“Well, come into my office,” she said. “Harper, is it? I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  The Minister waved me to a chair and closed the door behind us. I sat, then said, “I don’t—we don’t aboard the Far Traveller—understand why the Alliance agreed to negotiation with the Shinings to begin with. We’re very far from home if this is some sort of joke by the Guarantor Porra.”

  “So are we,” Minister Blakeley said with a faint smile. “There are rumors that Porra is dying. At least the diocese governors believe he may be. None of them wants to be the first to test the rumor, but neither do they want to have their individual forces tied up in border wars when at any moment their neighbors might decide to strike at them to gain advantage in the scramble for the top when the Guarantor is confirmed to be dead.”

  “Do the Shinings know that?” I asked. I’d seen several of the angular Shining vessels in the harbor when I was viewing imagery of the St. Martins.

  Blakeley shrugged. “At first I assumed they did,” she said, “because otherwise their arrogance seemed insane. Having talked with them over the past four months, I’ve come to realize that they’re not insane but their ignorance of the wider universe is colossal by civilized standards.”

  She turned and touched a control of the console with her behind the desk but at right angles. A constellation of about a dozen red dots sprang to holographic life in the middle of the room. “That’s the Shining Empire,” Blakeley said.

  She touched another control and fifty or more amber dots appeared. At the lower edge they marched alongside the red clump. She said, “And that’s the Fourth Diocese. They alone could easily crush the Shinings without needing to call for help from the rest of the Alliance, but the Shinings truly don’t understand that. They believe that their race has been created to rule all races, and that their recent push toward industrialization is the beginning of an unstoppable rush to the top. The Gods will carry them to triumph.”

  “Then will you give Medlum to the Shinings?” I said. “If that’s the case, then the Far Traveller isn’t going to find itself in the middle of a war or be picked off by an Alliance squadron as the first prize of new hostilities between us and the Alliance.”

  Blakeley shut off the holographic display and faced me squarely. “You appear to have a low opinion of the diplomatic profession,” she said in an ironic tone. “That’s understandable, but in the present case my team will do exactly what the parties mutually have requested the Republic of Cinnabar to do: examine the evidence and determine to the best of our ability whether Medlum falls within the suzerainty of the Shining Empire or that of the Alliance of Free Stars. Does that surprise you?”

  I cleared my throat. The minister didn’t sound angry, though she had a right to be if I’d been so wrong about her ethics.

  “Not exactly, Minister,” I said. “But you’re a Cinnabar official, and I would expect your first loyalty to be to the Republic rather than to abstract truth. Whatever the Alliance or the Shinings might want.”

  Blakeley sniffed. “I suppose I would,” she said. “If I were sure what result would best benefit the Republic, which I am not. I therefore am doing my job honorably and keeping faith with both parties which asked Cinnabar to mediate…which”—she held my eyes—“is very possibly the action which is in the Republic’s real long-term best interests.”

  I nodded to her. “Mistress, I understand and I even agree, though I don’t suppose there’s any way to know for sure.”

  “Not in our lifetimes, no,” Blakeley agreed. She stared at her hands tented on the desk before her.

  I stood. “I would appreciate, Minister, if you gave me access to your complete files. I give you my word as a Harper of Greenslade that I will not divulge the contents to anyone outside my fellows aboard the Far Traveller in the course of their duties.”

  “Granted,” Blakeley said. “I’m sure the local staff which we must hire if we’re to accomplish our task has leaked anything that either party may have been willing to pay for.” She sighed and added, “I’ll take you to the file room and tell the staff that you have full access.”

  There were three flat-plate displays in the adjoining room. Men in civilian clothes worked at two of them but the third was vacant; a woman was going through hardcopy files at a table.

  “This is Lord Harper,” the minister said. “Give him any help he needs.”

  When Blakeley left the room, I expected the three juniors to begin asking me questions. Instead they nodded to me with polite respect and went back to what they’d been doing—or at least the appearance of it; I had the feeling that they were all watching me from the corners of their eyes as if I were a spy left in their midst. That, or a potentially dangerous madman.

  They should have thought of me simply as a young RCN officer. They couldn’t know about my family connections—

  But they might: The minister’s secretary could—would—have slipped next door while I was in with Blakeley. I’d just used my name to get the minister to answer the question Rick had posed, while making sure that Rachel wouldn’t be blamed for telling me. Heaven only knew what the mission staff had made of my sudden appearance, but it seemed to have frightened the hell out of them. There was nothing I could do about that now.

  I skimmed through the evidence that the parties had brought to the Mediation Mission in support of their positions. These displays were linked to the console in Blakeley’s office. I couldn’t input data, but it was all visible.

  The staff annotations illuminated the claims. There’d been a Pleasaunce post on Medlum since just after the resumption of star travel, nearly a thousand years ago. The Alliance claimed that the post involved political control, which was almost certainly an exaggeration. Until three hundred years ago, the most Pleasaunce traders could have claimed was immunity from local criminal jurisdiction.

  The Shining Empire offered myths for which they could provide no corroboration on Medlum. On the other hand, the mission had uncovered a considerable amount of Pre-Hiatus trade between Medlum and some of the planets which now called themselves the Shining Empire. I wondered whether the researcher who’d documented that trade—the best evidence so far on the subject—was Rachel Pond.

  I could ask her. Perhaps I could ask her at dinner.

  A name that frequently occurred in the Alliance submissions was that of Postholder Bothwell. The name rang a vague bell: My mother was from Pleasaunce and I recalled her speaking of Bothwell relatives.

  The mission files had Bothwell’s background but none of course on Mom’s family. He was from Pleasaunce and probably of a prominent family given the rank of some of his relatives; his cousin was an undersecretary in External Affairs.

  I went back to the Medlum files for another hour. One of the local men went out with a short comment to the other staffers. Still nobody spoke to me.

  I would meet Joss at the Far Traveller, though I didn’t know how long it would be before she finished her business with Milo. I got up also, nodded to the staffers, and said, “Thank you,” and went back to Minister Blakeley’s office.

  The door to the inner office was open, but I had no need to see her again. The secretary looked up and I said, “Do you know where Mistress Pond is?”

  “Well, she’s right here,” he said, gesturing to the curtained corner of the room to my right. I turned my head and Rachel herself came out of the alcove.

  I realized that she may have been as startled—in bad ways—as the other staffers were when I appeared as Lord Harper, but I decided to assume there was no problem and treat her as I’d done from the beginning. I said, “Hi, Rachel. I’d like you to guide me to the postholder’s office and introduce me to him. Can you do that?”

  “Well, the Alliance headquarters is only a few blocks away,” she said. “But I won’t be able to introduce you as I’ve never met Postholder Bothwell.”

  I checked my case and found I was carrying several visiting cards. “Well,” I said, “if you can get me there, I can at least leave my card; he may be a relative, you see. And then perhaps you’d permit me to give you dinner as a thank you for your help today?”

  “I’d be happy to guide you,” she said, “or drive you in the cyclo if you’d prefer…?”

  “I’d prefer to walk,” I said. “Can we go now?”

  She turned to the secretary and said, “I’ll be out with Lord Harper, Griswold.”

  She took us out by the front door. That street wasn’t much wider than the rear alley, but at least the building fronts were in the same line.

  “And dinner?” I said. “If there are any places you recommend, that is?”

  “This is quite a nice place,” she said, pointing to the restaurant across the street on a corner. The sign read Steeling. “I can’t afford to go there myself. But your lordship, I’m just doing my job and you don’t need to feed me.”

  We turned uphill at the corner, proceeded two short, steep blocks and came to the next cross street. The two-story building on the corner had a broad veranda and was faced with pink stucco, bleached by long exposure to the sun. Where patches of stucco had flaked off, brighter plaster replaced it. Some missing swatches were still bare to the coarse dark-red limestone below.

  There were two guards at the door, probably local men. Though they had Alliance uniform jackets, they wore sandals cut from worn rubber tires. Their carbines were in poor shape.

  They stood up as we approached the open door, but when I said, “Lord Harper to see Postholder Bothwell,” they bowed us in without even asking questions. I was holding a visiting card in my hand as I stood in the circular entrance hall. For a moment I couldn’t even see where to go next, but Rachel pointed to the doorway to our left. I entered what proved to be an outer office and handed my card to the receptionist.

  “Lord Harry Harper,” I said. “I’m hoping to see the postholder. I believe we’re distantly related.”

  The woman goggled at me, but before she decided what to do the door to the inner office opened fully—it had been ajar—and a tall, heavyset man came out. He wore a vest but it wasn’t closed at the front. He was probably in his sixties but looked worn enough to be older.

  “You’re Harper of Greenslade?” he said.

  “He’s my father, sir,” I said.

  “Come on in then!” Bothwell said. “You’ll be Daphne’s boy: She’s my cousin’s daughter. But what in heaven’s name are you doing on this benighted place, boy?”

  “Sir, I’m here as a biologist with the Far Traveller and recognized your name—well, the Bothwell name,” I said. “And sir? May I introduce my friend and guide, Mistress Rachel Pond, from the Cinnabar Mediation Mission?”

  Rachel had moved to the chairs on the wall beside the door. She came forward and joined us when I extended my hand to her.

  “My goodness, good of you to bring her, Harry,” Bothwell said. “My dear, is there some way I can bribe you on behalf of the Alliance of Free Stars?”

  “What!” Rachel said. She didn’t seem to know whether or not the postholder’s courtly offer was serious. Neither did I, for that matter. “Sir, I assure you that I don’t have any control over the mission’s assessment. And I wouldn’t be bribed if I did.”

  “Ah, well,” Bothwell said. “You can’t object to an old man trying, can you? I haven’t really cared in a long time, and I’m pretty sure the External Desk in Pleasaunce doesn’t care either. But do come in, both of you, and—Meisha, bring in glasses and a bottle of the Chatterton White.”

  “We really can’t stay very long, Postholder,” I said, but Rachel followed me doubtfully and we took chairs in the inner office. “I just wanted to say hello to a relative met in a far corner of the galaxy.”

  The secretary bustled in with the wine much more quickly than I expected from her blank-faced greeting when we arrived. I got up and poured for ourselves and the postholder, then handed Rachel’s to her in her seat.

  “Have my invitations arrived yet?” Bothwell asked. “Your ship’s arrival is an opportunity to host a dance here at Alliance House. For the better sort of locals and for the diplomats—including the monkeys from the Shining Empire, I fear, but I think it’s the diplomatic thing to do. And I am a diplomat, though I’m sure my superiors don’t think I’m a very good one or they wouldn’t have exiled me to this sump.”

  “Invitations weren’t mentioned at the time I left the Far Traveller,” I said. “If the ship is still on Medlum at the time, I will surely make an effort to attend, sir.”

  “Well, I set it for just two nights forward,” the postholder said. “I realized that your ship may not be in harbor long, but this is a real opportunity for those of us on Medlum to interact with civilized people.”

  “We’ll hope to attend,” I said neutrally. I’d do whatever Doctor Veil asked me to do, but I suspected she would want to be at a social event which might gain us access to private collections.

  The postholder and I made small talk for a polite length of time. The wine was palatable but not one I would tell my elder sister—the connoisseur—to lay in a stock of. Rachel stayed alert but said very little.

  I rose and set my glass down on the tray. Bothwell and I shook hands and he followed the two of us to the door of his office. He and I made polite noises as Rachel and I went out.

  Outside the building, I said to Rachel, “So—when and where shall I pick you up for dinner?”

  She looked down and clasped her hands firmly together. “I hope you won’t be offended, Lord Harper,” she said. “I think I’d rather not go to dinner with you. I really was just doing my job.”

  “And doing it very well,” I said truthfully. “But did I do something to offend you, Rachel? And I would prefer to be Harry, you know.”

  “You’ve been a perfect gentleman and quite exciting to be around, frankly,” she said. Then she met my eyes again and said, “Harry, you’re a perfectly nice young man, but I don’t belong with you. We could spend a pleasant time, I’m sure, but even if you weren’t a naval officer it could never be more than a dalliance. That’s not what I want. I want a life partner, not a dalliance. Do you see?”

  I sighed. “I see, Rachel,” I said, “but you have to eat somewhere. That’s all I’m offering.”

  That was technically true, but I certainly hoped that a good meal and a couple more glasses of wine might lead to more.

  Rachel smiled at me—sadly, I thought. “Thank you, Harry,” she said. “But no. I will take you to the mission, or you can go back to your ship directly from here. I think it’s a little shorter to go directly to the harbor.”

  I sighed again and said, “I’ll walk you back to the mission. Perhaps we’ll see each other at the do Postholder Bothwell is putting together.”

  We walked off. I wondered how Joss had gotten on. Better than I had, I hoped.

  * * *

  “I don’t see why we don’t simply hire local transport like Captain Bolton and the other officers,” Harry said as he followed Rick into the equipment bay. Rick was wearing his new second class uniform. Harry was in formal Cinnabar evening garb: black jacket with a high collar, black-and-white checked waistcoat, and white trousers.

  The outfit was closely tailored and very uncomfortable, Rick would have thought. Harry seemed unaffected, though. He probably wore that sort of clothing often enough to be used to it.

  “Well, the trucks won’t be able to manage the streets of St. Martins,” Harry said, “and the aircars don’t have anywhere to land. I’ve seen the location.”

  “Wait and watch, my friend,” said Rick.

  The equipment supervisor was in his little office and the rear of the bay. He waved to Rick and said, “She’s ready to go, sir! And thank you for the bottle! Where’d that stuff come from?”

  “Nevermuch, I believe,” Rick said. “Though I’m not entirely sure where that is.”

  He’d done a set of astrogational computations for Lieutenant Dogan, who’d offered a bottle of liqueur for the help. “Kiss of the Madonna” hadn’t promised a must-have experience to Rick, but Tech 4 Pequod had been delighted to prep the utility runabout in exchange.

  Rick gestured to the vehicle. “If you’re all right with riding pillion,” he said, “we’re set. Otherwise I’ll get some blankets and you can ride in the trunk.”

  “Pillion is fine,” Harry said, walking over to the tricycle with large tires woven from beryllium mesh and a wire cage in back to carry the sort of odds and ends the ship might need to transport on a distant planet. The tires were suitable off-road, and the trike was as narrow as the local one Rachel had picked Harry up in two days ago.

  It wasn’t the sort of thing a senior officer travelled in, though, which is why it was available for a couple of lieutenants tonight.

  “Want me to start it, sir?” Pequod asked.

  “Naw, no problem,” Rick said. “I’ll need to start it coming back, won’t I?”

  Rick gripped the steering yoke and set his right foot on the starter crank, then kicked down with his whole weight. The little diesel fired on the first kick and settled into a ringing idle. Rick hopped aboard and gestured Harry onto the pillion seat behind him. The seating was tight but not impossible.

  Harry leaned forward said directly into Rick’s ear, “Rick, are you really taking this across the boarding bridge?”

  “And up the steps onto the quay,” Rick replied nonchalantly. “These mules really are all-terrain, you see. I got pretty good with them on the tender Mandragora when I was a midshipman.”

  There was a slight bump as they drove over the joint between the hold and the ramp, then down it to the end. The floating extension bridge quivered but didn’t dip seriously. Rick kept to the center and drove off onto the long concrete steps up to the top of the quay.

  He cramped the front wheel against the first step above the one they’d arrived on and said, “Hang on, buddy. This is going to bounce us.”

  The rear wheels sparked as they spun through the slime, then bit on the concrete. The front wheel lifted, then advanced until the rear wheels met the step and humped over more easily than the front had because they were larger in diameter. The trike repeated the process on the next step and then the three following until it leveled off on top of the quay. There Rick paused and looked over his shoulder at his passenger.