'Why are you complaining? I saved you some work.'

'True enough,' grunted Donald, smiling faintly. He clasped thick hands on the table before him, fingers intertwined. The hands and fingers were so thick that the resultant double fist looked almost the size of a ham. Donald X had come into the universe in Manpower's slave-breeding vats, bearing only the name-breeding number, more precisely-of F-67d-8455-2/5. The 'F' prefix indicated a slave bred for a life of heavy manual labor. Donald had decided otherwise, years later, but his adult body still bore the imprint of that original intention. He was not excessively tall, but thick and muscular in every dimension.

'What can I do for you, Victor Cachat?'

'You remembered my name?'

Donald's thin smile widened a bit. 'You're a very hard man to forget. And now, I ask again-' He unclasped his hands and raised one of them in a pacific gesture. 'Easy, comrades, there's no problem.'

Victor turned and saw that two other crewmen were standing in the hatchway he'd come through to enter the mess compartment. Also members of the Audubon Ballroom, obviously. Victor hadn't even heard them arrive, and reminded himself that he was dealing with people who were generally accounted the most dangerous terrorists in the galaxy.

Or 'freedom fighters,' depending on how you looked at the question.

Freedom fighters, Victor told himself firmly. He turned back to Donald and said: 'I need to talk to Jeremy.'

Donald shrugged. 'Be difficult, that. Jeremy's somewhere else.'

Victor wasn't surprised. It would have been blind luck to have found the head of the Ballroom conveniently located on Erewhon.

'I still need to talk to him, as soon as he can get here.'

'Just like that, eh? And what, exactly, gives you the right to summon Jeremy?'

' 'Right' has nothing to do with it. The word is 'opportunity.' ' He hesitated for an instant. But, then, remembering that Donald was close to Jeremy, added:

'How would you like a planet of your very own?'

Chapter 17

'Commander, it looks like Pottawatomie Creek is leaving her parking orbit.'

Linda Watson turned towards the tactical section at Lieutenant Gohr's report. At least the lieutenant came closer to pronouncing the ship's outlandish name more or less correctly than most of Gauntlet's crew managed. That was Watson's first thought. Her second was to wonder just where Anton Zilwicki might be going.

Gauntlet's CIC had been keeping an unobtrusive eye on Zilwicki's frigate ever since the cruiser's arrival in-system. Not that anyone had asked them to. Officially, Ambassador Fraser had taken no notice whatsoever of the small warship. Perhaps she felt that if the Queen chose to put a thumb so publicly into the High Ridge Government's eye, then it was only tit for tat for her to give the back of her hand to Ruth Winton's taxi. Or, more probably, to the taxi driver, given how… unpopular one Anton Zilwicki had managed to make himself with the Government.

Captain Oversteegen, however, had taken it upon himself to stay quietly current on both the vessel and her passengers' itineraries. Neither of which had suggested that Pottawatomie Creek might be going anywhere.

Zilwicki was under no requirement to keep Gauntlet apprised of his schedule. As a private citizen of Star Kingdom, he was free to come and go as he chose. Moreover, although Pottawatomie Creek might be Manticoran-built, she was officially registered in the Alizon System. It was only a legal fiction, perhaps, but appearances had to be maintained where what amounted to a vest-pocket privateer was concerned.

Given who one of Pottawatomie Creek's passengers was, however…

She touched a com stud on the arm of her command chair.

'Captain speakin',' a voice said almost instantly in her ear bug.

'It's the exec, Sir. Sorry to disturb you, but our friend with the unpronounceable name appears to be leaving orbit.'

'She does, does she?' There were perhaps three seconds of silence, then: 'Have Lieutenant Cheney hail her, Linda. Tell her t' ask-politely, mind you-if I might have a few moments of Captain Zilwicki's time. If he accepts the request, put it through t' my quarters, please.'

'Yes, Sir.' Commander Watson released the communications stud and turned towards Gauntlet's com officer with the rather wistful thought that she wished she could be a fly on the captain's bulkhead during that conversation.

* * *

Abraham Templeton listened for a few seconds to the voice murmuring in his earbug. Then, nodding, turned to his cousin Gideon.

'Ezekiel is reporting back from the spaceport. He was able to bribe someone and get a look at Zilwicki's dispatch to Traffic Central. There's no final destination listed, but Zilwicki did inform Erewhon's traffic control that he was going to be leaving orbit. That's definite. And he didn't ask for a new one anywhere else, either.'

Gideon pursed his lips, staring at one of the walls of the suite in the Sudsoccupied by himself and his unit of Masadan and Scrag mercenaries.

'He's leaving the system entirely, then.' He cocked his head toward Abraham, without moving his eyes from the wall. 'And it's also definite-yes?-that Zilwicki's daughter and my sister have remained behind.'

'Yes, Gideon. I just got another report from Jacob on that, not ten minutes ago. The bitches are still in their rooms.'

Gideon concentrated on the wall. It was just a blank wall, without any decorations on it. But it seemed, at that moment, like a vista opening up before him.

* * *

'Thank you for agreein' t' speak t' me, Captain Zilwicki.'

It was difficult, even for one of Anton Zilwicki's formidable self-discipline, to remember that the face on his com screen did not, in fact, belong to the Prime Minister of Manticore. It looked so damned much like Michael Janvier that Zilwicki couldn't help expecting to hear Baron High Ridge's indescribably irritating voice.

But at least this one's voice is irritating for another reason, he reminded himself. It's not what he says, just the way he says it. And be honest. Even that probably wouldn't set my teeth so much on edge if I weren't a Gryphon Highlander.

'I try to observe at least the bare fundamentals of courtesy, Captain Oversteegen,' he said, and Oversteegen smiled ever so slightly at the edge Zilwicki couldn't quite keep out of his deep, rumbling voice.

'Spoken like a true Highlander, Captain,' he replied, and his eyes actually seemed to twinkle. 'I had a most enjoyable debate with your friend Web Du Havel at one of Ms. Montaigne's soirees. I feel certain, somehow, that your own discussions with him tend t' be… interestin', Sir.'

'As a matter of fact,' Zilwicki admitted with a faint smile of his own, 'they are. Not least because Professor Du Havel takes a certain natural delight in assuming a contrarian position, just to see where the conversation will go. Unlike myself, of course.'

'I can well believe that statement is accurate… at least in so far as Professor Du Havel is concerned,' Oversteegen said genially.

'Oh, it is,' Zilwicki assured him. Then, courtesy and pleasantries dealt with, he got down to business. 'May I

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