Her outfit was very different from the one she’d worn the first time they had met, but that was no excuse for not recognising her.
She was dressed in a loose hip-length tunic, gold in colour and studded with rhinestones. Her tight silver pants stopped at the knee, and she wore a pair of white slippers, which were also decorated with ersatz gems. Or the jewels could have been genuine. By now, for all Norton knew, diamonds were no longer expensive. There must have been planets where emeralds and rubies were as common as dust in Nevada. On her head was a glittery pillbox hat, shimmering with strata of silver and gold.
Until it revealed its true identity, the Sham had worn a similar uniform, which must have been as illusory as the creature itself.
“And the Sham was masquerading as a steward?” said Norton.
“No,” said Diana. “He, or it, was working as a steward. I thought his name was Heart-of-Peace and he was from Luna. Instead, he was a low-budget assassin. Which means we’re minus one steward.” She sipped her coffee and looked at Norton. “Or maybe not.”
It made sense, he supposed. If the Sham, pretending to be a steward, had really killed Wayne Norton, pretending to be Julius Winston, then the Sham would still be alive, still pretending to be a steward. And so Norton became a steward called Heart-of-Peace.
This meant he had a far better choice of food than the passengers—because he and Diana chose whatever they wanted. Although everything was automated, there were still buttons to press, controls to turn, dials to operate. He didn’t know what any of them did, but she made him learn.
“I’m a cop,” he said, “why do I need to do this?”
“Because,” she told him, “like most creatures in the universe, you need to eat to live. If you don’t know how to flasheat food, you’ll starve to death.”
“You’d let me?”
“Yes.”
He believed her.
At first, he was worried his steward’s job would entail housework on a galactic scale: cooking, cleaning, dusting, polishing, ironing, washing dishes, doing laundry, making beds. The list of chores was endless. He could never do anything like that. Firstly, it was all women’s work, which meant: secondly, he didn’t know how.
But a steward was more like a waiter in a restaurant. He dealt with the customers, while everything else happened out of sight. A waiter would bring the menu, take the orders, deliver the meal, but he didn’t prepare the food or clear up the mess later.
As he already knew, passengers in his class had to serve their own meals, but the stewards had to make sure all the dispensers were fully stacked. As for doing the dishes, once they were collected and racked, that was also taken care of.
Norton soon came to hate the passengers. They did nothing but moan and complain and ask for the impossible, and even when it was possible he soon learned to be evasive. He could have done his work far more efficiently without passengers interrupting his routine.
At least he was no longer bored.
He was also back in uniform.
“I wish we didn’t have to wear such stupid clothes,” he said.
“What’s wrong with them?” asked Diana.
“They’re not so bad on a girl,” he told her, which was true. The outfit suited Diana, and he was even getting used to her weird hairstyle. “But a man shouldn’t have to wear this kind of thing.”
“Why not?”
Norton looked down at his golden tunic, his knee-length silver pants, his jewel-encrusted slippers, and tried to think of an answer Diana would understand.
After going off shift, as now, they would return to her suite. These weren’t the usual quarters for a ship’s steward, which were no improvement on Norton’s cabin. While exploring the ship, Diana had chanced upon a vacant first-class stateroom. It was going to waste and so she commandeered it.
“When we first met,” Norton said, “you were wearing a long dress.” Or what passed as a dress. “A man wouldn’t have worn that, would he?”
“Only if it was part of a uniform,” said Diana.
“But that wasn’t your police uniform, was it? Is there a police uniform?” He paused, then added, “Back on Earth?”
Back on Earth. Such a casual phrase, almost like “down the road” or “on the next block.”
“Yes,” said Diana. “Of a sort.”
“Good. A police officer should have a uniform. People respect a uniform. It gives authority.”
“Like being a steward, you mean?” Diana smiled.
So did Norton. “Is there a GalactiCop uniform?”
“I doubt it. How can a galactic force have a uniform? Nothing can be uniform if has to be worn by officers from a thousand different planets. Cops come in different sizes, different shapes, like the planets they’re from.”
“Planets come in different shapes?”
“You know what I mean. What looks right on one alien race would look ridiculous on another.”
“Each planet could have its own uniform.”
“On many worlds, John, there’s very little respect for law and order. If they’re recognised as police officers, they’ll be killed. Wearing a uniform would make them an immediate target.”
“Is that GalactiCop’s function, to bring law and justice to the galaxy?”
“Definitely. Yes. Absolutely. Yes.”
He didn’t believe her.
“As you mentioned,” Diana said, “the day we met I was wearing a dress. You know what it’s like.”
“To wear a dress? No, I don’t.”
“Might suit you,” said Diana, tilting her head to one side and looking him up and down.
“What?”
“You have to wear all kinds of disguises when you do undercover work.”
It seemed that a steward’s uniform was nothing compared to the clothing indignities he might have to suffer.
“As I started to say,” Diana continued, “you know what it’s like, how seeing a cop makes most people uneasy. Not that we care about that, of course, but in many situations it’s better if everyone is relaxed and off guard. Which is why I wasn’t in uniform that day.”
“I thought you were a waitress,” said Norton. “And now you are.” He smiled.
“I thought you were a convict,” said Diana. “So be careful.” She also smiled.
It was Norton’s relatively normal clothes which had made Diana believe he was from the wrong side of the law, but he asked, “Why would a convict be at an exclusive restaurant with Colonel Travis?”
“For a meal, of course. A last meal.”
“Taken to a restaurant before execution?”
“Before transportation,” said Diana. “We don’t kill convicted criminals. We’re far too humane and civilised for that. Those found guilty of serious crimes are deported to Arazon, the penal planet. It’s the perfect prison. There’s no release, no escape. We don’t kill criminals. We let them kill each other.”
“You thought Colonel Travis was taking me for a meal before deportation? Is that normal procedure?”
“It could have been a special occasion, like he was saying farewell to an old friend. If there were no criminals, there would be no police. It’s inevitable that our professional paths intersect, which often leads to friendship. It must have happened in your era.”
“No. Never.”
“Really? There was still capital punishment in your era. If you knew someone with a different perspective on criminal matters, instead of letting them dine, you let them die. How primitive and barbaric your world must have been, John.”
“No, it wasn’t. And you’re the one who was talking about instant execution to save on paperwork.”
“But you’re the one who did it, John. You eliminated the Sham.” She pointed her forefinger and closed one eye as if aiming.