Fischer said, calmly, “If I had to guess, I would say she’s a shy, socially unprepared girl with no pretensions toward politics, at least at the moment. That is exactly my point. Sincerity is a terrible weapon, Adrian. I’ve seen you use it often enough.”
The square of light over the front door beamed on and off, lending a hearthfire glow to the ivory silk wallpaper of the room. Adrian looked up. “Who?”
“Tal Diamond seeks admittance,” said the door.
“Let him in.” Adrian glanced at his friend. “Let’s see what the most cynical man on the Diamond has to say about your scenario.”
Tal entered, still wearing his station tattoo. He carried a brown leather bag and wore a newly pressed officer’s jacket. Adrian said, “Well-met! Tal, I want you to listen to the tale of romance that Brandon is …” He stopped. “What’s the bag for?”
Tal set it down on the carpet. “I want another station pass.”
Adrian started to laugh. Both Fisher and Tal waited patiently. At last, Adrian said, “Don’t ever change.”
“I beg your pardon?” inquired Tal.
“You make the most open use of your relationship with me of anyone I know. How many passes have I given to you over the past two years?”
“Six,” said Tal reasonably.
“Do you understand, do you grasp, that most people never leave the City for any reason, unless they’re sent on state business?”
“Yes,” said Tal. He waited for anything further, and when it did not come immediately, he said, “I’ll need a fifteen-day pass this time.”
Adrian sighed happily. He said, “Brandon, give Tal a fifteen-day pass. —Oh, would you like to tell me what it’s for? If it wouldn’t be prying.”
“I’m going to board the Kestrel on-station and ride with them to Baret One.”
Adrian’s smile vanished. “Isn’t that a Republic ship?”
“Yes.”
“Then aren’t you playing with fire?”
Tal said, “As you know, I’ve been working on a personal project. It requires that I be on the Kestrel for several days. At Baret One, I’ll take the next available ship back to the station—I won’t even pass through Customs.”
“But you’ll be on official Republic territory for the length of the trip.”
He shrugged. “It’s unavoidable.”
Adrian stared at him. He stared back. Finally Adrian said, “If you get killed, who will entertain me?”
“As I understand it, you are getting married.”
Adrian invested in a sharper stare. When neither of them seemed inclined to speak, Fischer said, “Perhaps we should consider—”
Adrian said calmly, “The Chief Baboon is still collecting his thoughts; therefore, the rest of the troupe will be silent.”
Fischer and Tal exchanged a glance, momentarily united in status. They waited.
Adrian looked at Tal. “So be it, you know I don’t interfere with your personal life. But you don’t leave until after the welcoming banquet tonight. I want you to meet my wife-to-be, before she hears anything about you that might …”
“Might mislead her?”
“How excellently well you phrase it.” Adrian grinned.
“Corporal Hastings!”
Spider jumped. The Inventory Two-Shift Supervisor strode over to where he stood, entering box numbers onto an asset sheet.
“Sir?” said Spider.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Spider swallowed. “I’m reconciling our syntho-cotton blankets with the amount that Purchasing ordered.”
“Why the hell are you doing that? Get over to Foodstuffs, you imbecile! We’ve got ten thousand orders coming in! Who the hell cares about syntho-cotton blankets?”
Spider tucked his asset sheet inconspicuously into his shirt pocket and started walking toward the food and beverage area, pursued by his supervisor, who seemed to feel a need to continue the conversation.
“It’s spring! The temperature is being raised every day! Nobody is going to get on our tails about syntho-cotton blankets! Will they call us if their wine shipments are not delivered? Yes! Will they call us if their petit-fours are not in place? Yes! Do you know how many parties are already scheduled in court territory to introduce Adrian’s bride? Sixteen open and twenty-two closed! Orders are pouring over us like solar radiation! And what are you doing, Corporal? Counting the blankets! Are you doing this to ruin my health, Corporal? Is this deliberate? Is this some form of superior-officer assassination?”
Spider understood that the questions were rhetorical. He walked over to the flour pile and joined Private Smollet, a young man with a rather prominent Adam’s apple, in separating eight sacks from the pyramid.
The supervisor said, “Smollet, what’s the total for this order?”
“Eight flour, twelve wine, eight sugar, six sakish.”
“And when do they want it by?”
“Two hours. There’s some kind of banquet tonight.”
“Two hours! And do you know what Corporal Hastings was doing while you and others here were trying to fill requests from the court larder?”
Smollet, who was a good-tempered sort, made no answer.
The supervisor glared at Spider in disgust. “Blankets,” he muttered again, and turned and walked away.
Spider and Smollet counted a while in mutual silence. When the shipment was ready, Spider said, “I’ll enter it at the link-station.”
“Thanks.”
Spider went to the nearest station, sat down, and picked up the pen. He called up the inventory debit sheets. Then he entered, “12 flour, 16 wine, 12 sugar, 9 sakish,” multiplying each by a discreet factor of about one half and adding that to the total.
“Signature required,” said the link. “Sergeant or above.”
Spider hesitated, holding the pen, and let himself, as he liked to think of it, “go Zen.” Then he wrote, with a flourish, “Sergeant Roderick Northerby, Two-Shift Supervisor.”
He waited. If the signature did not match the template, not only in handwriting but in pressure-to-paper and time to write, alarms would go off and people would come to take him away.
“APPROVED,” read the debit sheet. It swirled away.
Spider put down the pen and took a deep breath.
“HASTINGS!” yelled Northerby.
He jumped. “Over here, sir!”
“Where the hell are you? Have you finished your order? Did you go to sleep? Maybe we should wrap you up in one of those syntho-cotton blankets, Hastings—”
When Iolanthe woke up, she saw that her bag had been left by the
