STARLINER by David Drake

Considered merely as a light show, it was a soothing background.

Chekoumian gave Blavatsky a little grin to show that he knew he was being floridly bombastic. “Trust me, little Marie,” he said. “Szgrane isn’t a place for humans. And it isn’t a place for Szgranians either, except for the one who’s on top of each community’s pyramid.”

“Oh, of course I trust you, Abraham,” Blavatsky said brightly. “I was just surprised to see you here, is all.”

In fact, Blavatsky had been surprised to learn from Bridge that the importer was still aboard when her watch ended—but she’d been ninety percent sure that she’d find him in the Undersea Grotto when she strolled past Bridge noted that Chekoumian had ordered a drink only ten minutes before.

“Marie’s telling me about her sister’s wedding,” Chekoumian said, waggling the letter again. “That’s her sister Irene, the younger one. But please, sit down! You’re off duty, are you not? You can have a drink.”

He signaled for a steward as he gestured Blavatsky to the contoured chair beside his own.

“Well, maybe a little wine . . .” she agreed shyly. Abraham was aware of her duty hours.

“Irene’s the young one,” Chekoumian added with a frown. “Marie—my Marie, little Marie—”

He dropped the letter on the circular drinks table to pat the back of Blavatsky’s hand.

“Marie’s bothered by that, I know, though she doesn’t say it,” he continued. His broad face brightened like an equatorial sunrise. “But won’t she be thrilled when I sweep up to her door in the most expensive limousine I can rent on Bogomil?”

“Sir and madam?” asked the steward who paused at their table.

Chekoumian and Blavatsky looked up. On the wall behind the bar, the brilliant denizens of a coral atoll on Tblisi wheeled in tight patterns. “Could I have something from your homework!?” Blavatsky asked. “Tblisi has wines, doesn’t it?”

“Wonderful!” cried her companion. “Yes, of course. Bring us a carafe of Evran with two glasses—and take this away.”

Chekoumian thrust his part-finished screwdriver across the table. “The vintage is from gene-tailored grapes,” he explained to Blavatsky. “We’re very up to date on Tblisi.”

“A carafe of Evran,” the steward said to the bartender. Both men were natives of New Sarawak; and both had been aboard the Empress of Earth since her maiden voyage.

The bartender glanced toward the only occupied table in the lounge. The passenger had switched on his hologram reader to project plans of the house he intended to build. He was pointing out details of the widow’s walk to the Staff Side rating beside him.

The bartender raised an eyebrow.

The steward, out of sight of the couple at the table, hooked the first and middle fingers of his left hand. He jerked them upward, as though they were a gaff landing a prize fish.

* * *

Three court ladies sang the 17th-century Terran ballad about Clerk Colville, who’d gone to tell the mermaid who’d been his mistress that he intended to marry a human female. A fourth of Lady Scour’s companions provided the lute accompaniment in the dining room paneled in richly-carved woods and ivory. She deliberately used only two hands to achieve the delicate fingering.

“Would you agree that ‘My skin is whiter than the milk,’ Ran Colville?” Lady Scour asked.

One of Lady Scour’s hands flicked her blouse like a bullfighter’s cape. The smokey fabric might have been translucent in strong light, but it was effectively opaque beneath the dining room’s paper lanterns. The single garment, unless surprise and the mere glimpse had deceived Ran, was the only thing Lady Scour wore over her breasts.

“I would agree with anything your ladyship said,” Ran replied. “Because of your rank, and your beauty . . . and because of my respect for your mind, all three.”

He chose his words carefully so as not to bring up the fact that her words had been from Clerk Colville. The line just before the one Lady Scour quoted was, “It’s all for you, ye gentle knight. . . .”

The clan mistress leaned forward chuckling. She took a shellfish from a dish of pungent sauce and popped it into Ran’s mouth. He chewed and swallowed. The tidbit, like most of the meal that had preceded it, was excellent. He’d forced himself to stomach only a few items, and those more for texture than taste.

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