all the scams, to keep the Name out of it. So it was not possible now to go to
station offices and say—I lied; change the name; put it the way it ought to be.
That would finish everything.
And maybe, he thought, a lifetime would get him used to looking at the patch
that way.
“Coming?” Allison asked him.
He walked into the restaurant arm in arm with Allison—one of those places he
expected of Allison, ornate and expensive, where flash and fine cloth belonged,
and stationer types occupied tables alongside spacers of the big ships, men and
women with officers’ stripes: a lot of silver hair in the place. A lot of money.
A waiter intercepted them—”Reilly,” Allison said; and the waiter nodded
deferentially and showed them the way among serpentine pillars to the recesses
of the place, deep shadows along the walls.
A silver company occupied the table he located for them, a company that rose
when they arrived—Sandor did a quick scan of lamp-lit faces, heart thumping,
hand already extending in response to offered hands and a murmur of
courtesies—and found himself face to face with Curran Reilly.
No hand offered there. Nothing offered. “Curran,” Allison said, “Helm 22 of
Dublin, my number two. Captain Stevens of Lucy. But you’ll have met.”
“Yes,” Sandor said, the adrenalin hazing everything else; and in belated time,
Curran Reilly took the hand he offered, a dry palm clenched about his sweating
one. A grip that he expected, hard and unfriendly like the stare. And other
hands, then, earlier offeree?. “Deirdre,” Allison said, “number three”—a
freckled, solid woman, dark-haired like all the Reillys, but with a grin that
went straight to the heart, punctured his anger and half made up for Curran.
Happiness. He was not accustomed to cause that in people.
“Neill,” Allison said of the third, another offered hand; a lank and bearded man
with an earnestness that persuaded him Curran was at least unique in the lot.
“Neill,” he murmured in turn, looked at the others. The waiter hovered, offering
chairs. They settled again, himself between Allison and Deirdre, facing Curran
and Neill.
“Would you like cocktails?” the waiter asked.
“Drinks with dinner,” Allison said. “That’s all right with everyone?”
Nods all about. The waiter whisked forth a set of menus, and for a merciful time
there was that amenity among them.
He was buying; he reckoned that. The prices were enough to chill the blood, but
he nerved himself and ordered the best, maintained a smile when his guests did.
It was, after all, one night, one time—an occasion. He could afford it, he
persuaded himself. To please these people. To give them what they were
accustomed to having. On their own money.
The waiter departed. A silence hung there. “Got everything in order?” Curran
asked Allison finally.
“All settled.”
“Megan sends her regards.”
A silence. A glance downward. Sandor had no idea who Megan might be; no one
offered to enlighten him. “I’ll talk to her,” Allison said. “It’s not good-bye,
after all. Well be meeting on loops.”
“I think she understands,” Deirdre said. “My people—they know. They know why.”
“Everyone knows why,” Allison said. “It’s forgiving it.” She laid her hand
briefly on Sander’s arm. “Ship politics.” To the others: “—We got the outfitting
done. First class.”
“What kind of accommodations have we got?” Neill asked.
The adjoining table filled, with all attendant disorganization. Sandor sat and
listened to Reillys talk among themselves, plans for packing, for farewells,
discussion of what supplies they had kid in. “Private cabins and no dunnage
limit?” Deirdre exclaimed, eyes alight. “I’d thought we might be tight”
“No limit within reason,” Sandor said, breaking out into the Reilly
dialogue—expanded at the reaction that got from the lot of them. “That’s one
advantage of a small-crew ship, few as there are. Bring anything you like. Any
cabin you like.”
“You and Allison plan to double up?” Curran asked.
It was not the question; it was the silence that went after it. The look in
Curran’s eyes.
“Curran,” Allison said.
“Just wondering.”
The meal started arriving, wine first; the appetizers when they had scarcely
settled from that. Sandor sat and smoldered, out of appetite with the temper