ous person. He fished said notorious person out of the
water short of most of one leg. Luckily for him, he was
wearing a medisuit, and though he’s unconscious he isn’t
dead. But it’s who he is which may interest you.”
“Well, then, spit it out,” Langenschmidt grunted.
“It’s Jusrin Kolb,” said the disembodied voice.
Alura Quist was pleased with the way things were go-
ing. Not even the reflection which came back to her
from the polyview mirror at which she was preparing
for the official banquet due at sunset could wholly dispel
the mood of grim satisfaction the offworld delegation
had generated in her.
Of course, those from the wealthier worlds such as
Earth had felt patronising about the best Cyclops could
offer, but it was out of keeping with their professed
charitable intentions towards the underprivileged of the
ZRP’s to make open complaint, so they had been on
their best behaviour. And the ferocity of the representa-
tive from ZRP OneOmar Haust, an old man now but
still vehementoutweighed a dozen of his fainter-hearted
colleagues. He still clung to views that most people on
his planet had reluctantly abandoned.
The banquet would be magnificent; the food and
liquor would be so expensive as to have to figure as a
special entry in the planetary budget for the yearbut
never mind, it could appropriately be written off against
a one per cent surcharge on the rental of the Corps
Galactica base. Afterwards there would have to be
speeches, of coursecurious how tradition lingered in
these formal areas of human activity, even after countless
generationsbut she could endure that In sight of a
success schemed for over so many years, she could put
up with acouple of hours’ repetitious mouthing.
“We of Cyclops,” she said to the mirror, and watched
how the muscles of her throat moved with the words,
“are not among the most prosperous peoples of the
galaxy. Yet what we have we do not regard selfishly.
We would eagerly share it with those who are still
worse off than we. In pre-galactic days, the historians
tell us, there was a fable recounted about a dog which
made its bed on the fodder of a draft-animal and so
caused the animal to starve.”
She paused, at first because she was still uncertain
about including this arcane literary reference even now
the speech-compositor had shorn it of obsolete words
like “manger” and “ox”, and then to carry out yet one
more inspection of her appearance.
She was still slender; she had the nervous, energetic
constitution which assured her of boniness rather than
excess fat in her declining years. Her hair, fair and
warmly coloured, was impeccably dressed and framed a
strong face in which her eyes were blue and brilliant as
sapphires. Her gown was of Earthside manufacture-
dated, no doubt, in the eyes of the visitors from the
mother world, but suiting her so well she could disre-
gard that minority opinion.
How long would it all last? Her mouth twisted into a
harsh grimace, instantly destroying her usual pretriness,
as the thought of such a man as Gus Langenschmidt
crossed her mind. After fifty years patrolling a beat
among the ZRP barbarians, he was promised survival in
good health and artificial youth when she was long rele-
gated to footnotes in local history records.
That fact could scarcely be changed. But the purpose
to which he had dedicated his life could be emptied of
meaning.
Oh, the draft of her speech would do well enough.
She let that matter drop, and spoke to the attendant
manicuring her toenails on another subject which was
currently worrying her.
“Would you tell Justin Kolb that I wish to speak with
him before the banquet?”
“Is he going to be there, mistress?” the girl countered.
Quist started. Was there mockery in that level voice?
There was no obvious sign of it in the dark eyes which
met hers; she relaxed fractionally.
“What do you mean? Of course he will be there.
Why not?”
“I understood from his valet, mistress, that he had not
returned half an hour ago.”
“Returned?” Bewildered, Quist stared down at the
girl. In the past two days, since the arrival of the