Dragoika stood with Flandry by the totem at the prow. She had offered thanks. Kursovikian religion was a paganism more inchoate than any recorded from ancient Terra—the Tigery mind was less interested than the human in finding ultimate causes—but ritual was important. Now the crew had returned to watch or to sleep and they two were alone. Her fur was sparked with silver, her eyes pools of light.
“Our thanks belong more to you,” she said softly. “I am high in the Sisterhood. They will be told, and remember.”
“Oh, well.” Flandry shuffled his feet and blushed.
“But have you not endangered yourself? You explained what scant strength is left in those boxes which keep you alive. And then you spent it to fly about.”
“Uh, my pump can be operated manually if need be.”
“I shall appoint a detail to do so.”
“No need. You see, now I can use the Siravo powerpacks. I have tools in my pouch for adapting them.”
“Good.” She looked awhile into the shadows and luminance which barred the deck. “That one whose pistol you removed—” Her tone was wistful.
“No, ma’m,” Flandry said firmly. “You cannot have him. He’s the only survivor of the lot. We’ll keep him alive and unhurt.”
“I simply thought of questioning him about their plans. I know a little of their language. We’ve gained it from prisoners or parleys through the ages. He wouldn’t be too damaged, I think.”
“My superiors can do a better job in Highport.”
Dragoika sighed. “As you will.” She leaned against him. “I’ve met vaz-Terran before, but you are the first I have really known well.” Her tail wagged. “I like you.”
Flandry gulped. “I … I like you too.”
“You fight like a male and think like a female. That’s something new. Even in the far southern islands—” She laid an arm around his waist. Her fur was warm and silken where it touched his skin. Somebody had told him once that could you breathe their air undiluted, the Tigeries would smell like new-mown hay. “I’ll have joy of your company.”
“Um-m-m … uh.” What can I say?
“Pity you must wear that helmet,” Dragoika said. “I’d like to taste your lips. But otherwise we’re not made so differently, our two kinds. Will you come to my cabin?”
For an instant that whirled, Flandry was tempted. He had everything he could do to answer. It wasn’t based on past lectures about taking care not to offend native mores, nor on principle, nor, most certainly, on fastidiousness. If anything, her otherness made her the more piquant. But he couldn’t really predict what she might do in a close relationship, and—
“I’m deeply sorry,” he said. “I’d love to, but I’m under a—” what was the word?—”a geas.”
She was neither offended nor much surprised. She had seen a lot of different cultures. “Pity,” she said. “Well, you know where the forecastle is. Goodnight.” She padded aft. En route, she stopped to collect Ferok.
—and besides, those fangs were awfully intimidating.
5
When Lord Hauksberg arrived in Highport, Admiral Enriques and upper-echelon staff had given a formal welcoming party for their distinguished visitor and his aides as protocol required. Hauksberg was expected to reciprocate on the eve of departure. Those affairs were predictably dull. In between, however, he invited various officers to small gatherings. A host of shrewd graciousness, he thus blunted resentment which he was bound to cause by his interviewing of overworked men and his diversion of already inadequate armed forces to security duty.
“I still don’t see how you rate,” Jan van Zuyl complained from the bunk where he sprawled. “A lousy ensign like you.”
“You’re an ensign yourself, me boy,” Flandry reminded him from the dresser. He gave his blue tunic a final tug, pulled on his white gloves, and buffed the jetflare insignia on his shoulders.
“Yes, but not a lousy one,” said his roommate.
“I’m a hero. Remember?”
“I’m a hero too. We’re all heroes.” Van Zuyl’s gaze prowled their dismal little chamber. The girlie animations hardly brightened it. “Give L’Etoile a kiss for me.”
“You mean she’ll be there?” Flandry’s pulses jumped.
“She was when Carruthers got invited. Her and Sharine and—”