her own. A dressing table stood crowded with perfumes and cosmetics. Her
garments sheened above his, hastily tossed over a chair. In that
richness, her souvenirs of Home–pictures, bric-a-brac, a stuffed toy
such as she would have given to a child–seemed as oddly pathetic as the
view in the window was grim. Hail dashed against vitryl, thicker and
harder than ever fell on Terra, picked out athwart blue-black
lightning-jumping violence by an ember sunbeam which stabbed through a
rent in the clouds. Past every insulation and heaviness came a ghost of
the wind’s clamor.
Kossara … Yes, Chives is right to fret about her while she struggles
through yonder wildwood.
Susette stroked his cheek. “Why do you look sad all of a sudden?” she
asked.
“Eh?” He started. “How ridiculous. ‘Pensive’ is the word, my imp. Well,
perhaps a drop of melancholy, recalling how I’ll have to leave you and
doubtless never see you again.”
She nodded. “Me too. Though are you sure we won’t–we can’t?”
If I keep any control over events, yes, absolutely! Not that you aren’t
likable; but frankly, in public you’re a bore. And what if Kossara found
out?
Why should I care?
Well, she might accept my sporting as such. I get the impression hers is
a double-standard society. But I don’t believe she’d forgive my
cuckolding a man whose salt I’ve eaten. To plead I was far from unique
would get me nowhere. To plead military necessity wouldn’t help either;
I think she could see (those wave-colored eyes) that I’d have performed
the same service free and enjoyed every microsecond.
Hm. The problem is not how to keep a peccadillo decently veiled in
hypocrisy. The problem is what to do about the fact that I care whether
or not Kossara Vymezal despises me.
“Can’t we?” Susette persisted. “The Empire’s big, but people get around
in it.”
Flandry pulled his attention back to the task on hand. He hugged her,
smiled into her troubled gaze, and said, “Your idea flatters me beyond
reason. I’d s’posed I was a mere escapade.”
She flushed. “I supposed the same. But–well–” Defiantly: “I have
others. I guess I always will, till I’m too old. Martin must suspect,
and not care an awful lot. He’s nice to me in a kind of absent-minded
way, but he’s overworked, and not young, and–you know what I mean.
Diego, Diego Rostovsky, he’s been the best. Except I know him inside out
by now, what there is to know. You come in like a fresh breeze–straight
from Home!–and you can talk about things, and make me laugh and feel
good, and–” She leaned hard on him. Her own spare hand wandered. “I’d
never have thought … you knew right away what I’d like most. Are you a
telepath?”
No, just experienced and imaginative. Aycharaych is the telepath. “Thank
you for your commendation,” Flandry said, and clinked his bottle on
hers.
“Then won’t you stay a while extra, Ahab, and return afterward?”
“I must go whither the vagaries of war and politics require, amorita.
And believe me, they can be confoundedly vague.” Flandry took a long
drink to gain a minute for assembling his next words. “F’r instance, the
secrecy Commander Maspes laid on you forces me to dash on to Sector HQ
as soon’s I’ve given Diomedes a fairly clean bill of health–which I’ve
about completed. My task demands certain data, you see. Poor
communications again. Maspes tucked you under a blanket prohibition
because he’d no way of knowing I’d come here, and I didn’t get a
clearance to lift it because nobody back Home knew he’d been that
ultracautious.” If I produced the Imperial writ I do have, that might
give too much away.
Susette’s palm stopped on his breast. “Why, your heart’s going like a
hammer,” she said.
“You do that to a chap,” he answered, put down his bottle and gathered
her to him for an elaborate kiss.
Breathlessly, she asked, “You mean if you had the information you
wouldn’t be in such a hurry? You could stay longer?”
“I should jolly well hope so,” he said, running fingers through her
hair. “But what’s the use?” He grinned. “Never mind. In your presence, I