Szgranians per capita traveled about as frequently as any other non-human race with which mankind had come in contact. The handiworks of the Szgranian craftsman class, particularly carvings in the round accomplished on a jig with double mirrors, were exquisite and in demand at high prices throughout the civilized universe. The foreign exchange they earned permitted the upper level of Szgranian society to travel at will.
Despite that, relatively few starship officers had experience with Szgranians. The mistress of a clan traveled with a huge entourage—several hundred in the present case of Lady Scour—but no individual ever left the planet. Either you had scores of Szgranians on your plate, or none. Given that most of the travelers were nobles, warriors by birth and breeding and extremely punctilious of their clan’s honor, learning to deal with Szgranians was much like learning to swim by being thrown into the deep end of the pool.
This was Kneale’s third experience with a party of Szgranians, but it would be the first for Holly and Colville. They were both solid officers, though; and they had to learn some time.
The aide returned. Szgranians moved with the grace of gazelles. They seemed stiff until you realized how fast and precisely they accomplished every physical task.
“Commander Hiram Kneale,” the aide trilled. He curtsied to indicate Kneale’s high rank—a prerequisite if the clan mistress was to be entrusted to him. “Lady Scour will honor you with her presence. Please await her.”
He took a spherical gong of chiseled iron from his belt and struck it with the fingertips of the middle hand on the opposite side. An angelically clear note filled the lounge.
The aides crouched like a party of Hindu gods preparing for a footrace, their culture’s attention posture. In the bottom pairs of their holsters, above the “quaint” swords and knives, were non-functioning copies of pistols every bit as modern as those in the Empress of Earth’s small armory.
The same wealth on which Szgranians traveled the galaxy allowed them to import the advanced weapons which guaranteed planetary independence. Szgrane’s nearest neighbor through sponge space was Grantholm. The degree of Grantholm influence was limited sharply by knowledge that a planet with a suicidally brave warrior class and energy weapons could be destroyed but not ruled by outsiders.
Commander Kneale braced his back and clicked his heels together. In theory, every First Class passenger boarding the Empress of Earth was a VIP. Certainly most thought of themselves in that fashion. Realistically, though, a foreign potentate who took a block of sixty-four cabins and an imperial suite expected bowing and scraping beyond the general norm. Thus the VIP lounge, though it was officially called the Special Needs Room of the Trident terminal.
A double line of Szgranian attendants entered the room and flared to either side. Lady Scour stepped between them like shot from the muzzle of a blunderbuss. Commander Kneale bowed low, thinking, Good lord, she’s beautiful!
Szgranian females of the upper class were larger than the males—a common occurrence in polyandrous species. Lady Scour was Kneale’s height though of a willowy build. She moved with a suppleness so strikingly different from that of her male attendants that the commander wondered whether their metal breastplates made them awkward. Again, it was possible that the clan mistress was simply unique of her species. Kneale was willing to believe that.
Lady Scour’s garment was a one-piece trouser-suit of purple silk matched perfectly to the color of the irises of her large eyes. Instead of sleeves, her arms extended through a fringed slit on either side. Her skin was covered with a light down like the belly fur of a cat, and the thin fabric left no doubt that Szgranians were mammals—albeit four-dugged mammals.
“You may rise, Commander Kneale, and lead me to my quarters,” Lady Scour announced, speaking Standard in a well-modulated voice. Szgranians of all classes were notable linguists. Those who traveled beyond their planet rarely needed AI translators. Even so, Lady Scour’s accent and enunciation were exceptionally good.
“Thank you, milady,” Kneale replied. He touched his commo transceiver to the inner doorway of the , lounge and said, “Kneale here. Is our path clear? Over.”
Bridge replied to the prepared question by throwing’ a holographic chart up from the commander’s reader. Kneale had arranged a route to the Szgranian wing which, though not the most direct, was fully controllable. It went through the Cabin Class areas in which Bridge could lock passengers in their compartments while stewards cleared the corridors. That sort of highhandedness in First Class would cause problems.