing and shrugging, he pulled his serious friend away, and they descended the ramp, heads together, and their arms around each other's waists.

"There," Win Ton said with satisfaction. "We have it to ourselves, Sweet Mystery . . . please choose your pad." He glanced at her with a smile almost as glittery as the silver lights. "First one to give up buys lunch."

"I'm really clumsy, you know!" Theo said seriously, taking the pad all the way on the left. "And I haven't really had that many dance lessons."

Win Ton bowed. "Fairly said. I will therefore pay for the dance, as you will be paying for lunch." He waved his key card at the panel, the lights came up, the beat started, and the pattern formed on the screen before them.

Theo put her foot forward. Challenge or not, she still wanted to dance.

* * *

They were both sweating, involved, unaware, sharing a moment of movement alone among many. Kamele stood transfixed, watching along with dozens of others as the dancers on the high platform laughed at each other. Theo stuck her tongue out at something her partner said, her hand moving in flippant motion to the beat that was gone, waiting for the next round on the machine, entranced. On the level below three young men were dancing hard . . . each had aspired to the higher level and had given up after a dance or two; the pair on the top hardly noticed their arrival—or their departure.

"How much longer?" Kamele asked faintly.

"They have finished level thirty-five," Cho sig'Radia said, with really remarkable calm, "my apprentice and your daughter. The game has only one more to offer—it is called 'The Overdrive Level.'•" Kamele shook her head extravagantly. "Overdrive? I must tell Ella about this!" A woman, resplendent in a gold and red Arcade uniform, paused at Kamele's side and smiled up at the two silver-limned dancers. "They're the best we've had so far this trip," she said, sounding for all the words like a fond mother. "Even the really good dancers hardly get past level thirty." She nodded impartially at Kamele and Cho and passed on into the crowd.

Above them, the music started again, the pads lit and the dancers began to move, step-step-twist, the scores flickering on the machine's face insisting that they were evenly matched in skill. They were so very closely matched . . . Kamele looked to her companion. "How old is Win Ton?" The Liaden moved her shoulders. "A matter of some sixteen Standards, add or remove a handful of days."

"But he is—a pilot," Kamele insisted, as the dancers pirouetted above.

"Indeed, he is a very able pilot." Cho smiled. "Mind you, he has mastered Jump, and so has earned the jacket, but he has more yet to learn."

"I . . . see."

Her attention drifted upward again, to the pair now marching in time, knees high, elbows pumping. Kamele felt a sudden doubt, and looked 'round to her companion.

"He's not letting her match his score, is he?"

Cho laughed then.

"Kamele Waitley, as enchanting as your daughter may be, I think young Win Ton has not the 'let her win' wit in his head." She paused, apparently weighing the efforts the pair on the high platform, then looked back, smiling.

"No," she said, almost too softly to be heard under the whistles, claps and encouragement shouted by the watchers on the arcade floor. "Assuredly, he is not letting her keep up."

* * *

"You almost missed that last, Theo Waitley!"

She laughed and stuck her tongue out—"Was I the one who almost fell on his face because of a simple waltz step?"

"A trick move! Who on Liad learns waltzes from Terra? I say again, a trick move." She moved her hand, mimicking the motion he seemed to use for the more ironic flavors of "no."

"All right, and what was that thing that made you laugh, if you please?" Win Ton laughed again, ruefully this time. "It is a preliminary move, taught in classes of marriage lore—and more than that, I will not say, though you pull my hair out by the roots!" She snorted, her hand still carrying the beat of the last round. "Oh, and you've been married?" He sent a glance to the far ceiling, his fingers snapping lightly.

"Nay, I was not, though I might have been, had the captain not accepted me as her apprentice. So, you see, I am doomed, whichever foot I stand upon."

Theo laughed again. He used that as an excuse to step up to the board, fingers hovering above the selection for the next level.

"Are you ready, Sweet Mystery?"

"I am if you are," she answered.

"Bold heart." He smacked the start plate with his toe.

"Go!"

* * *

The music poured through her, mixing with the norbear hum, filling up her senses. She was aware of the music, the patterns, and of Win Ton, matching her step-for-step on the pad next to hers. Together, they tore through the first section of the level, and then hit a complex series of moves seemingly a repeat of a much earlier level, as if the game-programmer was toying with them. Surely they weren't going to regress?

There! The tempo picked up again, and now the music moved into something her dancing instructor called contrapuntal dysrhythmia, with the point being that the dance moves were not in sync with the music.

Theo laughed and dared a glance at Win Ton, who saw her look and made a silly face. She laughed again, caught the next footwork and saw that, too, was being silly.

And then she . . .

Almost fell over.

The music—just stopped. The platform shook with a weird rumbling. Lights flashed. Buzzers went off. The Tri-D screen showed a senseless pattern, twirling wildly. Glittery streamers fell from somewhere, tangling in her hair, cluttering the dance pad, and drifting in the air from the blowers. She spun, careful of her footing among the fallen streamers, and stared at Win Ton, who was stubbornly kicking at the start plate.

"What happened?"

He flung his hands out, eloquent of frustration. "We have beaten the machine, you and I! There are no more levels to dance."

Theo fuffed hair out of her face.

"It can't be over. I still have dance left!"

Win Ton laughed again, and suddenly pointed over the edge of the platform.

"I fear we may have danced past lessons. There stand my captain and your mother, and I very much fear it is going to go badly with us."

She fuffed her hair out of her face again, saw her mother waving at her to come down.

"Kick it again," she said to Win Ton. "Maybe it'll start if we both kick it!"

* * *

"We scarcely had a workout at all!" Win Ton said to Cho sig'Radia across the table the four of them had claimed at Breakfast All Year.

Kamele sipped her coffee, trying to hide her amusement. That the boy had had a workout was all too obvious. Disregarding the fact that he and Theo were both still sweat-dampened and in high color, they had between them consumed a so-called "nuncheon plate" advertised to feed four, and were making short work of the follow-on sweets tray. Theo had eaten with a delicate voracity that had frankly amazed, letting the boy do the talking, except for a few early comments regarding norbears.

"Yet you advanced to the overdrive level," Cho pointed out. "It seemed from the floor, young Win Ton, that you and your partner ended the game in the top first percentile of players—"

"It does not advance to the challenge level!" Win Ton interrupted, and Theo paused with her third—or possibly fourth—petit pastry halfway to her mouth to blink at him.

"I thought we were at the challenge level!" she exclaimed.

"No, sweet dancer—a proper machine, such as the one I am accustomed to from—" a quick glance at Cho "—from school, has several levels yet above where we found ourselves, which allow for free form, and other variations."

He sounded, Kamele thought, genuinely aggrieved, and despite herself she chuckled. Three pair of eyes came to rest on her face, which was—disconcerting, but she had brought it on herself.

"I'm sorry," she said to Win Ton, who had probably thought she was laughing at him. "I'm reminded of—of a dear friend of mine who makes similar complaints about the equipment we have at home." She sipped her coffee, marking how the boy's gaze never faltered. "His answer is usually to . . . correct . . . the poor performance into something he finds more reasonable."

Win Ton's face grew thoughtful.

"I will ask my apprentice," Cho sig'Radia said, with emphasis, "to recall that he is a guest and a passenger upon this vessel."

He turned to her. "But, Captain—"

She raised a hand. "Spare the poor device, my child; it is a game only, and never meant to withstand a full testing."

"But—"

"It wasn't a test," Theo interrupted. "We were just trying to work off the—the buzz from the norbears!" She looked at Cho seriously. "And it was just what we needed. Making lace wouldn't have done at all!"

There was a small silence during which, Kamele strongly suspected, Cho sig'Radia struggled courageously with her emotions.

"Ah," she said at last, inclining her head. "You must tell me more about this lace making, if you would, young Theo. I have, as you may understand, some interest in strategies for bleeding excess energy."

•

Twenty-Two

Vashtara

EdRec Level

Library

Win Ton really called that one! Theo thought as she moved out of the lecture hall. Hindsight clearly showed that she should've gone with him to the "Antique Recipe Workshop." Pffft. If she was ever a teacher she was going to lecture better than Mr. Chorli. He hadn't been very good with the norbear presentation and he'd been even worse with "All The Languages of Space." Not only didn't he speak anything but what he called "pure Terran," he used some kind of promptomatic on his speakeasy display so all he had to do was read ahead a few seconds to sound like he knew his subject. She could get better than that off any classroom channel at home any hour of the day. Worse than all of that, though—he hadn't taken questions.

Not that he probably knew anything about nonverbal languages.

Well, she'd just have to download the extra study packet off of the Library site when she got back to the stateroom. She was at liberty until six bells, though she was supposed to meet Win Ton in front of the Arcade after their respective lectures were over.

"All the Languages of Space" had ended some minutes short of its advertised time frame, which she guessed was just as well. It did, however, mean that she had a little bit of time to make good on a promise.

She glanced around her, located the pointer, and was shortly in the Pet Library, the norbears'

eco-section before her, status light glowing a cheery yellow for accepting visitors. Theo smiled. She'd just look in and see if anybody was awake. Carefully, she eased the gate open and slipped inside the eco-space.

If she hadn't known better, she would have said that the enclosure was empty; a first glance showed only the ragged vegetation, the sticklike shrubbery, and a little pool of gently flowing water. It was quiet, too; the only noise she heard for three heartbeats was a sort of soft under-mumble, which was probably the pump powering the pool.

Three or four careful steps into the space, Theo sank to her knees on the crinkly floor.

"Hey," she called softly. "Anybody home? I promised I'd come back." Nothing moved. Theo sighed. She'd thought she'd at least see the little norbear who had seemed so sad when she'd left, before. Still, she reminded herself, naps were pretty serious for cats—and probably for norbears, too. Just because the Pet Librarian decided they were receiving visitors didn't mean that the norbears agreed.

She shifted slightly on her knees, waking a rustle.

"Maybe next time," she said, gently, and began to rise.

Somebody . . . sneezed, tiny and delicate.

She froze.

The vegetation rustled, and a pair of round ears hove into view, quivering. Theo held her breath as the rest of the norbear became visible, sneezed again, then bumbled into action, charging across the crinkly floor at full norbear throttle.

She laughed and held her hand down. The skinny one who had wanted her to stay barreled straight onto her palm. Carefully, she brought the little creature to her shoulder, already hearing the buzz inside her head, and feeling a warm pulse of pleasure. The norbear was glad she had come back. Theo was glad she had come back. She sighed as the tiny fingers gripped her hair, the audible part of the purr tickling her ear.

"I can't stay long," she said, keeping her voice soft so as not to wake any of the other norbears. "But I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten you."

Her palm tickled, like she was holding fur, and the feeling of warm well-being increased. Theo smiled.

"You didn't forget me, either. That makes me feel good. I'll come back again, if you want me to, but I'm going to have to go in a couple minutes to meet Win Ton."

The purring quickened; the feeling of half-sleepy comfort shifting into a kind of bouncy inquisitiveness. Maybe, Theo thought, the norbear was describing Win Ton, as he was perceived by norbears. The tempo changed again, brightening; Theo felt a sparkle of energy, and breathed a laugh.

"Oh, no, you don't," she said, reaching up and schooching the norbear from her shoulder to her hand.

"The last time we were here, you gave us so much energy we had to dance it off. We beat the machine and now Captain Cho says we can't dance it anymore!"

The purring took on a quizzical tone.

"Well . . . she said we'd be making a display of ourselves. But Win Ton says he's got something that's even better than dancing, which is why I'm supposed to meet him."

She put the norbear gently down on the floor-stuff, and shivered pleasurably when the little creature once again wrapped her fingers around the base of Theo's thumb.

"I'll visit you again," she said; "promise. But next time, you need to wake up quicker!" The norbear flicked her ears, rubbed her head against Theo's fingertips and let go, settling back on her hind legs.

Theo rose, not without a pang, and let herself out of the eco-section. When she looked back through the transparent door, she could still see the norbear, sitting tall, watching her.

* * *

Theo left the Pet Library, walking with the light, quick stride she'd learned from Win Ton. It wasn't quite like dancing; in fact, it was like math. A lot like math, where the rest of the objects and pedestrians in an area three strides ahead and to either side of you were points. And it was your job to navigate through the space created by those points. Frowning, she wondered how she'd explain it to Bek. Maybe she'd just have to show him.

She passed one of the 'vator banks as the doors opened and what looked like a whole secondary school was disgorged. The crowd swept 'round her, walking quickly, voices raised in a confusion of language and dialect—not one of them, Theo thought, spitefully—"pure Terran." In fact, it did looked like a secondary school, she saw: There were some adults mixed in, but mostly the crowd was made up of kids her age or a little older, wearing sweaters in what must be their Team colors. They sorted themselves as they streamed past, yellow sweaters finding other yellows; magentas grouping together; blues swirling 'round each other like water.

She increased her pace, but they soon outstripped her, hurrying past the Arcade, toward the retail areas beyond.

Theo slowed and let them go. She was supposed to meet Win Ton in front of the Arcade; it was no sense running a race when she was almost there, and not at all late, despite her visit with the norbear. From behind her came the sound of rapid footsteps—maybe some of the kids had gotten separated from their group, Theo thought, and swung toward the wall, so she wouldn't impede them. That would be anti-social.

Behind her, the rushing footsteps slowed considerably, and a boy spoke softly—though still loud enough for her to hear.

"Hey, hey, Jumbo. There she is! That cute Liaden girl you were faunching after—she's right there. I told you she wouldn't be able to stay away. People get addicted to that dance thing. And her boyfriend's not with her!"

Theo scanned the crowd ahead, looking for the "Liaden girl." The rushing Teams had mostly been Terran, she thought, though she hadn't seen everybody, and it would've been hard to pick a specifically Liaden girl out of the crowd. How would you tell? Even Father, who, as he had assured her gravely, stood every inch a Liaden, sometimes startled inadvertent people, who just assumed that he was Terran. People, Theo thought, weren't generally very advertent.

The Arcade was in sight, and there was Win Ton, in his jacket today and—but, no! That person's hair was more red and less brown than Win Ton's hair, though he was wearing a similar jacket. He was shoulder-to-shoulder with a black-haired woman, both of them on the alert for someone, by the way they stood.

"Catch her before she goes in the Arcade!" another boy—maybe Jumbo?—cried. The footsteps quickened again, scuffling in haste, and suddenly her view of the Arcade and the interesting people before it was blocked by a group of three young men in tight black pants and glittery, open-necked shirts. They looked faintly familiar—maybe she'd seen them in one of the shopping malls, or at lunch; but she was certain she'd never spoken to any of them.

The tallest of the three, which put him 'way taller than her, stood slightly forward, blocking her way, and smiled like he expected her to recognize him. He had a square face, made squarer by the fact that he'd slicked his hair back so it was flat to his head. Two blue stripes were painted from the outside corners of his eyes to the tips of his ears and he had an earring that matched his glittery shirt dangling in his left ear.

She'd seen him some where, Theo thought, glancing over his shoulder at his friends, who seemed to be having a hard time not laughing.

"Mamzel," the tallest boy said abruptly, his voice sounding breathless, "may I offer you congratulations on a great dance? I've never seen a girl dance so well before." Oh. The captain had explained that they might expect people seeking them out to congratulate them on "beating" the dance machine.

"It is to be a wonder, young Theo; some people will wish to share your glory by speaking of it to you. There are those who will admire the performance even of the sullen young apprentice, though he owns himself barely tested." Captain Cho had paused to look pointedly at Win Ton before continuing,

"This is yet another reason to refrain from repeating such a display of virtuosity. Rest, both, upon your accomplishments; be gracious to those who seek you out—and find some other avenue for excess energy."

Theo gave the boy before her a smile and a nod.

"Thank you," she managed, trying to sound gracious; "we had a lot of fun." Again, she looked beyond him, hoping for Win Ton, but seeing only the friends of her admirer, and feeling—feeling more nervous than gracious.

She moved two steps to the right, but one of the friends matched the move, so that she couldn't leave, unless she wanted to duck around him and look like a kid.

"I was wondering . . ." said the tall youth. He bowed a silly, off-centered bow, like he was fragile, or didn't know how to stand on his feet. His friends tried to follow suit and looked even sillier. "Would you care to join us for a dance on level two or three?"

Theo took a breath. This isn't, she reminded herself, the late bus from Nonactown. This is an open hallway. Lots of people can see you, right here, right now. There's no way they can cover up all those eyes.

Another breath, and she gave the tall boy Father's nodding half-bow, because Captain Cho had said

"gracious."

"I'm honored," she managed, "but I don't—I'm not sure it would be fair. I'm—" The leader's smile dropped away into a hard, angry line. He leaned forward, looming over her, and interrupted loudly.

"Not fair to dance with us? Are you that good, do you think? Grizzat's bones, I've heard Liadens are stuck up, but—"

Theo dropped back a half-step, sliding into a move from the Suwello, which spun her sideways to the tallest boy. The one who had blocked her had dropped back, but whether that was because he didn't want to be part of the argument, or he wanted to give his friend space, Theo couldn't tell—and didn't care. His absence created an opening. She could dance to the left, spin right and—

"Boyfriend!" came sotto-voice from the friend on the left, barely ahead of another, familiar, and welcome voice.

"I'd measure 'not fair' as a polite enough no," Win Ton said, with a certain bland emphasis. He paused at her side and set his shoulder against hers. "Liaden or otherwise. As our dancer was waiting for me, as I feel certain she was about—Oh, Pilots!"

He bowed, pretty as a dance move, to the left of the three boys, where the red-headed person she'd almost mistaken for Win Ton and his companion came.

"Pilot, well met," the woman said. She returned his bow precisely, the black hair curving over her shoulder showing highlights of blue.

The three boys suddenly went back a step, then another.

"Win Ton!" her teammate cried, with a grin. "We were told we might find you and your fair partner here!" The bow he swept was full of flourish, and aimed, Theo saw with a blink, at her. "Star Dancer, allow me to be honored beyond my powers of expression!"

"If only it were so!" the woman added.

Theo giggled. The red-haired man straightened, fingers flickering with rapid purpose.

"Precisely," Win Ton answered, and turned his head toward the visibly nervous boys.

"Young sirs, our party has found us, and we are wanted elsewhere," he said crisply. "The very best of good luck to you, in your crusade to conquer Level Two."

* * *

"Well, there wasn't really a problem," Theo said half-huffily as they strode toward and through a grav-change spot. None of her companions commented on it, so she didn't either. Of course, none of her companions had commented on the boys who had wanted to dance, either. But Theo . . . her stomach was still unsettled, though really, she told herself for the fourth time, there hadn't been any danger.

"They just wanted me to dance with them," she said, "and I was trying to say that it wouldn't be fair to start a dance when I was expecting a friend and would have to leave. But he misunderstood what I said, and he wouldn't let me finish . . ."

Win Ton looked beyond her to the other members of their party, a hand sign directing them and her left at the next intersection. The gravity changed there, too, lightening.

"You spoke nothing but truth, Theo," Win Ton said. "Indeed, you might have stopped in good conscience with 'not fair.' Those three will never be pilots—nor dancers. It is therefore nothing more than the duty of one who is a most exquisite dancer to protect them from harmful ambition." Theo glanced at him, and took a deliberate breath, trying to let the last of the upset feeling go.

"You're right," she said. "It's nothing that needs to go to Delm Korval." Win Ton blinked, eyes widening.

"Certainly not," he agreed. He touched his tongue to his lips, then looked past her, speaking to Cordrey, the red-haired man, and his friend Phobai.

"Hear me, Pilots, we went shoulder to shoulder to Level thirty-six, and might have gone to Level fifty, had the machine not been burdened with a governor. Those clumsy halflings could have learned nothing from dancing with Theo! You could see that they wanted only to be admired!"

"Your eyesight that bad, Pilot?" Cordrey asked, giving Theo a grin and a wink. "Looked to me like what they really wanted to do was admire Theo, all to themselves."

Win Ton did an odd little shrug-and-bow on the move. "Point taken," he admitted. "Ah, we'll want my pass here."

He dropped one step behind Theo and took two long steps to Cordrey's side, a key card appearing between his fingers as they approached the gate across the hall. Phobai shifted her position so now she was walking next to Theo.

"Still feeling a little fizzy, aren't you?" the black-haired woman asked. Theo bit her lip, and nodded.

"Thought so. Those guys weren't anything you couldn't handle, even if we hadn't happened along. The fizz, though, that'll be good for what we're on course for."

Ahead of them, the gate snapped open, and Win Ton waved them through.

"Quickly, friends! Now . . ."

He moved ahead of their little party, Cordrey at his heels. Phobai stayed with Theo, walking as close as a mother.

"What—course are we on?" Theo asked. Phobai smiled, slow and lazy.

"You'll like it," she said, which wasn't an answer at all. "Not far now, I don't think."

"Fourteen," Win Ton said to Cordrey; "though fourteen-b, I'm told, is the actual entrance we wish to use."

They walked on, quiet and companionable. Theo felt a comfortable bounce to her step that wasn't just the light gravity. It did feel good to stretch her legs, and the . . . fizz . . . that Phobai had noticed seemed to have given her something like a norbear buzz.

A double-doorway was coming up on the left, gold-colored numerals blazoned Theo-high on the wall, accompanied by the legend, "Captain's Ballroom."

They strode on another two dozen steps, to the much more modest door labeled "14-B."

"Now!" said Win Ton, brandishing the key once more. He looked to Theo, his eyes sparkling. " Now, we can be private! "

* * *

"Why did you come back?" Chair Hafley's voice was not as calm as she wished it to be; the tension was in the over-careful enunciation.

Kamele raised her coffee cup and sipped, savoring the bright, acidic taste. It was very good coffee; the sort to be enjoyed in pleasant solitude or shared with an old and dear friend. Unhappily, there was instead of either solitude or a friend, Orkan Hafley. Kamele placed her cup gently onto the saucer and met the Chair's hard blue gaze. She could plead ignorance, but there was nothing to gain, really, from pretending not to understand the question.

"It was time," she said calmly, "to come back."

"Oh, it was time!" Hafley's laugh was harsh. "What I don't understand, Kamele, is why you waited so long. The Liaden bed-toy performed his function well. You had years ago gotten your introductions to the high scholars and ingratiated yourself into their regard. A well-enough plan, aptly executed, and nothing more than a canny scholar with an eye to her future—and her daughter's!—might put in motion. Though the Liaden wasn't quite well-placed enough to get you into the Tower, was he?"

"I believe that Professor Kiladi is well-thought-of at the Administrative levels," Kamele said, carefully now.

"I'm certain that he is," Hafley said, with heavy sarcasm, "but are you?" She plucked a pink sponge cake flower from the pastry tray on the table between them and disposed of it in one bite.

"You are not thought of by Admin at all!" she said, answering her own question somewhat stickily.

"And that was not very forward-looking. If you wish to solidify your position, you'll need Admin behind you. Unless," she continued, giving Kamele a speculative look, "unless that is the reason you've come back? The Liaden is getting long in the tooth, and I daresay he isn't as . . . satisfactory . . . as he might once have been. A rising young Administrator, however . . . Parlay the position you gained from the old man, and, of course, your own worth as a full professor and a woman at the height of her powers. Yes, that might well open the Tower to you. A young man warms the bed nicely, if I may offer the benefit of my experience—and so eager to be led! It will be quite a change for you." Kamele thought about her coffee, but did not reach for it. Her anger was gaining on her puzzlement—and Hafley must not see her hand shake.

"It's kind of you to say, Chair," she said, keeping her voice calm. "One does like to know that one's planning is appropriate."

"Appropriate," Hafley agreed, reaching for the pot and pouring herself more coffee. She did not offer to warm Kamele's cup.

"Appropriate," she said again, as if the word had savor, "but so time-consuming. Had you not lingered so long outside the Wall, this plan might have served you better. As it is, I believe I may save you some time—and perhaps some effort."

"You . . . intrigue me," Kamele said honestly.

"Of course I do; you are a woman of ambition. Now, how if I were to offer you entree to highest levels of the Tower, immediately upon our return to Delgado? Of course you may still wish to secure that warm and eager-to-please ornament to your sagacity. But! Your choice need not then be constrained by a job title."

She didn't care if her hands shook or not, Kamele thought; she needed coffee. The cup was tepid now; she drank it anyway. A memory rose: Jen Sar's first polite sip of the coffee she had made for the two of them to share: a special blend, purchased for the occasion. By the measuring glance he'd given the satiny dark beverage, he'd been braced for staff-room coffee, and it had been liquid bliss to see his eyebrows rise in surprise, and his lips soften into a smile when he lowered the cup.

"I wonder, Chair," Kamele said, putting her cup down and reaching for the pot. Her hands were quite steady, after all. What a surprise. "I wonder what you mean to say?" Hafley laughed and chose another sweet cake from the tray. "Why, only that I can forward your ambition, Scholar. All you need do is ally yourself with me, and to support my purpose."

* * *

Phobai took off her jacket and tossed it into a far corner.

"It might be tall enough," she said, tilting a measuring eye toward the ceiling; "if we're careful!"

"Oh, we'll be careful, we will," Cordrey said, stripping out of his jacket and dropping it casually next to hers.

Theo looked up, and shook her head. "I don't think I can jump that high, even if the gravity shifts and I dance real hard!"

Cordrey laughed, and leapt straight up, arm over head, fingers extended. He might, Theo thought, have been trying to touch the ceiling. If so, he missed by several hand-lengths, and dropped lightly to the floor.

"See?" he said to Phobai. "Careful."

He went off to the side and began tapping at the walls, his ear close. At a little distance, Win Ton was paying serious attention to the floor, scuffing at some spots, tapping at others. Curious, Theo looked down, surprised to find that the surface was like the Scavage court—elastic and slick. She bounced experimentally on her toes, pleased at the give. Maybe she could touch the ceiling, after all.

"Hey, Theo."

She turned to face Phobai, who had taken off her jersey, to reveal a sleeveless stretchy shirt that looked like a dance top. She lifted her arms, swept her hair up, gave it a twist and pinned it into a smooth knot at the back of her neck. Theo felt a pang, lost when the pilot smiled at her.

"You might want to take off that sweater. Things are likely to get warm."

"Oh!" Theo looked down at herself, disconcerted by the long sleeves, so comfortable for most of the ship's tourist areas—and not comfortable at all for dancing.

She sighed and looked back to Phobai. "I'm afraid I didn't bring any dance clothes."

"You're among friends," Phobai said, smiling. She leaned forward and brushed Theo's hair off her forehead. "If you need to get comfortable, we'll understand."

"Phobai!" Cordrey called from across the room. "Listen to this, will you?" No one had asked her to do anything, so Theo walked out into the center of the floor, and began Stretch Sequence Three from dance class. The sequence ended with a jump, and she surprised herself—maybe she could touch the ceiling after all!

She landed light, gasping a laugh, and glanced around her. Phobai and Cordrey were down-room, their heads together over a section of wall.

Well. She danced a step, another; heard Professor Noni's high voice chanting the time in her head—"One, two, three; one, two three; one, two, three, four!"—swayed, her arms moving in pattern across her chest and belly, the steps unrolling, as her hands came up, pushing air . . . As she spun into the last sentence, and there was Win Ton, moving with her, his steps a flowing reflection of hers. They came to rest on the final four, and she heard him say, softly. "Again, one, two . .

."

She stepped into the dance again, delighted as they moved, each the perfect reflection of the other. The module flowing around them like water.

Four.

Theo came to rest, hands folded before her.

Win Ton spun to the left, hands describing the dimensions of an invisible ball—and stopped, flat-footed and abruptly graceless, as he realized that he danced alone.

"Shall we not continue?" His voice was wistful.

"I . . . don't know any more," she said, feeling more than a little wistful herself. "Professor Noni was going to teach us the next module, but my mother took me out of school to travel with her." Funny, she thought, how she wasn't so sure that was a bad thing, anymore. "I—could you teach me the next part?

Bek says I catch new steps quicker than anyone he's seen, and he's been dancing since he was a littlie." Win Ton was seen to take a breath.

"I can and I will teach you the next part, Theo Waitley," he said, sounding stern, and much older.

"Your instructor should be—to leave a student with only the first four moves of the most basic self-defense? How can this—"

"Wait!" She threw her hands up; they settled into the pushing-air gesture, left hand slightly ahead of the right. Win Ton shifted, his weight going to his right leg—then stood down, somehow, as if he retracted a motion he'd made in his head and stored it away for some future moment.

"Caught between dreams and called to waken from both!" he exclaimed, bringing his hands to belt-level, palms facing Theo, fingers spread wide. "For what am I to wait, Sweet Mystery?"

"You said, self-defense," she stammered, lowering her hands to her side. "But—that's just a dance routine we were learning. It's called the Suwello."

"Ah," he said, sounding very much like Father in that monosyllable. "Yes, in some places where self-defense is frowned upon . . . menfri'at may be taught as the Suwello." He looked about. Theo followed his gaze, finding Cordrey and Phobai dancing the Suwello some distance down the room. Their tempo was quicker than Professor Noni had taught—so quick that it almost looked like the soft, air-pushing hand-motions were . . . strikes, and some of the footwork—surely Phobai hadn't meant to kick at her partner, like that!

"Pilots?" Win Ton called. " Menfri'at some other day!" Cordrey spun in a move that looked related to the one Win Ton had left unfinished, his hands twisting toward Phobai's shoulder.

"Pilots, tell the tale, pray!"

Cordrey ducked, and stopped moving, his arms straight down at his side. Phobai did the same, neatly. They turned together as if continuing the dance and jogged forward, moving with that economy of motion that Win Ton and Captain Cho displayed, as if the whole ship and everyone in it were part of the same dance. The same way that Father moved, she realized, though it was hard to see because of the cane . . .

"The walls are strong enough for light bounces," Cordrey said upon his and Phobai's arrival, "but not for us, I fear. We don't want to risk tearing the fabric, or damaging the wiring behind some of the panels."

"We are well warned then," said Win Ton. He jammed his foot hard at the floor, his boot squealing against the slick stuff. "The floor requires footwear, but is well enough for dives if need be, if you tuck skin."

"Warned!" said both the pilots in unison, now nearly as close to her as Win Ton.

"Warned for what?" Theo asked.

Phobai chuckled. "Just warned, and kind we are to do so."

Theo blinked at her, before Win Ton claimed her attention with a wave of his hand—just a wave, not the deliberate motion he used at Captain Cho, or the pilots.

"Admit it, Theo," he said, "you have been warned about the walls, the ceiling has been mentioned, and you have now heard of the floors."

She laughed, not informed at all.

"Yes," she agreed. "I heard it so I guess I'm been warned!"

"Good." He reached inside his jacket. "We are going to teach you something that will change your life, Theo Waitley," he said, and his voice was serious, indeed.

She sputtered a laugh, but the two pilots nodded gravely.

Win Ton pulled his hand out of his jacket.

"Let's move!" Phobai yelled, and backed rapidly away, while Cordrey turned and ran up-room. Win Ton spun, throwing . . . something underhanded to Phobai, who caught it, and flashed it toward Cordrey . . . who threw it quite hard toward Win Ton. It was a ball, Theo thought, but it didn't arc right, it danced and shimmied as it flew, then made a sudden dive, illogical dive, which Win Ton managed to intercept just above his foot.

He straightened, holding his captive high, and cried, "Pause!" Turning, he displayed the object to Theo. It was . . . sort of a ball, she saw, globular rather than round, sporting every color of the rainbow and a few Theo thought it had made up on the spot.

"Sixty-four sides, none the same color," Win Ton said softly, leaning forward to let her get a good look at it, but keeping a firm hold. "This, Sweet Mystery, is a bowli ball. It is bad form to permit it to touch the ground. It should only cease motion by mutual agreement. Play most generally begins slowly and builds, and I believe you will discover it a most exquisite dance." He leaned closer and placed the bowli ball in her hand, closing her fingers over it. She felt a purring, almost like a norbear, and felt the device move against her fingers, as if it was trying to get free. Win Ton leaned closer still, as if, Theo thought, her face heating—as if he were going to kiss her!

Instead, he whispered into her ear.

"Call pause, if you need to stop or to be left out of the circle. The ball is the thing, and all of us wish you to do well. Once the game starts, there is no quarter, without a call of pause or halt. Because this is a game between friends, and you new-come to the play, you may drop a ball thrice before you are required to bow out." He stepped back and grinned, eyes sparkling "This is the challenge level, Theo." He backed away quickly, then, waving his hand in a broad motion that included including the pilots and himself.

"No quarter, Theo! Throw as you will—pilot's choice!"

•

Twenty-Three

History of Education Department

Oriel College of Humanities

University of Delgado

Ella ben Suzan leaned back in her chair and rubbed her hands over her face as if the friction would order her tumbling thoughts. It did not, she told herself forcefully, bear considering by what unsubtle means Kamele had secured concessions from Admin. Far better to dwell on the happy outcome—Ella named TempChair of EdHist, Hafley forced to lend her countenance to the Research Team, and Emeritus Professor Beltaire attached to EdHist as an archival advisor.

True, these things had not come without price. There was, for instance, the annoying but easily led Jon Fu elevated to TempSubChair, not to mention the disordered nerves of the department as a whole. Bad enough to have discovered and dismissed Flandin. Ten times worse, to find that Flandin might only be the crumbling edge of a very steep cliff.

Ella leaned back in her chair and sipped staff-room coffee. For a wonder, she had no meetings scheduled until tomorrow morning, and nothing on her extensive to-do list that couldn't wait for ten hours. It might not be the worst thing she could do, to go home and get some sleep. She put the coffee cup on top of one of the small piles of hard copy and reached for her book. Sleep would be—

The buzzer rang.

Ella closed her eyes. "Enter," she snapped.

The door mechanism rasped. She opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn't.

"Ella." Jen Sar Kiladi bowed gently over his cane. "I hope I find you well."

"You find me exhausted, overworked, and impatient," she told him bluntly. She was always blunt with Jen Sar, but he never returned the favor.

"Then you will enjoy a quiet moment of conversation with an old friend," he answered, and sat in the empty visitor's chair, folding his hands over the crook of the Gallowglass cane. Ella sighed, and did not give voice to her thought that it would be a good thing indeed, were an old friend present. There was no reason to escalate plain speaking to rudeness—and it wouldn't rid her of the man one heartbeat sooner than he intended to go.

"May I request the consideration of a short conversation?" she asked, reaching for her cup.

"I will contrive to be as brief as possible," he murmured, black eyes glinting. "To come immediately to the point, then: I have inspected the suspect wire in Professor Waitley's apartment—a task for which you gave me leave. That inspection led me in time to the offices of Information Systems, where Technician Singh was gracious enough to give me a tour of the facilities, including a site map for the 'old wire.'•" Ella frowned at him. " Old wire?"

"So it is known to the Techs. It would seem—again, briefly—that in some sections of the Wall, apartments had been provided with a research protocol which pre-dates the current Concierge system. That system provided a research AI which was more free-ranging than the Concierge, and which shortly produced a wealth of inconveniences that Technician Singh was pleased to recount to me in detail. In the interests of brevity, I shall not enumerate them."

"Thank you," Ella said, with real gratitude. "If I understand what you've said, then it seems as if Theo

. . . accidentally invoked the former system, and downloaded the old program to her 'book."

"I also entertained this comforting thought. Alas, Technician Singh assures me that the previous AI was not merely taken off-line, but fragmented. Each fragment was then isolated and erased." She stared at him. "As 'inconvenient' as that?"

"According to the tale told out by Technician Singh, it did seem to interpret its duties with a broad brush," Jen Sar said. He paused, his gaze directed to the floor, perhaps contemplating the wages of mischief, then looked back to her with a ripple of his shoulders.

"This episode was finished many years ago. Any number of Wall residences have 'old wire' in them, supposedly capped, but Technician Singh did not pale noticeably at the suggestion that some wires may have escaped this fate. She allowed me to know that anyone who accidentally jacked into the 'old wire'

would receive only dead air."

"Theo certainly got something more than dead air!"

"So she did. I fear that I may not have been . . . quite forthright with Technician Singh regarding my sudden interest in these matters."

"Of course you weren't." Ella sighed, finished her now-cold coffee, and threw the cup at the recycler. She missed. Naturally.

"So, we didn't learn anything from this little excursion of yours."

"On the contrary, I think we learned a great deal," Jen Sar answered.

"We still don't know where the AI on Theo's old school book came from."

"Did I not say? It came through the wire marked 'research' in Theo's room."

"But InfoSystems says the AI was deprogrammed!"

"Indeed. We have thereby learned that the Serpent of Knowledge AI is not under the control of Delgado University Information Systems. All that remains for us is to discover who does control it." She eyed him. "That's all, is it? Well! Since it's so simple, we'll just put that puzzle aside for Kamele's return. Something a little different for her to—"

"This must be solved," Jen Sar interrupted sternly, " before Kamele returns." Jen Sar never interrupted, and he was much too good an actor to allow sternness to glare through the cordial mask he habitually wore. If it had been Monit Appletorn in the chair opposite her, Ella might have put this sudden display down to overreactive male sensibilities. Jen Sar Kiladi, however—

Ella blinked, as suddenly it fell into place, all of it, with a snap so loud she was certain the man across from her heard it.

"She didn't put you aside!" she exclaimed.

Jen Sar tipped his head. "May I not display even the least concern for the woman who permitted me to share so many years of her life?"

"Dissembling gains you nothing," Ella told him, leaning forward in excitement as the whole scheme rolled out before her mind's eye. "Kamele knew there was something off-key about Flandin's departure—or, I should say, Hafley's handling of the matter. We talked about it, she and I, and then . . . She had to seem strong—she had to be unencumbered by her politically unhandy relationship with the honored Gallowglass Chair. But she never released you! Who looked for the notice in The Faq? The act of moving back to the Wall with her daughter at her side—it said everything!" She collapsed into her chair-back, suddenly exhausted. Kamele, she thought, life with this man has changed you more than I knew.

Jen Sar raised an eyebrow. "You choose the oddest moments to be perceptive." Surprised into a laugh, Ella struggled to sit upright. "Honesty, for once!" The second eyebrow joined the first. "When have I lied to you, Ella?"

"When have you told anyone a straight story?" she countered, and laughed again. "Chaos! No wonder she refused poor Monit quite so sharply, poor man."

He tipped his head, lips parting; Ella raised her hand.

"No, don't say it—I agree completely! Tell me instead what you intend to do."

"I intend," he said quietly, "to find the origin of that Serpent AI. Once I have done that, I will know what needs to be done next."

That was a sensible course, Ella admitted, and nodded approvingly at him. "Kamele was right, then. This is something much larger than a few adjusted cites."

Jen Sar moved his shoulders and stood. "No one is right until we have proof," he said austerely, and bowed. "Good evening, Ella."

* * *

Alone at last in her stateroom, Kamele tapped up her 'book and opened a file, but she had no concentration for her work. 'Round and 'round the refrain echoed inside her head, "I was right! Hafley is in it! I was right!"

She had accepted the Chair's offer, of course; how else would she obtain proof of intent to harm the university, its faculty and students?

Kamele relaxed deliberately into her chair, closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. She would make notes, she decided, lay out her thoughts and her concerns, exactly as she would do when opening any other line of research. In fact, it would be best to think of this as research—field research. She so concentrated on this task that she barely heard Theo come in, or the sound of the 'fresher being engaged.

•

Twenty-Four

Vashtara

Gallaria Level

Passenger Lounge

The Consumers' Lounge on the Gallaria Level had become Theo's favorite place to meet Win Ton. It was, usually, quiet, even when, like now, there was a quartet playing music up front; the chairs and sofas were comfortable, and there didn't seem to be any rules about how long you could stay without being visited by a staff member worried that you might not be having a good time. It was also equidistant from their three usual destinations—Ballroom 14-B, Private Studio Blue Three, and the Pet Library.

Just now, she was sitting cross-legged on the soft blue sofa next to the potted lemon tree. Her attention was mostly on the pattern she was trying to capture in lace. The sofa was easy to see from two of the three entrances, so even if she got too concentrated, Win Ton wouldn't miss her. A shadow flickered over her busy fingers, and she looked up, blinking, from her needle.

"Win—" she began, and blinked again, because the friendly shadow didn't belong to Win Ton after all, but to Captain Cho.

"Ah," the woman bowed her head a shade too gravely, putting Theo forcefully in mind of Father. "I am desolate to have disappointed you."

Theo shook her hair back from her face, and grinned.

"But, you haven't disappointed me. I was expecting Win Ton, but I'm glad to see you!" Captain Cho smiled—her real smile, not the too-bright one—and bowed softly. "Sweetly said, Theo Waitley. Truly, you honor me." She straightened and used her chin to point to the couch. "May I join you?"

"Please," Theo said formally. "I'll be glad of your company." She hesitated, then added, "I will need to go in a few minutes. Win Ton—"

"Ah, yes, the amiable and opportunistic young apprentice. As it happens, I have need of a word with him." Captain Cho sat next to Theo, and leaned slightly forward to study the pattern in progress.

"Is this the lace-making of which you spoke—which channels excess energy? May I see?"

"It's not finished," Theo cautioned, holding it out between careful fingers. Cho studied it for three long heartbeats, tracing the lines with her eyes.

"I feel that I am acquainted with this pattern," she said, leaning back into the sofa's mannerly embrace. "Yet, where I might have encountered it eludes me just now."

"Well, it isn't finished," Theo said again, frowning down at the incomplete work. "And I don't think I've got this bit here exactly right . . ." She traced the questionable connections with her finger. "That's why I wanted to make the pattern." She held it out again, spread wide between her fingers.

"It's part of a dance," she said. "The—"

"It is the eighth menfri'at module," Captain Cho said suddenly. "Yes, I do see it, now—and you are correct. There is—not an error, I think, but rather a questionable variation in that transition phrase. It does not seem . . . entirely at ease with the intent of the next statement."

"That's it!" Theo exclaimed. "I put in an extra stitch—a kink. But if I smooth that out, then the rest of the line will play out awfully . . . fast."

"Indeed," Cho said softly. "The eighth module teaches us commitment to purpose. Have we come so far, only to falter? Surely not." She extended a finger and traced the kinked line. "It is the final meshing of commitment and skill which produces this speed of which you speak. Where there is certainty, there is no need to hesitate."

Theo nodded, thinking about the Suwello— menfri'at. It was true that the modules she had been learning from Win Ton produced a statement of—of expertise, something like—how strange! She paused, staring down at the lacework in her hands, seeing Father's Look inside her head.

"Theo?" Captain Cho murmured. "Is there something amiss?" She shook herself, and looked up with a grin. "No, I just—made a connection, I guess you'd say." She chuckled. "Kamele says that a true scholar never stops learning, not that I'm a true scholar, really . .

." She looked down again and shook her head. Well, she thought, she'd just have to pick out the kinked bit. That wouldn't be so bad, really . . .

"Was it your mother who taught you this lace-making?" Cho asked. Theo shook her head. "No, that was Fa—Professor Kiladi." She glanced up beneath her lashes at her companion. "He was Kamele's onagrata for—well, for all my life, really. When I was a littlie, I had some excess energy issues—that's what the school report said. And . . . Professor Kiladi, he showed me how making lace could help me . . . stop fizzing, sort of, and think."

"He seems a wise person, Professor Kiladi."

There was an emphasis on Father's name that drew Theo's gaze upward.

"Do you know him?" she asked. Cho was the sort of person that Father would find interesting, she thought. "He's very famous in his field—cultural genetics. Students come from all over the galaxy to study with him."

"A great teacher spans worlds," Cho said; it sounded like she was quoting something. "Alas, I doubt that I have met him, though it would surely be an honor. It is merely the name—quite an old name—which caught my ear."

"It is? I didn't know that." The unpicking wasn't being easy. Theo chewed her lip. "I guess it never came up," she said slowly. "Kamele did say that his . . . family had a call on him, even though he's been away all this time—studying, you know, and then teaching."

"Indeed, one's clan does have a call upon one, down the whole length of one's life. Those of us who are fortunate—among whom I count myself—find the burden easy to bear. Others, of course . . ." She let the sentence drift off, watching Theo slowly unravel her handwork.

"Who is it," she asked softly, "who is teaching you menfri'at?"

"Win Ton—and sometimes Phobai," Theo answered. There! She'd worked back past the kink. Now, she could do it right. She looked up to find Captain Cho watching her, as if she expected a fuller answer.

"It is pilot lore, of a kind, did they tell you that?"

Theo frowned, puzzled. "Well, but I'd already been taught the first four modules. Win Ton . . . thought I should learn more, if I knew that much."

"Ah. And Pilot Murchinson?"

Theo blinked, then remembered the name stitched on the left breast of Phobai's uniform.

"She says that I knew just enough to be a danger, but not enough to be dangerous." Captain Cho laughed. "Indeed! Practical to the core, Pilot Murchinson, and a treasure for all of it!" There was a small pause, then, "Do you not agree, Trainee yo'Vala?" Theo looked up as Win Ton approached their sofa, his hands moving in those purposeful gestures, his eyes on the captain's face.

"Indeed, Pilot Phobai is a marvel and a wonder," he said. "Good shift to you, Theo. I pray you will excuse my lateness."

"I've had good company," she said, smiling up at him. "And I was early." Captain Cho moved her hand, perhaps an answer to whatever Win Ton had told her.

"I wish someone would teach me that," Theo said, and felt her face heat. She was pretty sure that she wasn't supposed to notice—

Win Ton looked to Cho, who sighed even as she rose.

"I will discuss it with your mother," she said. "If you will excuse me, young Theo, I require the attention of my apprentice—briefly, so I swear!"

Cho swept her hand out—sternly, Theo thought. Apparently Win Ton thought so, too, because his mouth went straight like it did when he was being extra serious. He bowed slightly, and followed his captain away.

* * ** * *

At first glance, it seemed that the discussion between Captain Cho and Win Ton was mannerly and relaxed. They sat together on the red sofa, at their ease against the pillows, chatting casually. Their hands—that was something else again.

Fingers danced with—energy. Maybe, Theo thought, watching out of the side of her eye—maybe even anger. And there was more than one meaningful glance in her direction. Theo sighed. She'd begun to form the opinion that Cho liked her, but—was the captain angry that Win Ton was spending so much of his time with her?

Not that everything in the universe was about her, of course, as Kamele and Father were quick to assure her, in their variously annoying ways, whenever she began taking things "too personally." In their opinions.

The lace was relaxing, and after awhile she settled into the pattern quite nicely, still with the odd glance toward the side. In the front of the room the quartet had bowed, nodded, and placed their instruments on stands. She hadn't heard if they were finished or merely taking a break, her attention having been toward the lace first and Cho and her assistant second, barely leaving room for . . . ah, here he came now.

"Did I get you in trouble, Win Ton?"

She'd surprised him; his eyes widened just a bit.

"Captain Cho wasn't happy," she ventured . . .

He glanced aside, but Cho was already on her way out of the lounge, gray head held high. Win Ton sighed, and looked back to her, moving his hand, carefully, toward the sofa.

"May I at least sit before we begin interrogations?"

She had gotten him in trouble. Theo bit her lip and patted the cushion beside her, courteously folding her work.

Win Ton extended his hand. "May I see? My captain would have me understand that this work of yours is something out of the common way."

"This?" She laughed and unfolded the piece, stretching it on her fingers so they could both see it. Now, she thought, pleased, it looked right.

Like Cho before him, Win Ton leaned close to inspect the lace, then leaned back against the cushion.

"I see—the eighth module, plain as plain. Do you often . . . record things thus?"

"Sometimes," she said. "It helps me to really understand spatial things—my fingers are smarter than I am!"

She'd meant it for a joke, but Win Ton didn't laugh. He only nodded and looked serious.

"Of this other thing, and insofar as it concerns you, Theo Waitley, yes, my captain is unhappy with me. I fear that I must offer you an apology, for I was full of my own enthusiasms, and yours, and did not think to ask Kamele Waitley if her daughter might take part in bowli ball. I barely told you that we would be doing more than some light and fashionable dance. My captain reminds me that bowli ball is not considered fashionable in many quarters, and that those who play bowli ball are not always regarded as fit company. Too, and as you know, from time to time one might take abrasions, bruises or worse away from a match."

Having taken some bruises herself, not to mention picking up a little floor-burn on her elbows—none which had been major enough to report to Kamele—Theo nodded.

"Yes." Win Ton sighed once more. "As my captain now requires me to inform your mother of this recreation that we have been sharing, and its peculiar dangers, it may be that I will get you in . . . trouble."

Theo thought about that. "So—you're sorry?"

Win Ton failed to stifle his laughter.

"May I ask that you not volunteer this to your mother or to my captain?"

"Volunteer what?"

"What I am about to say."

"That depends on if it passes muster, huh?"

He snorted.

"Yes. But then to the point. I am sorry that I acted without first requesting clearance from your mother. I am very pleased that you have been able to participate in our games." Theo smiled, relieved. "I'm glad—oh!" Relief turned to dismay. "Does Captain Cho say that we can't play bowli ball any more?"

Win Ton reached out and put his hand on her knee, his face serious.

"That is for your mother to say, is it not?"

Of course it was for Kamele to say, Theo thought grumpily; mothers had the right to make those decisions for their minor children.

"So fierce a glare, Sweet Mystery! What are you thinking, I wonder?" She looked up at him. "I was thinking I can't wait to be grown up so nobody else has the right to make my decisions for me," she said.

Win Ton laughed, and came to his feet, stretching, the scrape on his left wrist from a particularly vigorous retrieval during their last match almost glowing.

"As my captain is clear on the point that my mission is not one brooking much delay, I wonder if you know where we, or at least I, may find Kamele Waitley at this hour?"

* * *

She was, Kamele thought, coming to value Professor Emeritus Vaughn Crowley. He had a sharp eye, a sharper ear, and an intellect keen enough to parse those things he observed. That he brought his concerns regarding Chair Hafley's timetable for the literature search to Kamele, ought, she thought, flatter her. Instead, it only made the knot in her stomach tighter. There had been a dangerous moment when she thought to confide in him, to reveal that Hafley believed her bought. The moment passed, and Crowley left their meeting unenlightened as to Kamele's double role—which was, doubtless, wisdom. The encounter had left her shaken and with an appreciation of the gravity of her undertaking. Deceit was hard, and yet here was Hafley, scheming to deceive the administration and faculty of Delgado University, and seeming none the worse for the subterfuge.

You're too honest, she told herself, as the intersection with their "home" hallway approached. Surely honesty was a virtue in a scholar? It was what she had always believed. But, there, Hafley wasn't renowned as a scholar, was she?

She rounded the corner, careful to stay close to edge in case of traffic, and there, tapping on the door to their stateroom was Theo, Win Ton yo'Vala standing quite close behind her.

"Not here, I guess," Theo said, slipping her key out of her pocket. "Let's—" The knot in Kamele's stomach tightened more, making her regret the coffee she'd drunk in Crowley's company. She stretched her legs. Win Ton looked up, put his hand on Theo's sleeve . . .

"Are you looking for me, daughter?" Kamele asked.

•

Twenty-Five

Number Twelve Leafydale Place

Greensward-by-Efraim

Delgado

A warm breeze wandered the garden, stroking the new leaves with fingers full of promise. Overhead, the stars stretched in a glittering tapestry, made finite by the spill of light from Efraim and the Wall. Jen Sar Kiladi reclined upon a bench that would later in the season be hidden by a fragrant tumble of westaria vines; one soft-shoed foot on the stone seat, one braced against the ground. His head was on the cold arm rest; and his eyes on the stars. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere. Theo was not the target, Aelliana said, her voice quiet inside his head.

"I consider it unlikely. What we must consider is if Kamele is the target." There was silence for a time, save for the flirtatious rustling of the leaves. He did not have the sense that she had withdrawn, however; merely that she was considering the matter. As he was. No, she said eventually. It would require conjoined efforts from Housing and Info Systems—and how yet would they know which room she would choose as her own? There are too many hands, and too much left to chance.

"Chance," he murmured. "Are they so slovenly, do you think, Aelliana? Or are they—" He stopped and sat up so suddenly last season's vines clattered around him.

What is it?

"What if it is not sloven chance, but bright cunning? Recall that Technician Singh told us 'old wire'

was woven all through the elder apartments. Why confine the Serpent to one apartment?" If, indeed, it could be confined.

"Precisely."

But how to prove it?

He smiled. "We ask an expert, of course."

* * *

"You needn't wonder if I'm in, Theo," Kamele said sharply. "I've just returned from a meeting." Right, Theo thought, another meeting. And not a good one, either, judging by her mother's tone and the set of her shoulders. Kamele being in a bad mood wasn't going to make Win Ton's apology any easier, but it was obviously too late to go away and come back later.

Kamele looked past her, pointedly.

"Trainee yo'Vala, how good of you to escort Theo."

The words were polite, but spoke in that too-sharp tone. Chair Hafley, Theo thought, must've been at the meeting. Maybe Clyburn, too. Out of the side of her eye, she saw Win Ton bow, slow, as if he wanted to convey some special meaning.

"Professor Waitley, I enjoy Theo's company, and . . . appreciate her kindness in permitting me to attend her—your pardon!"

The last phrase held a note of surprised excitement. Theo turned, her eye following his, but—really, there was nothing to see except the seam where the stateroom door sealed against the floor. Or—

Win Ton went to one knee, his hand going inside his jacket.

"Please," he said, with a glance up to her face; "mark where this goes, if it escapes me." He produced a clear tubular container, thumbed the lid off as it came into view.

"What do you have?"

Theo jumped. Kamele was at her side, peering with her at the edge of the door. Win Ton's back and head were mostly in their way but there was something brownish, very nearly the colors of the floor, moving—scuttling—up the frame . . .

With a practiced air, Win Ton suddenly flicked at the scuttling something with the lid and pressed it down on the tube.

"I am not certain what I have, Professor Waitley," he said, rising easily to his feet. "Here." He showed them the tube: within was an insect . . . or maybe not.

"If you see any more of these, would you please point them out?" Theo frowned, staring at the thing in the tube. "It doesn't look quite right, does it? I've seen lots of bugs but this one . . . it isn't really an ant, or a beetle." She touched the tube gently. "It looks hurt or something."

Kamele leaned in, her shoulder against Theo's, looking closely at the tube.

"It also seems to be changing color," she commented, and at least she didn't sound snappish any more.

Win Ton glanced at the tube with its transforming burden, and inclined his head.

"Perhaps," he said softly, "we should take it out of the hall. Theo, do you see any more?" She looked around the door seal, to the ceiling, along the edging that ran the length of the hall . . .

"I don't see any," she said, "but I don't think I would've seen that one. You've got quick eyes!"

"As you do," he returned. "And now that you have seen one, you will know what you are looking at, if you should see another."

Kamele approached the door, key out, and paused a moment to do her own visual check.

"It seems that it was acting alone," she said ironically.

"Good," Win Ton answered seriously.

Kamele used her key, and waved them into the stateroom.

* * *

"Should we report an infestation to the ship?" Kamele asked, staring at the tube, "Or does that require multiple sightings?"

Win Ton glanced away from tube, and looked directly into her face.

"If I had found this elsewhere, simply sitting or walking randomly on a wall or table . . . it might have been a curiosity. I would still likely have . . . taken it for a specimen, since they are rarely seen. However, finding it . . . working, as indeed it may still be working, I am made far more curious. An infestation . . . that would be an extreme. As to reporting it—"

He held the tube out to her.

"Look closely, Professor Waitley. Theo has very good reactions. Very good." Amazing Theo, Kamele thought as she received the tube, which was lighter than she'd expected. She held it up to her face.

The . . . insect was about the length of a finger joint, and it was testing the tube's seal. Thwarted, it turned and . . . ran! . . . toward the opposite side. Stopped precipitously by the end of the tube, the insect tried to climb the slippery stuff . . .

"It appears to be autonomous action, does it not?" Win Ton's voice was so soft that it barely pierced her attention mist. "For all we know it is recording, what we say, or what it sees of us. Or it may need to establish a location before it can transmit."

She looked up at him. "You're saying this is a construct? A . . ." She groped for the proper word—"A spying device?"

"So it would seem to me. I will show it to my captain and gain the benefit of her knowledge of such things. In the meanwhile, perhaps we should let it rest." He reached into his jacket again and withdrew a small bag. It shimmered as he flicked it open, as if it had silver woven among the threads.

"What're you carrying in there," Theo asked, "a laboratory?" Win Ton laughed gently as he slipped the tube into the bag and sealed it.

"I am carrying a sampling kit, Sweet Theo, which I am required to do at all times by my captain, since I failed to carry one when I should have on another occasion. I am also carrying this . . ." He tucked the tube away, produced a bowli ball, and handed to Theo, ". . . which we shall wish to discuss shortly, and some ration bars, and candy, which I always do."

"Why," Kamele said slowly, "would it be here?"

"Maybe it got lost," Theo said.

"Perhaps it did, as Theo suggests, become lost," Win Ton answered seriously. "Or perhaps it was meant to be here. It may, after all, be a ship's tool, though if that were so, we must surely have seen others."

"Well." Kamele sighed. "I'll be interested in learning what you find out about it." He bowed. "Certainly."

Kamele took a deep breath and smiled at the two of them. "As fascinating as this episode has been, I gather that it was not the reason I am afforded a visit to my stateroom."

"No, ma'am, it is not," the Liaden agreed, bowing again. "My captain instructs me that I should . . . be offering apologies." He glanced at Theo, a friendly, even a warm glance. Kamele felt her stomach tighten all over again, and held onto her smile.

"In that case," she said brightly, "perhaps we should sit down."

* * *

Do you think it will lie? Aelliana asked.

"Perhaps it will," he answered, pouring a glass of wine. "Certainly, it has demonstrated some craft. We shall see."

•

Twenty-Six

Vashtara

Mauve Level

Stateroom

Kamele sat over there in the big chair, while Theo and Win Ton sat together over here, on the sofa. The feeling that she was a guest in her own stateroom warred with the feeling that she and Win Ton were on one team and Kamele was on an opposing team. Which was just silly, Theo told herself, fidgeting with the bowli ball. It rolled from one hand to the other, unsteadily, its erratic motion drawing her mother's eye.

Cheeks hot, Theo brought the ball under control, pressing it firmly onto her thigh. The internals vibrated against her restraining palm, like Coyster, purring. Theo blinked. Coyster would have taken just this moment to stretch and yawn before curling around in her lap. She took a breath, pressing harder on the ball, feeling the vibration in her bones. There. She'd hold the ball like it was Coyster. That would make her feel . . . less strange.

Win Ton cleared his throat. "Professor Waitley," he said formally, "I wish to make known to you the certain activities that Theo and I have enjoyed together." He paused, like he did when he was trying to find an exact match between the Liaden word he knew and the Terran word that—usually—didn't exist. Kamele's mouth straightened slightly, which meant that she was concerned, but trying not to interrupt.

Win Ton's pause was too long for her though, and she leaned forward—carefully, Theo thought, her fingers pressed tightly together.

"Could you continue? You have my attention."

Seated as he was, Win Ton bowed.

"Yes," he said; and again, "Yes, of course, Professor. The circumstance . . . my captain has pointed out to me that, according to the customs of her homeworld, Theo has yet to attain her majority. Since I have become accustomed to Theo's company, and to her common sense, my captain feared that I was perhaps presuming . . ."

He paused again, his careful search for words leaving a pause into which Kamele leaned, so alert she seemed to quiver.

"My captain's concern," Win Ton began again—"and mine now that I am acquainted with my error, is that I may have presumed too much about Theo's . . . autonomy."

He paused again, and sent a glance to Theo. Since she wasn't sure what point he was making, and she didn't think she'd fool anybody by trying to look autonomous, she looked down, where the silly ball, rather than the silly cat, sat on her lap. The thought made her want to laugh, and she struggled to stay serious, gripping the ball as if in fact she were wrestling a cantankerous feline.

"Autonomy." Kamele repeated carefully, and she, too, sent a glance at Theo. "Indeed, I've found Theo to be showing distinct signs of autonomy, not to say levity."

Theo looked up, mirth startled away. Kamele waved a careless hand in her direction.

"Please," she said to Win Ton, "let's not permit Theo's mirth or her toy to interfere with your disclosure."

This isn't good, Theo thought rapidly. It was never a good sign when Kamele started talking like Father.

"In fact, "Win Ton answered slowly, "My . . . disclosure—an excellent usage, which I shall remember!—my disclosure is very nearly about Theo's toy."

Abruptly, he stood, surprising Theo and, judging by the way she sat straight up, surprising Kamele, too.

"As you know, we conquered the dance machine on our first attempt. Theo has a—a very mature approach to the dance, intuitive, one may say. That she was . . . amazed to discover herself so very apt a dancer was enlightening. Self-discovery is a good thing."

"Self discovery is often a good thing," Kamele said after a moment. She glanced at Theo, who tried to keep her face calm. It wasn't comfortable being talked about like she wasn't there. She looked at Win Ton in order to avoid her mother's gaze.

"After our run, my captain forbade us to dance further at the Arcade, and, truly, the machine is so easily beaten that we would very soon have lost patience with it. However, there was still the question of energy, and exercise and, and comradeship. I therefore located several convivial acquaintances on-board, and we discovered an opportunity to continue with the theme of . . . mature self-discovery. I will also say enjoyment of discovery, for Theo so enjoys a challenge." Theo felt her shoulders relaxing and realized she was petting the bowli ball, in small, quiet motions. Her mother glanced at her again, and this time Theo met her eye.

"So," Kamele said to Win Ton, though she continued to look at Theo. "You arranged for a . . . mature challenge for Theo."

Win Ton bowed lightly, danced one pace toward the door, one pace back.

"Yes, exactly!" he exclaimed. "The pilots, you must understand, were known to me. We found a private room, and—Theo is such a joy to challenge. I knew all this, but in my enthusiasm, I fear that I did not fully explain to Theo what we would be about, nor did I ask your permission beforehand . . ." Kamele leaned slowly back into her chair, her hands finding each other, her fingers locking together, interleaved. What scared Theo was that Kamele's face was nearly blank, and she was staring at her hands rather than at either of them.

"I see," Kamele said quietly, but Win Ton was now following his course with some vigor, pacing energetically in the small space, and using his hands for emphasis.

"And thus, with a room, and partners, and a willing novice, I'm afraid we introduced Theo to a game many never play, a game many lack the urges and reflexes for. Knowing how physically apt Theo is, it never occurred to me that I ought to ask permission from her parent for her to play bowli ball. So I ask, Professor Waitley, that you please hold Theo blameless, and lay it all to me . . . ." Theo saw her mother's face go from blank to . . . confused.

"Wait," she said; "if you please. I understand you to say that you and your friends found a private room so that you might play bowli ball with my daughter?"

Theo picked up the not-cat from her lap and tossed it in the air, very gently, to illustrate the phrase

"bowli ball."

The motion caught Kamele's eye, so Theo tossed it higher, whereupon the ball took it upon itself to perform a mid-air detour of several hand-widths. Theo snatched it down and wrestled it guiltily to her lap.

"One of these!" she explained.

In wonder, rather than enlightenment, Kamele said, "I see. Bowli ball."

"Yes!" Win Ton said enthusiastically. He plucked the ball away from Theo, carefully cuddling it into quiet before placing it into Kamele's hands.

"It is a complex game, Professor Waitley," he went on with energy; "requiring physical dexterity, concentration, mature thoughtfulness, luck . . . it is a favorite game of pilots because of these things!" Experimentally, Kamele tossed the ball from hand to hand, barely managing to keep it under her control.

She shook her head, and tried it again, using less energy and across less distance, really just rolling it from one palm to the other.

"What a strange idea," she murmured. "Why should you need permission for Theo to play a simple game of ball?"

"Well, it isn't so simple!" Theo broke in, indignant. "The ball goes every which way and you've got to be ready for it, and you've got to see where it gets thrown and how it's rotating and which spiral is next and . . ."

Win Ton caught Theo's eye with a motion of his hands, and she subsided, hoping that she hadn't just gotten him in more trouble with Captain Cho.

"Professor, some call bowli ball a game of wit and physics. That might suffice if it were played on a snug lawn among . . . office workers, let us say. But, with pilots, the game can become quite challenging. This is what I forgot, and why I should have asked your permission for Theo to play." He paused, glanced at Theo, and faced Kamele directly.

"It is not unknown for those playing the game to accept a broken shoulder in order to return a pass, to sprain an ankle on an interception-and-launch, to . . . forget harm in order to follow the flow and make the connection. Truly, it is a game for pilots."

Kamele held the ball in one hand, turning it this way and that way, studying it, as if she had never seen something so gaudy and irregular in her life. Suddenly, with no warning, and without preamble, she threw the ball at Theo. Hard.

Theo was already in motion. Her hands leapt up and out, she shifted her balance on the sofa, leaned left to absorb the spin . . .

Slap! was the sound the ball made when she caught it, and it took an effort of will not to continue the momentum and . . .

Win Ton spun, centering himself, left hand rising, facing forward, right hand coming down, in case . .

.

"Not here," he cautioned, sounding remarkably calm, but by then Theo had the ball stopped, stable, and purring on her knee.

In the big chair, Kamele was laughing, her eyes closed, the bridge of her nose pinched between forefinger and thumb, while she shook her head.

* * *

Professor Jen Sar Kiladi leaned discreetly against one of the extremely rare stone walls within the Wall, sipping tea from his own cup. On the wall were metallic plaques commemorating events and people from the early days of the Wall; some few pre-dated the Wall itself and had been brought from the remains of the original, burnt-out campus.

The wall being just inside Open Cafeteria Three meant it was one of the few areas where one might expect to see all levels of students and all levels of faculty intermingled. True, faculty did not always take their meals here, most preferring the private lounges, or, by necessity, a corner of their desk, but it was written that they ought to take a meal here every ten-day.

He watched. Quietly, he watched, his cane tucked behind him as if in support—but actually to disguise it from those many eyes he wished not to notice it at the moment. By tradition, a full professor might sit anywhere. A department head, dean, or Board member could do the same and claim some minor precedence . . .

That, of course, was the start of hierarchical shenanigans, for the corollary was that students or those lower on the food chain must not join a table claimed by a full professor without permission or invite. Associate professors and other instructional types had a leg up, of course, and it was considered bad form for a professor to sit at a table with others in order to claim it and so dismiss them to less exalted company.

Jen Sar Kiladi had the honor of being a full professor and, in effect, his own department head. He could sit anywhere.

Yet, he stood, out of the way and deliberately unobtrusive, counting tables. There was the north wall. Seventeen tables in from it, three aisles in from the East, there ought to be .

. . why yes. There was a ceramic clad column there, and against it, a table being scrupulously cleaned by a member of support staff. How gratifying.

Jen Sar sipped some more tea, waiting.

The schematic provided by the Serpent AI had been fascinating in the extreme, precisely overlaying as it did the "old wire" map Tech Singh had shown him. A simple query to the Concierge netted the names attached to those addresses, which had made for interesting reading over breakfast. Two names in particular caught his fancy, and he whiled away an entire pot of tea over the question of which he ought to attempt first.

In the end, it had come down to expediency. As exhilarating as a contest of wits might prove, yet it might keep him overlong—and he was mindful of his mother's advice to him, given so very long ago: "Do not play with your food, my child. Be careful, take all the time you need to be certain, but when you are at the final stage, act quickly, and never hesitate."

Therefore, and not without a certain pang, he turned his attention to less satisfying quarry. The chimes of seven-bells-none rang through the hall and were echoed from countless 'books and mumus, prompting some to snatch up their belongings and rush off, others to change tables, and still others to approach the food line.

Those for whom he had waited so patiently walked past him without noticing, though that was scarcely their blame; he did not, after all, wish to be noticed. They had heads bent together, as if communing, a sweet, domestic picture, surely. Wrapt in themselves, they marched on, heedless of any in their path, their goal apparent.

There was a small wait, as staff finished cleaning the table, and relinquished it with a nod very nearly a bow.

That was interesting. Perhaps he'd need to include support staff in his next round of fact-checking. He knew the schedule; identifying an individual ought not be too difficult . . . His quarry . . . piled books and a sweater on the table, thus claiming it for themselves, and wandered away toward the food line.

Professor Kiladi smiled, and moved toward the north wall, using the column as a shield, and handily arrived at the pleasantly private table.

No one being seated, he took the extremely comfortable chair at the head of the table, laying his cane to the left, where it would block the two chairs on that side.

Mug at hand, he was all smiles, and everything that was convivial when they returned, bearing plates and mugs.

"Lystra Mason—well met. And young Roni, of course. What a delightful seating this is! Please, you must join me!"

•

Twenty-Seven

Vashtara

Mauve Level

Stateroom

Theo was asleep in her bed, the night wall shielding her from the rest of the room. Kamele was still curled into in the chair, in theory reviewing her notes; in fact reviewing the conversation with Win Ton yo'Vala.

Truly, a pilot's game, the boy insisted in memory. And, again, Theo so enjoys a challenge. The young woman described by the young man was a veritable paragon—bold, courageous, and able. How was she to find Theo—clumsy, uncertain Theo, with warning notes in her file—in this changeling?

"Children grow up," she murmured. "They leave their mothers and become mothers themselves." And yet, to grow at such an . . . odd tangent . . .

You can't say that you weren't warned, Kamele told herself. For, indeed, she had been warned. She remembered telling Jen Sar that she had chosen to have a child, in itself a . . . small . . . oddity . . .

* * *

There. It was said. All that was left was to hear what he said in response. Kamele closed her eyes and sipped coffee. Fresh-roast it was, and fresh-ground from a bag of blue beans Jen Sar had brought back from one of his fishing trips. It was an aromatic blend, whispering hints of chocolate and sweetberries.

"A child in the house is a joy." That was what he said, gently and respectfully. Kamele felt her shoulders relax. She smiled and opened her eyes.

Across the little stone table, Jen Sar's answering smile was slightly awry. He glanced down into his cup as if he wished the coffee were . . . something stronger, then looked into her eyes.

"I am aware," he said, and his voice now was . . . careful, "of the custom on Delgado. One decides for oneself when the time is proper to . . . invest . . . in a child. The custom upon my homeworld is . . . somewhat different. I ask, therefore, if the child . . . partakes of my gene-set." She frowned at him, and set her cup down. He raised a hand, the twisted silver ring he never took off winking at her from his smallest finger.

"Please. I know that I should not ask—indeed, that I have no right to know! It is, however, not merely vulgar curiosity that moves me to break with custom."

Kamele went cold. Jen Sar leaned forward and put his hand over hers where it lay next to her cup.

"I am beyond clumsy," he said wryly. "Kamele, I'm not ill! Surely there were tests done, certifications made—whoever you chose! But there is something you should know, if you've gotten a child of me." He tipped his head, face earnest; his hand was warm on hers, his fingers braceleting her wrist, a comfort.

Surely, she thought, there was room here for custom to meet halfway. Jen Sar was an intelligent man, and . . . usually tolerant of Delgado ways. That he asked this of all questions, signaled, she thought, a strong cultural imperative.

Kamele took a breath, opened her mouth to tell him—and closed it, unable to force the words out.

"This is idiotic," she muttered, turning her head to look out over the dusky garden. Her words danced back to her on the little breeze and she gasped, her eyes flashing back to his face. "I didn't mean—" she began . . .

But Jen Sar, as usual, seemed to know exactly what she'd meant.

"The burden of custom is not lightly put aside," he said. "As we have both now demonstrated. Perhaps a simple 'no,' if the child is none of mine?"

That was certainly fair enough. Kamele met his eyes. And said nothing.

"Hah." He smiled, ruefully, she thought. "So, then, the thing that you must know is that . . . those of my Line, as is said on Liad—siblings, cousins, parents—tend to have . . . very quick physical reflexes. Many, indeed, become star-pilots. Since many of us also have a . . . certain facility . . . in mathematics, and as Liad depends upon its trade, this is not too odd a life-path." He paused, watching her face. Kamele nodded to show she was following him, and after a moment he continued.

"Here on Delgado, where the trade is in knowledge, there are few pilots, and, perhaps, very little understanding of those whose genetic heritage is predisposed toward quickness." She frowned slightly. "My daughter wouldn't have to be a pilot, after all . . ."

"Indeed she would not," he soothed her. "However, until she is grown into her body and learned to . .

. control . . . her reflexes, she may produce some . . . unexpected results." He shook his head. "I do not wish you to be uninformed—or unprepared. So I must confess that the raising of a child who partakes of these genes is . . . sometimes a challenge to those who are themselves very much of the Line." Kamele smiled. "I think adults always find children a challenge," she said. "The more so with our own children."

* * *

On the chair in the stateroom of a starship, Kamele stirred, and ran her fingers through her hair. Fairly warned, she thought again; who could blame Jen Sar, if she had been too ignorant to understand what he said? And truly, she could have chosen another donor. It was on her head, that she had wanted his child; a whimsy that Ella had done her best to talk her out of. From behind the night wall came a mutter and rustle of covers. Kamele raised her head, but Theo subsided, perhaps to dream of bowli ball, or of pilots.

•

Twenty-Eight

Vashtara

Dining Hall Lobby

He feared his reputation would never make a recover.

Well, Aelliana said tartly, if you will make it a habit to meet questionable people in public . . .

"Precisely! Though I contend it a habit we both treasure of old." I knew no questionable people until I met you.

"Can that be true? But, fear not! Today is the day that I redeem myself in your eyes." Will she tell you?

"One can only hope. I fear that Lystra has concluded that my interest lies in Roni's direction, so you see, the stakes are high!"

Inside his head, Aelliana laughed.

* * *

It had become their custom to gather in the antechamber of the dining room. From there, they would claim a table for themselves and talk over the events of the day, reaffirming themselves as colleagues and a team.

Quite often, Chair Hafley and her onagrata were late to the gathering, rushing in breathless from casino, shopping, or other pleasurable activity. It seemed that the Chair considered the journey something of a honey-trip for herself and Clyburn; it was seldom that he was not sporting some new, and often provocative, costume, or an added bit of jewel-glitter to some portion of his person. Kamele raised a hand to cover her yawn. Her sleep had been . . . unsettled of late; it seemed the more time that wore on without a sign from Hafley that now was the hour in which she demanded Kamele's promised support, the more uneasily that false promise sat upon her heart. Yet, what else could she have done? If, as she believed, Hafley was but part of some . . . conspiracy to discredit Delgado University, then surely Kamele needed to be in her confidence? If only the woman would say more! But, no, she apparently pursued her pleasures without the least thought of future perfidies. And there was doubtless, Kamele thought wearily, a lesson to be learned there. Another yawn; and a sense of someone at her elbow. She turned, and a young woman in the livery of the ship's wait staff smiled at her.

"A cup of coffee while you wait for the rest of your party, Professor?" she asked. Kamele returned the smile and nodded.

"A cup of coffee would be most welcome, thank you," she said, and the girl glided away to make it so.

Watching her go, Kamele shook her head. It was, she thought, far too easy to become accustomed to being served. Perhaps on Melchiza they would be allowed to lift a hand to help themselves. Otherwise, they would arrive home quite ruined.

The coffee arrived; she received it, and sipped, sighing in pleasure.

Eyes narrowed, she sipped again, just as Professors Crowley and Able rounded the corner. They nodded as they joined her, Professor Able waving the server over and bespeaking two more cups of coffee.

"I may be ruined for staff-room coffee," Crowley said, receiving his cup. "One would think that a man of my years would be above these petty pleasures."

Their weeks together having given her a fine understanding of Crowley's humor, Kamele smiled at him.

"It is very good coffee," she answered. "And as scholars are we not enjoined to open ourselves to experience and study the moment?"

"Indeed, an excellent point! A moment, if you will; I must study my cup." He proceeded to sample his beverage.

"Is Theo not with you this evening?" Professor Able asked.

"She and Win Ton yo'Vala are attending the buffet and seminar offered by the Visitors' League."

"There's a well-mannered lad," Able said. "Not a scholar, of course, but thoughtful, in his way. So kind of your daughter, Kamele, to escort him to these broadening events." Professor Able had an edge to her, and a circumspect way of prying into matters that did not concern her that harked back to an earlier day. Kamele smiled and replied only that she felt that Win Ton was a perfectly conformable young man, and well-supervised by his captain.

"It may be that the Visitors' League will provide Theo with the chance to mingle with other students of her own age." That was Crowley, looking up from his cup. "They seek, so the senior advisor I spoke with over lunch assured me, to be both inclusive and diverse. They also seek recruits, which the advisor did not say, but which was implicit in her description of the League and its purpose."

"What is its purpose?" Able wondered, holding her cup daintily on the tips of her fingers.

"Scholarship, of a sort, though the method is unique. The group arrives upon a planet—with a connection in place, of course—and explores that world. Group membership is drawn from worlds previously visited. The goal, as much as there is one, is to visit or be resident on all worlds which speak or understand Terran, and which have humanity in common. I am told that this particular tour has been on-going for seventeen Standards, and will on its twentieth anniversary quadricate."

"Quadricate?" Kamele asked, suspecting one of his more obscure jokes. Crowley gave her a nod, as if rewarding her percipience. "Yes, a play on the inner Terran. What it means is that the group will split teachers, advisors and travelers into four, staying most of a Standard on the host planet while each develops plans and destinations of their own."

"Surely, they must settle sometime," Able commented.

"Some do—many do, so my luncheon companion said. It is expected that they will lose and add members, though it is also true that some stay with the group for many years, first as students, and then as advisors."

"An odd scholarship," Able said, and looked again to Kamele. "I don't wish to pry into a mother's domain, but I wonder if you have considered what Theo will be about on Melchiza. Our work is plain before us, but it seems as if there will be very little to occupy her, beyond her school work. While opportunity for study is of course always welcome, it often appears less so to the young—and especially after a journey so crowded with excitement."

"There is a Transit School," Kamele said, keeping her voice moderate. As she had said, this was none of Able's business. On the other hand, the two elder members of the forensic team had taken to regarding Theo somewhat in the light of a granddaughter, and were correspondingly free with their advice to Theo's mother.

A familiar racket brought her head up as Chair Hafley and her onagrata bustled importantly into the area. Kamele blinked. As was his habit, Clyburn was dressed to display his winsome figure—in fact, this evening's costume of sleeveless black shirt so tight his pectoral muscles were clearly defined, and billowing sheer pantaloons cuffed tight at the ankles, was rather restrained. Chair Hafley, who usually contented herself with sensible coveralls, was wearing an iridescent red sweater cut low over her bosom and a bright blue skirt that brushed the deck plates.

"So," Able said, turning away from this onrushing spectacle. "You'll be contacting the Transit School for Theo?"

"Why, there's no reason for her to do so!" Hafley cried, pausing in her rush toward the dining room.

"Kamele, you must allow Clyburn to arrange everything for Theo; his mother is well-placed in Administration and has many contacts in the Transit School."

Kamele blinked, looking from Hafley to Clyburn. Clyburn smirked and bowed his shining head. "I would be pleased to be of service, Kamele," he said, actually sounding sincere.

"Thank you, Clyburn," she said, trying to match sincerity with sincerity. "But as I was just about to say to Professor Able, I've already taken care of Theo's registration." She turned to Able. "It is a boarding school, which Theo objects to, but, as you say, our team's hours may be long and irregular."

"It is best for young scholars to have regularity in their studies and their sleep," Crowley said, too pointedly, in Kamele's opinion. "Sub-chair Waitley has looked ahead and planned for the best outcome—for everyone."

"Well . . ." Hafley glanced at Clyburn, as if she expected him to be disappointed by not being obligated to register someone else's daughter for school. "That seems well in hand," the Chair finished, and nodded briskly.

"If the assembled scholarly lights will excuse us, we are invited to dine with the captain! Come, Clyburn." She moved off, her skirt rustling against the floor, her onagrata one step behind her. Kamele, Able, and Crowley turned as one to watch them go.

Hafley spoke briefly to the room manager, who bowed, and waved them into the dining room. It was . . . some moments before Kamele caught her breath. The rudeness of this woman! The—

"Well." She looked to her colleagues. "If you are so minded, I know an unhurried and secluded restaurant where we might find a pleasant meal."

"That sounds," said Crowley, "like an excellent plan." Able, her lips tight, merely nodded.

* * *

Over the last while, the threesome who met for breakfast at the table by the column, had generated .

. . curiosity. Certainly, it was not, viewed with certain facts in mind, an unlikely threesome: the mother, her nubile and soon to be available daughter, the elderly professor recently put aside, in pursuit of—ah, but there the curious were doubtless divided, though the mother believed she knew his mind.

"Roni, fetch Professor Kiladi some of those maize buttons he likes so much," the mother instructed her daughter. She glanced to the elderly professor.

"Maize buttons will be very welcome," he said with a smile, "and perhaps some cheddar spread, or creamily, with them."

The daughter had taken to wearing other than the usual school coveralls to their breakfasts. A charitable observer might allow them to be "special outfits." He supposed that he ought to feel honored, that his gray hairs inspired such flights of . . . creativity. Instead, he worried that the child would contract a chill. Then, too, there was the subject of . . . subtlety—but where was she to learn that merely exposing skin did not make one interesting? Certainly not from her mother, nor, to judge from the glances of the would-be gallants about the room, from her peer-group.

Roni stood, to all eyes eager to serve, and bowed, allowing him an unimpeded, if blessedly brief glimpse of her assets. Turning, she walked toward the line, her progress somewhat slowed by the hip motion she was attempting to perfect.

Jen Sar, his eyes on the retreating form, sighed. Not a dancer, that child. Lystra heard the sigh, as he had meant her to, and leaned close, placing a daring hand upon his sleeve.

"Come, now, Jen Sar, admit that you don't meet us here only to look at my Roni." Well, and that was bold enough to terrify. He lifted an eyebrow.

"A man of my years is surely allowed the privilege of admiring the scenery?"

"Indeed he is!" Lystra said warmly, and leaned back in her chair, a coy smile at the corner of her mouth. "One must be so careful," she said, picking up her coffee cup, "when one has charge of a girl so eager for her Gigneri. The first-pair is so very important, don't you think so, Jen Sar?"

"I agree. Indeed, I have long deplored the custom of first-pairing couples near in age. It may seem a kindness, I allow, but in truth it becomes at best a comedy of error, and at worst does honest damage. An older, experienced partner, who is able to teach and to be patient; that is the best choice for a first pairing. Especially if, as you say, the girl is eager for adulthood." She laughed and leaned toward him slightly. "Now, I'll make a confession to you," she said playfully.

"My mother was very much of your mind with regard to the first-pair, and I was, like Roni, very eager to embrace adulthood. There was a boy in my form . . . but she would have none of it! Before the event, I was—a little—disappointed, but after! Ah, then I saw mother's wisdom for what it was."

"I am gratified to find my opinion validated," he said, and inclined his head. "In fact, Lystra, you do stand guardian over that which interests me nearly. Perhaps we might speak . . . alone . . . after breakfast."

She smiled again. "Yes, let's do that," she said, and here came the eager child herself, seeming in imminent danger of losing the laden tray to the floor.

"Ah," he said, leaning forward to clear a place on the table, and lending a guiding hand to its safe descent. "My thanks, Roni. Please, you must both partake."

•

Twenty-Nine

Vashtara

Atrium Lounge

Cho sig'Radia arrived with dessert, a circumstance that both failed to surprise, and pleased, Kamele. She had grown used to the Liaden woman's penchant for simply appearing, and, besides, she was good company.

Professor Crowley appeared to share this opinion. He welcomed Cho cheerfully, and pushed over to make room for her on the bench next to him.

"My thanks," she said, with a gentle bow and a smile. She seated herself, and laughed when their server appeared with a pot of tea.

"I come here too often, I see," she said. "But it is so pleasant an aspect." She poured tea, and looked across the table to Kamele.

"In fact, I know that we share a fondness for this venue, and so I came here, hoping to find you." Kamele smiled. "It's been taken care of," she said, guessing the other's intent—"and very eloquently."

"So he has also reported," Cho said. "But it was another, though closely related, reason that I sought you out. To find the others of the search team—that is fortuitous, for I have something also to say to all, if you will grant me time."

She was assured by Crowley—who must, Kamele thought, surely be smitten—that their time was hers.

"A generous gift, of which I am in no wise worthy." Cho sipped her tea, put the cup down and curled her hands 'round it. Leaning forward slightly, she caught Kamele's eye.

"The captain of this vessel sees an opportunity to permit a reserve officer to train by offering to train Win Ton. It is perhaps not necessary to say that this is an offer which . . . ought not to be turned down, and which will, indeed, benefit my charge a great deal." She inclined her head, very slightly. "These new duties will regrettably place him on a divergent shift, and severely curtail his time at liberty for the remainder of our voyage. I regret the disappointment that the loss of his companionship must cause your daughter, and I would make amends."

"There's no reason, surely, to make amends?" Kamele said. "It sounds a wonderful opportunity for Win Ton and I'm sure Theo will be happy for him."

"Well she might be, for she is a generous child. However, I feel that we come into a situation of precarious Balance, and I would not have such a thing between us. I therefore ask if you would allow me to teach Theo the rudiments of finger-talk. She was quick enough to spot Win Ton conversing thus with those other pilots whom she has met in his company, and on the occasion of our last meeting expressed a desire to learn the language. It is something that I will gladly teach her, with your agreement."

"But, surely, your own work . . ."

Cho moved a hand; if her fingers conveyed anything other than a casual dismissal of her own work, Kamele could not read it.

"It is a minor thing. I will be joining Win Ton on the altered shift, but I have the leisure of making my day a bit longer. I may, therefore enjoy an evening cup of tea while Theo breaks her fast. Thus, she will wake eager with study before her, and I will have a quiet unwinding before sleep." She tipped her head.

"I had taught finger-talk at Scout Academy; it will be . . . comforting to teach it again, and to a willing scholar."

"If you're sure, then—I'm grateful," Kamele said, thinking suddenly of Jen Sar's fluid hand-gestures. If this . . . finger-talk was something known to pilots, perhaps, like bowli ball, it was something that would benefit Theo.

"I am certain—and I insist that it is I who am grateful," Cho said with a smile. She sipped her tea and looked 'round the table.

"Now, for the patient search team, I would say, and say plainly—Melchiza, despite contacts and assurances, is perhaps not such a place as Delgado. There have been changes of late, in government structure, in alliances aggressively sought, and in . . . other matters somewhat worrisome to those whose job it is to worry about such things."

"Have you been . . . endangered on Melchiza?" Able asked.

Cho laughed. "Not I, Scholar. Melchiza values pilot-kind, and if they admire us so much that they seek to keep us with them—well, that is a trap that cannot close." She looked to Kamele, to Crowley, back to Able.

"Understand me, you are accustomed, perhaps, to the watchfulness of those whose mandate is to wish you well—to the oversight of those who hold your safety high. On Melchiza, there is also oversight, but your safety is not by necessity the first interest of the watchers. Be careful, Scholars. Trust no one. Produce a contingency plan, if your contact fails you. Above all, follow the rules—of which there are a number, and which Vashtara will shortly make known to you. If someone threatens you, believe them, and act accordingly, without hesitation."

There was a moment of silence at the table, then Crowley laughed.

"You make it sound the veriest frontier!" he said, and raised his hand. "We appreciate your warning, Captain sig'Radia, but you must know—not all of us are native to Delgado. Why, in my student days, I raised some ports so rough, it was a wonder that anyone survived them. We will be watchful." He glanced 'round the table. Able nodded curtly. Kamele felt it necessary to add something more.

"You're correct, however, that we should make a contingency plan, in case things go awry. I believe that none of us have thought of that, and I appreciate the reminder." It seemed that Cho hesitated before she inclined her head.

"It is my joy to serve, Scholars," she said quietly, and sipped her tea.

* * *

He settled himself in the visitor's chair while Lystra bustled behind the desk, doubtless intending to make him squirm, a little. Such was the pitch of his ardor that he was able to quickly become its master, and look about himself.

Unlike Ella's office, or Kamele's, or, to be perfectly fair, his own, Lystra Mason's office was tidy to the point of painfulness, with scarcely a pin out of place. There were no piles of hard copy, or scatter of infoslips on the desk's gleaming surface. Indeed, there was nothing on the desk at all until Lystra dared to risk its finish by placing her 'book upon it.

Likewise, the walls, which in his office were overburdened with gene maps, language maps, population dispersal rates, and any number of other items useful to his position, here were perfectly bare, perfectly white. Simple, one might say.

Lystra was settled, her hands folded primly atop the gleaming desk top, eyes sharp and acquisitive.

"Now, Jen Sar," she said crisply, "I think you know that there are certain considerations a mother wishes to see adorn her daughter's Gigneri. What are you willing to bring to Roni?" She smiled at him.

"While we agree that there's value attending an older man in a first-pair, I think we may also agree that the experience of conducting a new-woman into adulthood might balance that value neatly. You have position, contacts, fame, and I expect that you earn a tidy annual bonus. There's a good deal there to work with, and I'll tell you frankly that I think we may reach an accommodation I hope, very much, that we'll reach an accommodation. However, I wouldn't want you to think that your position is assured. I have received expressions of interest from several very worthy senior scholars, and a query from the Administration Tower itself."

"Ah." He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over the top of his cane. "I am afraid that you misunderstand me, Lystra. I have no interest in your daughter's Gigneri." She blinked, momentarily at a stand, then laughed.

"You will have your joke, won't you?" she said, gaiety forced. "Come now, Jen Sar, you said yourself that you were interested—"

"I said that you stand guardian over something that interests me nearly," he interrupted, keeping his voice pleasant and equitable. He met her eyes.

"The Serpent AI, Lystra."

She paled, but rallied immediately.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

He shook his head. "That won't do; you know it won't do, and so do I. The best plan—the simplest plan, by far—is to give me the name of your contact and pass me up the line. I will immediately cease to be your problem, Roni may continue to widen her circle of admirers, and the future may roll out as it will."

She took a breath. "I hardly understand you, Jen Sar! You seem to be accusing me of conspiring with the Simples!"

He smiled at her, gently, as if she were a backward student who had against even her own expectation produced a correct answer.

"Precisely. That is exactly my point."

"Well, it may be your point, and your fantasy, you and this Serpent, but it has nothing to do—"

"No, please," he interrupted again. "You will only tire yourself, and I will have what I came for in the end. Let us deal as adults—as colleagues. Now, I will give you something, to buy your trust: I know that you have access to a Serpent AI. I asked it for a map of those facilities within the Wall to which it has access and an activities log. You have been . . . quite an avid user, and not all in pursuit of the plan, eh?" He held up his hand and gave her a friendly look. "Who could blame you? Not I. To have so powerful a search tool in hand—well! You see the use to which I put mine."

She remained silent, white to the lips, her hands knotted 'round each other on the glossy desk top.

"Yes, well. I do confess to some other snooping—so indelicate, but what can one expect of a Liaden, who hails not only from outside the Wall, but from well off-planet? Outsiders . . . Quite the opposite of your family, for instance, which has kept firm ties with the Chapelia. It was your mother—or perhaps an aunt?—who sat on the Liaison Committee for thirty years, advancing Simple goals to the Administration."

Lystra licked her lips. "My aunt. But—"

"Forgive me, but did it not seem to you that this plan—the AI, the altering of records, the stealth—did it not seem to you that this was no simple plan? It reeks of complexity! Surely, the Chapelia might wish to burn the library and destroy complexity wholesale—that was a simple and straightforward plan, and if it failed once, who is to say that it must fail twice? But to sow lies and misinformation, that is not simple. It hints, indeed, of plans made by those to whom Delgado—Chapelia, university, scholars and nonacs alike—are but counters in a much larger game. A game that keeps its main board well off-world."

She gaped at him.

"The name of your contact," he prompted gently. "Come, now, Lystra, there is always the chance that I will forget who sent me to her. The memories of old men are notoriously frail." The silence stretched. Inside his head, he felt Aelliana stir, her interest lying so nearly next to his that he could scarcely tell out her from him.

"Chapelia have no names," Lystra Mason said softly. She looked down as if the task of unknotting her hands required all of her attention. "I will write the symbol for you."

•

Thirty

Vashtara

Breakfast All Year

Kamele had a breakfast meeting. An early breakfast meeting. Theo, who had a breakfast meeting of her own, though hers, she thought crankily, was at a normal hour, did a couple of self-tests on her school book, then slipped the mem-stick out of her pocket and slotted it into the stateroom's conneck. Win Ton's letter came up onto the screen, letters bright and crisp. She'd answered it, of course, just as soon as she'd received it, but he hadn't written again. Which just meant, she'd assured herself, that he was just as busy as he'd expected to be.

Dear Sweet Mystery,

It appears circumstances and opportunities conspire to place us on opposing schedules. It is just as well; your destination shows it to nearly share the ship's schedule you are familiar with, which is probably not an accident. My new schedule will put me in sync with the shift schedules expectable when we arrive to retrieve the waiting ship. Accident or not, this change also puts within grasp one of my goals, which has been to be Officer in Charge of a ship so large there need be a lost-and-found not only for objects but for persons.

Do not fear! My Captain promises me I will be Officer In Charge for no more than a dozen beats at mid-shift while back-up pilots change seats and test boards; I feel it likely if they know I am the one sitting oversight the changeover will happen in three beats!" I intend to see you before our orbits diverge; you have helped make what might have been an ordinary transit into a memorable passage indeed.

I remain your humble servant, and, I very dearly hope, your friend,

Win Ton yo'Vala

Sighing, she pulled the mem-stick from the conneck and tapped random reload. One of the stupid

"How to behave on Melchiza," info-spots popped up on the vid.

"Remember!" the narrator chirped annoyingly. "Anyone wearing a blue shirt or a blue arm band may require you to halt, state your business, produce your ID, and prove you have sufficient credits in the form of cash to buy food for yourself for three days. You may not carry another adult person's ID for them, and cash on your person will not be considered as available to another member of your party. Public displays of affection are forbidden on Melchiza, with detention and fines for all infractions. All public areas are subject to monitoring by camera, radar, and visual inspectors; infractions will be dealt with as discovered."

"Yah, yah, yah . . ." she said to the screen, and punched "random" again. They were days out from Melchiza yet, and the entertainment bands were flooded with these stupid mercials. She wondered if she should write a new one; certainly, she knew the key points: Don't touch anything or anyone; don't be where you aren't supposed to be; always listen to anything blue; and always carry cash. Maybe Public Communications would pay her, so she could buy some clothes to replace the ones she couldn't wear on Melchiza, because they were blue . . .

She turned her back on the vid, slipping the mem-stick with Win Ton's letter on in into her pocket. Then she put on her blue sweater and left for her meeting with Captain Cho.

* * *

The three of them had formed their own sub-committee, its task to develop a contingency plan. That the group did not include, and its existence was consistently not mentioned to, Chair Hafley was something they did not discuss. Which means, Kamele told herself, as she sipped her coffee, that you are now affiliated with two secret organizations.

"We are agreed, then," Able said, pushing the remains of her fruit platter to one side, where it was immediately whisked away by their efficient waiter. "If Professor Dochayn is unable to deliver what she has promised, we will proceed upon our own recognizance and petition the administration of the Treasure House in the form set forth in this document." She tapped the reader set in the center of the table.

"The procedures set forth are lengthy," Crowley said, "and our time on Melchiza limited. Fortunately, study shows that a good deal of the paperwork portion may be completed ahead of time. I propose to complete as much as can be done, in the ardent hope that we will not be called upon to produce it."

"That's a good plan," Kamele said. "Certainly, the political climate on Melchiza seems . . . stern. We wouldn't want to place Professor Beltaire's colleague in an untenable situation."

"I wonder," Crowley said, his voice more than usually careful, "if we ought not also procure open departure tickets for each of our party."

Kamele straightened, glancing to Able. A shrug was what she received from that party, so she addressed Crowley.

"That would be a significant expense, I think? What would be the justification?" Crowley glanced down at his empty plate before meeting Kamele's eyes.

"You will recall that I told our charming Captain Cho that I had traveled some rough ports in my youth. Sometimes, regrettably, one is forced to—not to put too fine a point on it—one is forced to run. Sometimes, one is detained beyond the departure time of one's primary transport. I would hope that the authorities on Melchiza, while stern, are not petty, but I would not wish to strand one of our party." Kamele considered him. Something—perhaps it was the utter seriousness of his face—convinced her that this was not theory for Professor Crowley, but something that had happened to him. Or to someone he had traveled with.

Which would be more terrible, she wondered, to be left behind, or to leave a colleague?

"I'll look into the options and costs," she said. Able nodded without comment.

"Thank you," Crowley said seriously.

* * *

Breakfast All Year was surprisingly crowded. After the initial rush of popularity, it had slid off everybody's must-do list, and gotten quiet enough to have lessons in.

This morning, or—if you were on Captain Cho's shift, this evening—the place was crowded with merrymakers, making the trip to their usual back table an adventure in dance. Captain Cho was ahead of her, like she most usually was, seated and with tea to hand. Appears me, Theo motioned even before she caught her tutor's eye; timely, hungry. Cho's fingers flickered, almost too fast to read, though Theo knew the basic signs by now. Food appears rapidly, fine usual welcome, was the response, as near as Theo caught it; table held against noise rushers; good crew recalls schedule ours! Sit faster!

The last was a warning as well as a command. A man in yellow tights had darted in from the crowded table to the left, apparently intent upon removing the "extra" chair from under Cho's nose. Theo lunged, hand out, fingers firm on the chair back.

"I'm sitting there, thanks," she told the man, who gave her a one-sided grin and darted away in search of other quarry.

Cho smiled widely, her fingers saying something Theo couldn't quite read. She felt like she had the emphasis and mood . . . but . . .

A loud clapping broke out behind her as she sat, and a large person with a large bottle in her hand and a crowning blob of yellow hair on her head waved the crowd quiet.

"Four down and only fifteen more bars to hit before deadline! Next is Deck Five's Low End, which is opening . . . right now! Allie, Allie in free!"

There were cheers and hoots and hugs all around, as fully three quarters of the partyers exited in one fell swoop,

Theo's voice said "Geesh!" while her hands indicated Batch bad noise bad connected head computers, gone is good . . .

Moment, came the response, two pilots leave also look.

Theo glanced up, saw the pair, one wearing a leather jacket and the other in what looked like exercise clothes, mumbling at each other by hand as they reluctantly followed the crowd. Their fingers were moving, but the signs weren't as clear or as broad as Cho's, leaving Theo more confused than enlightened.

Big plan better do us us need good long something double roll talky bright skin Theo heard Cho make a sound perilously close to a snicker, and her fingers snapped out query?

Her tutor tipped her head as if she were congratulating Theo, her fingers forming out-duty shop talk . . . the rest squashed into meaninglessness as a palm came up and out, the signal that they should stop talking.

"Breakfast, mamzelle?" Their waiter this morning was a slender man with quiet eyes. Theo gave her order, out loud, of course, her fingers dancing the words as she spoke them.

"Allow me to counsel you to still your fingers when you speak," Cho said, after they were alone.

"There may seem to be no harm in it; indeed, it may at first reinforce learning. However, it may quickly become a . . . difficult habit, and troublesome to break."

Theo guiltily curled her fingers into her palms. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Pah! I am a Scout. As such, I study survival in all its faces. Many find that a Scout's level of caution is far beyond what is useful in their own lives. Still, I would be less than a true teacher, did I not advise you thus."

Theo considered that. "We're taught advertency, at school," she said slowly. "Scholars need to be cautious, too."

"Indeed they do," Cho said seriously, pouring more tea into her cup. Theo's cereal arrived. She smiled at the waiter, and thanked him, and turned her head to watch him bus the table beside them, balancing five cups and an unfinished tray of pastry with effortless grace.

"And so," said Cho suddenly, pulling Theo's eyes to her.

"What have we learned thus far, my student? Aside from the fact that one cannot read hand-talk while in full admiration of a view?"

Cho had her hands wrapped comfortably around her cup. Theo, her face warm, placed her fingers firmly against the table, and answered by voice.

"May I ask a question, first?"

Cho inclined her head.

"That man—our waiter—he's a pilot, isn't he?"

Cho lifted her head, her casual glance at the departing figure sharpening abruptly.

"Indeed," she said finally, "he may be. But what makes you ask?" Theo shrugged, and sipped her tea, concerned that what she was about to say wasn't really very smart. Even so, there wasn't any way not to answer, now that she'd brought the question up.

"I think I see pilots," she said, meeting Captain Cho's eyes. It sounded as silly as she'd feared, but Cho only looked interested.

"Oh, indeed? Is there anyone else, besides myself?"

"Not that . . . now that he's gone." Theo leaned forward, fingers pressing the table hard. "But, I can look at people walking, or sometimes even standing, and tell if they're pilots. Now that I know what I'm seeing—Win Ton has it, you do, the man who left now . . . the pilots chasing the party . . . the pilots I play bowli ball with."

"Hah!" said Cho, taking a sip. "It," she repeated, and poured more tea into her cup. Theo forced herself to pick up her spoon and address her breakfast. It was good; soy-oats with apple bits . . .

"It may well be that you are able to see, as you say, 'it,'•" Cho said eventually. "Some have eyes that see more than others, after all."

Theo looked up. "But—I couldn't see it before!"

Cho inclined her head.

"I venture to predict that there are very few pilots among your classmates," she said. "And Delgado is not such a world as one sees pilots upon every walkway."

"I guess most of my teachers aren't pilots," Theo agreed, "and there's no piloting school on Delgado—" She looked up, hope sudden and hot—"is there?"

Cho shook her head, emphasizing the denial with a firm finger-spelt, not. Theo sighed, and took a spoonful of her cereal. It tasted a little flat, suddenly. Maybe, she thought, it was getting cold. She pushed it aside and wrapped her hands around her tea cup.

"You asked what I had learned," she said slowly. "Besides the signs themselves, I've learned that hand-talk is . . . fun, but that you can't say everything in it."

"Do you think so, indeed? It is true that hand-talk developed for speed and clarity in . . . radical environments. A survival tool, you see? Still, pilots are inventive, and there are some who discuss philosophy in it, and those who use it to—"

"Philosophy?"

"Assuredly. In this ship's public library archives you may find, in translation or transliteration, a copy of The Dialogs of the Hospice. Two rescued pilots were for some years among a sect forbidding writing and speech. They thus held lengthy debates in hand-talk. After a second rescue, this to a civilized world, they transcribed their discussions, verbatim as it were. Do not think that hand-talk is so limited. And, of course, the more used among friends or associates, the more it becomes personal." Theo thought about that.

"So everyone who hand-talks has their own accent?"

"Yes, that is a good way to see it. Terran pilots will have a different accent from Liaden pilots, and a Scout may bear yet a third accent. However, we may all speak together in an emergency, for the basic signs are held in common."

"And this," Theo asked, striving to reproduce the sign Cho had flashed in the aftermath of the chair rescue. "This means . . . ?"

"Ah!"

Cho repeated the sign. It came with overtones of extrafine best ready complete perfection, and a ghostly finger-snap at the very end.

"This is a phrase mostly in use among Scouts. To speak it, we would say binjali. Consider it to mean

. . . well, it can mean ready or excellent or all things are fine and good."

"So, that's a Liaden word? Binjali?" Theo smiled, liking the feel of the word in her mouth. She tried again to wrap her fingers around it, and found that felt good, too.

"No," Cho said slowly. "Many Liadens will not know this word, which has only accidentally become a Scout word and thus slithered into hand-talk." She smiled. "I had said that pilots are inventive, did I not? Scouts are trebly so—and that may serve you as a warning!"

Theo laughed, her fingers moving, it seemed of their own will.

Captain, she signed, this spaceship voyage binjali!

•

Thirty-One

Vashtara

Breakfast All Year

". . . back-up?" Aelliana inquired. Credit where credit was earned, her tone was no more acid than was necessary to carry the point.

"Suggestions?" he countered, slouching into his chair and closing his eyes. "Who shall we risk? Ella, charged with guarding Kamele's back? The Dean of Oriel? The Bursar?" Monit Appletorn, his lifemate stated.

He opened his eyes, staring startled at the ceiling.

"What an . . . interesting . . . suggestion."

* * *

She was packed. All of her blue clothes were in a special bag provided by Vashtara, which would be stored in a locker on Melchiza Station. The claim-ticket was sealed safely in the innermost pocket of her travel-case; her school book was asleep and tucked into a protected sleeve. Melchiza-cash—thin rectangles of blue plaslin woven with data-thread, the denomination of each bill stamped in white—she had in several places. The mandated three-days-eating-money was in the inside pocket of the new red jacket Kamele had bought her when she realized that Theo's jacket and all her thickest sweaters were blue. The rest of her Melchiza money, her cred from home, and the mem-stick with Win Ton's letter on it, she had in a flat pouch that hung around her neck by an unbreakable cord. She'd bought the pouches during the same shopping trip that had produced the red jacket—one for her and one for Kamele.

Kamele had looked . . . kind of funny when she opened the bag, but she'd only said, "How foresightful, Theo. Thank you."

She sealed her bag and pulled it out into the main part of their stateroom. Kamele was curled on the big chair, her attention on her book.

"I'm going down for my lesson with Captain Cho," Theo said, adding silently for my last lesson with Captain Cho.

Her mother looked up and gave her an abstracted smile. "Good. Please give her my warmest regards, Theo. It was a pleasure to travel with her."

Throat tight, she nodded, and turned away.

* * *

The public halls were crowded, even over-crowded, as if everyone on the ship had thought of something that they needed to buy before Melchiza and were resolved to visit every shop on-board until they found it. By contrast, Breakfast All Year was very nearly empty. A man and a woman sat with their heads together in a booth in a corner of the room; a threesome she vaguely recognized as being attached to the Visitors' League were sitting on stools at the counter.

Captain Cho was at their usual table, but that was all that was usual. Theo stopped in amazement, staring at the formal tea service, the dainty cakes, small breads, and cheeses . . . Cho's fingers rippled like water.

No alarm—(smooth face!) budget mine!

Right, that lesson was on-going with the finger-talk, though Theo was pretty sure she'd never manage to perfect the smooth, uninformative expression that Cho considered polite for everyday use. Please sit, Cho motioned now. Feast celebrate joint learning. Parting? Theo asked, her hands giving the word more energy than she had intended.

"Those who part," Cho said aloud, "may anticipate the joy of reunion. Sit, child. I wish to mark in this small way the pleasure you have brought to me, as a student, and as a fellow traveler. Truly, this journey would have been much duller without your companionship."

Theo felt her eyes sting. She blinked, and bowed—one of Father's brief, crisp bows that could mean anything from "thank you" to "your point," and slid into the chair opposite.

"Excellent." Cho poured tea for them both, raised her cup and sipped. Theo followed suit, and put the cup down, and looked up, wondering what—

"If you will excuse me," her tutor said briskly. "I will return in good time." With that, she rose and was away, leaving Theo to contemplate the plates of goodies, none of which she felt hungry enough to eat.

"Sweet Mystery, may I join you?"

She gasped, spinning in her chair. Win Ton inclined his head, his smile looking, not quite certain. He was wearing his leather jacket—his pilot's jacket, she corrected herself—and his hair was rumpled, like he'd just pulled off a hat . . .

Her fingers were more eloquent than her voice, or maybe it was that she was smiling so hard there wasn't room for any words.

Welcome well met sit be at ease.

"Thank you," he murmured. He sat next to her, his smile not so tentative anymore, in fact looking positively joyous.

"Theo, I'm so very glad to see you. I received your note, and treasure it. Duty has been stern, for of course, once I was on-roster this and that little thing could be found to occupy my time. I have been hoping to match schedules . . . However, that is last shift! I have just now overseen the docking of the ship carrying the Melchiza pilot to us, and therefore have, as even my shift boss admits, earned a break."

"Officer In Charge?" Theo asked, peering at the name tag affixed to his collar.

"So they say. May I share tea?"

She blushed, her fingers dancing, pleasure friend sharing.

Remembering Cho's deliberate motions as she had poured, Theo strove to match them. Maybe she did, maybe she didn't, but at least she didn't spill the tea, and Win Ton took his cup with a serious, "My thanks to you."

He sipped, and she did, each putting their cup on the table with care.

Goes well lessons query, he offered. Mine good. Theo watched his face as well as his hands as Win Ton signed, seeing him offer emphasis as well as concentration.

Binjali, she returned, and he laughed.

" Binjali? " he said aloud. "Excellent! You've been among pilots, then!" Theo made her eyes very wide, the way Father did when he was pretending to not to know what you were talking about.

"Isn't Captain Cho a pilot?" she asked.

He grinned and inclined his head, fingers accepting her true point.

"She is that, a pilot," he murmured. "She also is very careful of her language at all times. I think the captain approves of you."

Win Ton sipped delicately at his tea, judiciously eyeing the cheese plate before making a graceful swoop with his right hand and nodding his thanks to Theo.

"Captain Cho," she began, "provides . . ."

"Assuredly, she does, but she would not be if she did not approve of you. If she did not approve of you, I would not be permitted to sit here now, for it is certain that she barely approves of me." Theo scanned his face, but all she could see was bland politeness.

"Is that true?" she asked.

Joke his fingers told her, while he answered dryly, "It is the fashion, I believe, to disapprove of one's apprentice."

She grinned and took some cheese for herself, suddenly hungry, after all.

"Time flies, my shift boss swears," Win Ton murmured. "And I fear that I must find him correct in this, as in so much else that he has taught me. So, quickly, before I squander all to no purpose—there are two topics I must press for . . ."

His hands motioned with your permission only, and Theo answered continue without really thinking about it, then interrupted herself.

"I'm surprised Cho has been gone so long . . ."

"It has been some time," he agreed; "but she must be, else she would be party to a conversation which is not hers and which is . . . of a nature perhaps not entirely covered by the Code."

"She's hiding while we talk?" Theo blinked. "Isn't that silly?" He bowed, very lightly.

"•'Silly' is among the more difficult of Terran words to translate," he said gently. "Let us say, rather, that, in Liaden terms, her absence is a nice balance of courtesy and esteem."

"Then we should get on with it," Theo said, "before her tea gets cold." Very good his hands signaled, while he bit his lip.

"First then," he said when he had recovered his composure, "I will repeat myself and say I have been pleased to make your acquaintance, and to have been permitted to spend time with you. And while it is .

. . statistically and logistically unlikely that we shall meet again, I . . ." Theo felt herself go bland, nearly blank.

"Theo?"

She was quiet a moment; the blank feeling went away, and suddenly her head was filled with whizzing thoughts, and a dreadful understanding that he could be right.

For some reason, her eyes were wet.

"That's hard . . ." she managed, voice wobbling.

Win Ton paused, watching her, his hands fluttering true true true. After a moment, he gathered himself and went on.

"This accident of our meeting is, I think, a fine accident. The odds of our meeting again—as an accident—those are not good. It is perhaps this bit of pilot lore which my captain required me to learn best on this part of our journey. The necessities of the Scouts and those of my clan being only slightly less aligned with each other than the necessities of Delgado with either, and none of them aligned with the necessities of Kamele Waitley—Theo, we dare not depend upon accident if we wish at some future time to be—or not to be!—in the same place."

He paused—his searching-for-a-word pause—then rushed on.

"The problems are complex. Simply said, my clan has no interest in me or my affairs until it is time for me to marry. The Scouts, being of the opinion that only clan and life-debts have call upon me greater than their own, thus do not pass on any communications save their own. This means that the only address I have which may be permanent for someone in your condition is one that . . ."

"My condition?" Theo hadn't realized she was going to speak; it seemed as if Win Ton was babbling. As if he were nervous—but of her?

"Yes," he said, quickly recovering from the break in thought. "Yes, your condition. The condition of a student on the verge of becoming her own person, yet tied still by necessity to a world for which she is not best fit."

The look he gave her was nearly a glare, while his hands motioned, permission to continue?

Theo felt her cheeks warm, muttered, "Sorry . . ." as her fingers agreed, continue now.

"Yes." Win Ton sipped his tea, carefully, Theo thought.

"Given your condition," he said, more moderately, "I propose to share with you my Pilots Guild address, which will be stable for the next seven Standards and likely the seven Standards after that, and the seven after that. It is the only address I might consider permanent, for even if the Scouts cast me aside as unworthy I cannot imagine being other than a pilot."

His fingers, flickered—not hand-talk, but rather a motion to his pocket and then an extension to her. Held between the first two fingers of his right hand was a card, light gray in color. She took it, the paper rough against her fingertips, and looked down.

His name was rendered in shiny black letters in Trade beneath what she assumed was his name in Liaden; there were also numbers and letters but they were hard to read . . . She sniffed through her tears, looked into his face. "I so wanted to see you before I left," she said, her voice wobbling, "and now I'm a wreck because you're here!" He sighed and spoke softly, "I have training as a Liaden, which indeed is fearful training, else I might weep as well. You see, this is why my captain is presently standing where she and I can both pretend that I cannot see her, waiting patiently for me to leave!"

Theo laughed shakily, sniffed, and wiped her eyes.

"When you are someplace," Win Ton continued, "where you feel the reply address will be good for some while, if you feel that you would like me to know about your doings, or that you wish to know about mine, use this address."

He paused for a sip of tea; Theo slipped the card into the pocket with her Melchiza three-day money. Later, she'd put it in the pouch she wore around her neck.

Win Ton cleared his throat. "It might be that you are away to further schooling; it may be that you have partnered or wed—or that you have determined to become a dance champion! Whatever you wish, I will be pleased to have your news. If it becomes clear that we are, as pilots say, ships passing in the night, then you need only destroy the card. Do you understand these conditions? Will you abide by them?"

She nodded, her hands assuring him, is fine check is clear check will comply check and she was able to smile without having to wipe tears from the corner of her mouth. There was a loud buzz. Win Ton said the word she figured for his version of "Chaos!" and snatched a ship comm from his pocket. A glance at the screen and he was on his feet.

"Theo, I must run! A gift for you, my friend, use it wisely! Also—advice: never buy a bowli ball on a cruise ship!"

His hand came out of his jacket again and he placed a package wrapped in red spangled paper in her hands, his fingers lingering on hers a moment.

Then he was gone.

* * *

Cho settled into her chair while Theo unwrapped the package, silently calling for a fresh pot of tea. She warmed both cups while Theo read the warning on the package, indicating with a nod that the third cup could be taken away.

"This clearly states," Theo said, "that this is for sale to pilots only!"

"Ah," said Cho, waving a fluid hand toward the open box. "Conditions are met, are they not? The apprentice is a pilot of some skill. I confess that I overhead his parting advice to you and I must allow it to be wisdom. To have purchased such a thing at the Crew's Store . . . Well. Necessity." Theo unfolded the enclosed rule book. "The stochastic reverberation tuned-molecule core makes long range accuracy problematical. Never throw, kick, or launch your stochastic reflection device in the direction of a person or fragile object . . ."

She looked up at Captain Cho, who was patiently sipping her tea.

"Never throw it at a person? But . . ."

"Pilots, as you will likely come to see, have their own small jokes."

"Never use this equipment in a closed environment. Avoid handling with damp hands or in uncertain footing . . ."

She sighed, felt her fingers moving and thought to pay attention to what they were saying: never never never careful danger pilot use only not a toy not for competition avoid deep knife cuts . . . She laughed slightly, and looked up.

"Thank you, Captain Cho."

The Liaden woman smiled slightly. "You are welcome, Theo Waitley. Now, I mark that time passes and that we shall soon be under docking rule. It happens that I, too, have something to place into your hand."

She reached into a slip pocket on her belt, and extended her hand as Win Ton had, a card held between the first and second finger.

Theo took it, her fingers delighting in the smooth feel of the creamy paper.

"More properly, that is for the pilot who trained you. If you will hand deliver this to that pilot . . . I would be appreciative."

Theo looked down at the card curiously. The front bore a graphic of a ship and a planet, with what she guessed were Liaden words written beneath. On the back, in neatly lettered Terran was: Captain Cho sig'Radia, Piloting Liaison

That was followed by a series of letters and numbers, much like Win Ton's Pilots Guild address.

"My address with the Scouts is there, as well as—but the pilot will know." Theo looked up, confusion and dismay threatening to invite the silly tears again.

"But you're the pilot who trained me," she protested. "Or—Win Ton or Phobai—Cordrey! I don't know any other pilots!"

"Ah," Cho said, sounding infuriatingly like Father. "Perhaps it will come to you. In the meanwhile . . ." She inclined her head. "It is time that we part, my student. Go well, dance joyously, and number your friends with care."

•

Thirty-Two

Melchiza

City of Treasures

They were met in the Egress Lounge by their officially assigned Melchizan Chaperon. According to the handouts, they weren't supposed to stir outside their hotel room or other quarters without their Chaperon. Visitors caught roaming around on their own faced the usual litany of Melchizan penalties: fine, imprisonment, or immediate expulsion from the planet.

Their particular Chaperon was tall and thin with droopy yellow mustaches that made his long face look even longer. He had pale brown eyes and big knobby hands in which he held a data screen and a sheaf of brightly colored cards.

"Greeting! Greeting, sir, professor, professora, mamzelle! I am Gidis Arkov, your assigned guide and protector. All questions are for me; I stand between you and all harm. I am the keeper of the schedule, I carry copies of your bona fides next to my heart—" He lifted the data screen "Consider that I am your elder brother; any problem or concern you may have during your time on Melchiza, bring to me and I will make all smooth for you.

"Now!" he continued briskly, "we have the bus just here, with the driver waiting. Before we board, however, we must be insuring that your identification is in order." He slipped the data screen into the side pocket of his bright orange jacket, which was not, Theo thought critically, next to his heart, unless biology on Melchiza was very strange.

He glanced down at the cards in his hand, and looked up, scanning their faces earnestly. "Which is Farancy Able?"

Professor Able stood forward. "I am, Chaperon Arkov."

He smiled, his mustaches lifting. "Please, I am you elder brother, eh? Gidis is what you may call me. Now, this." He extended the purple card to her. "This is very important. You must at all times have it visible. Attach it to your coat and surrender it to no one, excepting anyone of Security." He looked

'round at all of them.

"You have read that Security will wear blue. In general and most usually, this is so. Sadly, there are rogues, not so many in the City of Treasures as elsewhere, but! Please be observant. If it seems to you that the person wearing blue is not behaving as a security person ought to do, you may politely ask to see identification. A legitimate security person will not take this amiss. A rogue will bluster and seek to bully. If this should happen, that a rogue seeks to separate you from your identification— do not acquiesce. Refuse, become loud and create a commotion. The rogue will—often—run. If they do not run fast enough, Security, having heard your commotion, will catch the impostor." Gidis smiled. "It is a very bad thing to pretend to be Security on Melchiza.

"So, Farancy Able, please affix this firmly to your coat so that all may see it. Know where it is at all times. Sleep with it, eh?" He laughed, and looked down at the next card.

"Vaughn Crowley."

Professor Crowley stood forward and took another purple card, subjecting it to a moment of study before pressing it against the breast of his jacket.

"Yes, excellent." Gidis smiled and looked down to the next.

"Orkan Hafley." The chair silently held out her hand, and slapped the identification card against her dull green sweater, where it adhered somewhat crookedly.

Gidis lifted the last purple card with a smile and held it out to Kamele with a little bow. "Kamele Waitley, yes? Please, do as your companions before you."

The next card was white. Gidis bowed again, without the smile. "Sir," he said. Clyburn nodded and pressed the card against his elaborately fringed jacket. The last card was pink.

"Mamzelle," Gidis said, handing it to Theo. "You will be vigilant, eh? The rule for you, it changes, only a little. The people who have the right to ask for your card are Security and your teacher. Your teacher only, yes? If another teacher wishes to peruse your information, he must apply to your teacher, who will, if he considers the request reasonable, ask you to surrender the card to him. If you are confused about this rule, you will please ask your teacher. All of this is plain and clear?" Does he think I'm a littlie? Theo wondered grumpily, but she remembered that the rule-book listed pretty serious penalties for arguing with a Chaperon, and while immediately being deprived of the Chaperon's services wouldn't matter to her, since she was going to be locked up at boarding school, it would matter a lot to Kamele and the research team.

"Everything's clear," she said to Gidis, and pressed the pink tag against the shoulder of her red jacket.

"Excellent. Now! The schedule for the rest of this day. First, we board the bus and transport the mamzelle to school. There will at the school be a short moment for mamzelle's mother to speak with the teacher. The bus then takes us to the hotel. Dinner has been ordered in, as the scholars will wish to rest in their apartment. The sir has of course, been cleared for visiting." He nodded, then spun on a heel.

"Follow me, please!"

Theo moved at once, Kamele right with her, both of them following Gidis down the room toward the doors. The others hesitated for a long moment, as if they thought there'd been a mistake, then hurried to catch up, their feet noisy against the 'crete floor.

"Visiting?" Theo heard Professor Able say. "Oh, of course! Your mother, is it not, who is placed high in Admin?"

"Precisely!" Chair Hafley took the question to herself. "As it happens, Clyburn's mother and sister live on Melchiza. Of course he must visit them! I insisted upon it."

"Certainly, one must pay one's respects to one's mother," Professor Crowley said, but in the tone of voice Theo noticed he used when he was saying something else instead.

"Oh, no doubt," Professor Able agreed. "I simply hadn't known that Clyburn was native to Melchiza."

Chair Hafley sniffed. "Why do you think I insisted that he accompany us?" she demanded. "A local guide will be invaluable to us!"

Except, Theo thought, Clyburn was going to visit his mother and the team had an assigned Chaperon, so how was he going to be any help? She looked at Kamele, who was biting her bottom lip, apparently listening just as hard as Theo was to the conversation to the rear.

"How long will the research take?" Theo asked.

Kamele glanced at her, blue eyes dancing. Her voice, however, was grave. "Professor Crowley estimated anywhere between four and seven local days, depending on the accessibility of the records, and how many hours per day we're allowed inside the Treasure House archives."

"So, if Clyburn is going to go visit—"

"Yes," Kamele murmured, cutting her off. "I think it's safe to conclude that Chair Hafley brought Clyburn so that he might have the treat of visiting his mother." She gave Theo a sideways glance. "It shows well of her, that she treats her onagrata with kindness," she added. Theo sighed. She knew from Life Class that a woman who was responsible for an onagrata should take pains to let him know that he was valued, and to give him those little gifts and treats that were so important to the male ego. It was just that Professor Hafley treated Clyburn like he was . . . learning challenged, which, despite the fact that she didn't like him, Theo was pretty sure he wasn't. In Theo's opinion, it took real observational skills to be as snarky as Clyburn.

Ahead of them, Gidis waved open the doors. Before them was a short, canopied walk, with a long, orange car pulled across the far end.

"The bus!" he called, moving to one side of the walk and making shooing motions with one hand to hurry them along.

Kamele and Theo walked on, Theo turning her head, attention caught by a flicker of what might have been sense . . .

Yes, there it was again, woven between the nonsense waving and posturing, a phrase she almost recognized, but it couldn't be all is in readiness.