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Yes, Gramma Ruth knew the sorrow of being too close to one of those damn Longknifes. Yet here she was, saying hi to a great-granddaughter that she could have walked past.

Hold it? How did Gramma Ruth get into this soirée?

Kris realized she was not holding up her end of the conversation. ''Who gave you an invite?'' she asked softly.

Again the old campaigner laughed. ''Us college professors have our ways. We may be poor, but we're genteel poverty. Don't think my name was ever mentioned.'' She glanced around. ''Some old fart here is without his wife, I suspect. Ah yes, he's in line to dance with the confetti girl. I'll have to tell his wife. Or not.''

Kris figured there was one item she wouldn't mind having the whole universe know. ''You know anyplace where a girl can get decent shoes to wear that aren't combat boots?''

The two of them studied Kris's feet.

''In your size, I'd suggest the company that made my old milking shoes, back in the days when I was just a poor farm girl looking for a nice boy to settle down with me on Hurtford.''

''Boy did you miss. Gramma, I'm thinking you're not the one I should talk to about finding a man.''

''Oh, I'm the one, gal. Boy's are easy to find. Men, now, that's a whole lot harder to do. Hey, you, Marine. Yeah, you, Lieutenant.''

Jack turned from where he'd been facing out, giving Kris as much privacy as anyone in a social goldfish bowl could have. ''Yes, ma'am.''

''When you going to make an honest girl of this woman?''

Kris yelped, but Jack held his ground manfully. ''Commander Tordon, there is no way I could make an honest woman of a Longknife. They are born into iniquity and it only gets worse as they pass the age of reason. Assuming they ever do. Sorry, ma'am. I'll take a bullet for her, but there is no way to make her honest.''

Which, Kris had to admit, was a very neat sidestep of the question Kris would have loved to have a straight answer to. And a warning of what lay ahead if she ever did figure out a way to pop that question to the main man in her life. Oh, pooh!

The night dragged on in mindless chatter. By the grace of some bored god, Victoria Peterwald folded her tent and slipped away before the first yawn attacked Kris. So she got home at a decent hour and actually enjoyed a good night's sleep.

Officially, Kris counted that as a good day.

Interlude 1

Grant von Schrader drummed his fingers on the door of his limo. He drummed them while Miss Victoria Smythe-Peterwald posed for one last photo shot…five times.

The young woman was vain. Very vain.

The door finally closed and the driver immediately put the multiton behemoth in motion. Grant continued drumming his fingers until his personal computer, directly plugged into his brain, announced, THE CAR IS SECURE.

''Remind me again why your father sent you to Eden?'' Grant said as softly…and as deceptively as his temper would allow.

''I believe he said something vague, like you are to show me the ropes,'' the young heiress said, arranging her dress so that it fell tightly across her breasts, allowing nipples to raise their distracting heads.

Grant swore softly to himself and praised the common sense that came with age and lower hormone levels.

''I believe he also mentioned something about helping you develop enough common sense so that you'd survive a bit longer than your brother.''

That got a raised eyebrow from the young woman. Was she wondering if Pater had passed along coverage of that meeting…or if Dad's security wasn't as tight as he boasted.

But she said nothing…and Grant left her unenlightened.

Grant let his student fully measure that thought through a long pause. ''It was foolish to confront the Longknife brat.''

''And why should it be?'' came back without a second for reflection. ''She murdered my brother. I can't let her live. She knows that as well as I do.''

Grant sighed…soundlessly. Thirteen generations and the Peterwalds had come to this. He'd met the thirteenth of that name twice and been unimpressed. His sister was not coming across any better. He warily drew in a deep breath and began—again—the education of this gorgeous pig seated beside him.

''Your brother is dead. There is no doubt about that. However, just how he ended up dead is subject to some conjecture. What there is no doubt about is that he crossed swords with Miss Longknife—frequently. A neutral observer might consider that a bad habit you might want to break.''

''She killed my brother. She will pay,'' Victoria hissed.

So much for lesson one. With little expectation of greater success, Grant went on to lesson two. ''No more men will be spending an hour alone with you in your bedroom.''

''Oh, and Vennie was so pleasant a companion,'' the young woman said, licking her lips. ''I haven't seen him around recently. Where is the boy?''

On a slow starship back to Greenfeld where he would explain himself personally to Henry Smythe-Peterwald, XII. Grant hoped Harry would be very interested in what he did with his daughter for an hour…and why he put at risk a project that had been fifteen years in development. Grant would not want to be in Vitali Gruschka's fashionable shoes for that meeting.

''He has been called to a meeting with your father,'' was all Grant said.

The young woman smiled as if she knew something Grant did not. Or maybe did not care about a man who'd worked hard and well for Grant for ten years.

''You do not kill a Peterwald and live,'' was all she said.

''Then kill her someplace else. We have business here on Eden. Profitable business. And I do not care for you washing your dirty linens in my backyard. Your father sent you here to learn about making a profit. You can kill this Longknife troublemaker anywhere else you want. Just not here.''

The young woman seemed to mull that over for a while, then smiled. ''Yes, Uncle Grant. I most certainly can.''

Von Schrader wasn't totally sure what that meant, but he'd done about as much as he could for one evening. He'd learned long ago that Peterwald heads were very dense.

One of the reasons he was here on Eden, about as far as he could comfortably get from Harry.

But if the first package Henry Peterwald dropped on Grant was a pain, the second package was a delight.

Later that evening, when Miss Vicky was hopefully well and solidly put to bed, a door opened in Grant's study that most visitors thought was just his ''I-love-me wall,'' full of pictures of Grant with movers and shakers.

To Grant, it was his target wall.

And an experienced target was the ramrod-straight warrior who came from the secret passage that led to the wall.

''Eginhard Petrovich Müller,'' Grant said, hugging the man. ''I thought you'd be dead by now.''

''Who in the old team would have believed that Lucky Grant would live to grow a paunch,'' the younger man said, patting Grant's flat belly.

''When they told me you would be leading the team, I had it run through the decoding gear twice. But no. It was you. And the rest of the team, is it as hard as you?''

''As hard as you taught me to be.'' Eginhard grinned back.

And yes, Grant's young lieutenant was showing gray around the temples. So the kid had learned wisdom and now led his own company of storm troopers. Of course, Grant told himself, I am no older. He laughed.

''And the company, are they arriving soon?''

''Many of them are already here, sir. Everyone has their own cover. No two alike. If one goes south, we will not weep, but, at least so far, all have reported in. Are the police here on Eden blind?''

''Not blind, just old and comfortable in their ways. The place is a ripe fruit, ready to be plucked.''

The team leader clicked his heels at attention and saluted. ''We dreamed of plucking fruit in the old days. Now we shall.''