“Amen,” Nkosi murmured, the smile for once gone from his lips.
“Dinner’s at eight, evening,” Heikki said, and switched off the minisec.
The hostel boasted a ‘pointer-style dining area on its ground level, complete with private terraces and a fleet of service robots supervised by a human overseer. Despite the apparent emptiness of the hostel, Heikki was careful to reserve a table through the concierge, and was not surprised, when she and the others made their way down to the ground floor, to find the dining area busy, perhaps half the terraces occupied by medium-level functionaries. Sebasten-Januarias was there before them, very conspicuous in the loose coat and brightly-patterned headscarf, the only Firster in the comfortable bay, and Heikki’s mouth twisted.
“Expecting trouble?” Djuro murmured at her side.
“I don’t know,” Heikki answered, and moved forward to meet the young man. He rose to greet her, but the hostel’s overseer deftly interposed herself.
“Dam’ Heikki? Your places are set, and I believe your guest has arrived.” There was a slight, insulting stress on the word “believe.”
Heikki ignored the woman in her turn, held out her hand to Sebasten-Januarias. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks,” the young man answered, and, unexpectedly, smiled.
Heikki smiled back gratefully, and nodded to her companions. “This is the rest of my permanent crew,
Jock Nkosi and Sten Djuro.” As the three exchanged greetings, she turned at last to the overseer. “I think you said our places were ready?”
The woman at least had the grace not to show her chagrin. “Yes, Dam’ Heikki. If you would follow me?”
“Of course.”
The dining area was almost as luxurious as the hostel’s publicity claimed, with semi-private terraces ringing a central public space where the tables stood on islands in an artificial lake. Most of those public tables were filled: corporate politics often required that its practitioners be seen making deals. Heikki cast a rather wistful glance at the nearest empty table—the careful geometry of the islands and the stepping stones that gave access to each one was more to her taste than the lush greenery of the terraces—but followed the overseer along the pool’s edge to the area reserved for her. The low table was already set for the first course, a long platter of vegetables so artistically cut as to be almost unrecognizable set in its center, a tray with wine and glasses set discreetly to the side. A service robot sat inert to one side of the terrace; the overseer frowned discreetly at it, and reached into her pocket to trigger a remote. Lights flickered across the machine’s face, and vanished. The overseer nodded, satisfied, and bowed to Heikki.
“If there’s anything else we can do for you, Dam’ Heikki, please inform us.”
“Thank you,” Heikki said, though privately she longed to demand some utter impossibility. “That’ll do for now.”
“Enjoy your meal,” the overseer said demurely, and backed away.
“For God’s sake, let’s sit,” Heikki said, and forced a smile to cover her sudden irritability. “Wine, everybody?”
“Yes, thank you,” Sebasten-Januarias said, sounding more than ever like a child on his best behavior before the grown-ups, and the other two echoed him. Heikki filled the glasses—real star crystal, too, probably grown and cut from the rejects of the crystal houses—and handed them around. Nkosi darted a single glance at her, and turned his attention to the Iadaran.
“I am told by Heikki that you have been flying over the interior since you were very young.”
“That’s right, ser Nkosi.” Sebasten-Januarias sounded reserved, and still absurdly young, Heikki thought, but not entirely wary. She sipped at her wine—it was quite good, just light enough—and leaned back in the padded chair, content to allow Nkosi to do the talking. She was aware that Djuro was watching her, and smiled benignly back at him, then glanced back at the others, only half hearing their conversation. It was dangerous to allow herself to be so put off her stride—and by what? The mention of the twin she had not thought of in years? That was foolish: Galler was nothing to her any more, had no more claim on her than she would make on him. The fact that he had met Santerese was unfortunate—no, not even that, not even something worth regretting. It had happened; she would explain it to Santerese when they met again.
She became aware suddenly that the conversation was flagging, and recalled herself to her duties as host. The platter of vegetables had been well picked over— mostly by Sebasten-Januarias, she thought, though Nkosi had run a close second. “Are we ready for the main course?” she asked, and when the others murmured agreement, pushed herself to her feet. “Next course, please.”
The service robot trundled forward to remove the emptied dish. It carried it off into the greenery, and returned a moment later bearing a stack of place settings. It dealt them out with stiff grace, and vanished again. Heikki untied the ribbon that fastened the interlocking dishes. They were ceramic and crystal, rather than the usual plastic lacquers—more a product of the planet’s wealth, Heikki thought, than of ‘pointer ostentation. She glanced at Sebasten-Januarias, and saw her guess confirmed by his matter-of-fact handling of the pieces. The service robot appeared for a final time, this time carrying an enormous platter in three of its arms. It was an all-in-one meal, of the sort very popular in the Loop, but made with far more meat than was possible even for the richest ‘pointers. It had been prepared with delicacy and skill, and Heikki found herself sniffing its subtle spices with real pleasure. It was her place, as host, to serve, but that was one of the social skills she had never fully mastered. She nodded instead to Nkosi, saying, “Jock, would you?”
“Of course,” the pilot answered. The service robot, attentive to words and gestures, trundled toward him. Heikki poured out the second bottle of wine. When everyone had been served, she said, “You may leave the platter, thank you. That will be all.”
The robot did as it was told, and rolled back to the edge of the terrace. Sebasten-Januarias said abruptly, “I was wondering—I’ve always wondered. ‘Pointers are so polite to robots. Why?”
Heikki, who had fallen into ‘pointer mode without thinking, blinked at him in some surprise. Djuro said, “They’ll tell you it’s because a robot’s standing in for some person somewhere, and you wouldn’t be rude to him/her. But it’s really because if you get into the habit of being rude to anything, you’ll find it very hard to be polite.”
“You are a cynic, Sten,” Nkosi said.
Sebasten-Januarias nodded thoughtfully. “That makes a lot of sense.”
“You said you’d always wondered,” Heikki said. “I didn’t know you’d had much contact with people from the Loop.”
“Not a lot,” Sebasten-Januarias answered. “I have worked with off-worlders, though, and it’s the sort of thing you notice.”
“Since we’re already on the subject,” Heikki said, “I hope you won’t mind my asking a few more questions.” As she spoke, she reached into her pocket for the minisec, then triggered its field and set it in the center of the table. They were now cut off from the service robot, as well as from any likely eavesdroppers, but she guessed that it would be no hardship.
Sebasten-Januarias shook his head, his eyes suddenly wary again.
“For one thing,” Heikki went on, “I heard a lot of talk about you, when I was looking for names—all good, except for one thing. Everyone told me you hated Lo-Moth, wouldn’t work for them on a bet, and I know by now you’re not stupid enough to think that working for me isn’t the same as working for Lo-Moth. So what’s going on?”