"Oh, just something light today. I have to attend one of those wretched black tie dinners tonight. In honor of someone who's retiring. Some UNSA people are over from Geneva for it."
"Poor Christian. You never were one for that kind of thing, were you?"
"The primary object appears to be getting seats at the right tables and to be seen, rather than appreciating a good meal. Quite frankly, I'd rather they brought him here."
"The Thuriens would never go for that kind of nonsense, would they?" Mildred said, resurrecting that topic through to the end of the salad course. "From all the things I've read, they just don't have any concept of rivalry or putting the other person down. If you persuade them they're wrong about something, they just admit it. Why can't we be more like that? And it's so idiotic! I mean, how often have you watched someone at a cocktail party who won't back down?… because he's afraid of losing face! But he couldn't lose more face than by doing what he's doing, could he?… when everyone in the room thinks he's being a dolt. But just once in a while you see one who can stop, and look at you, and say, 'You may have a point. I never thought about it that way.' In my eyes, someone like that is suddenly ten feet tall. You think, my God, how wonderful! So why is it so difficult? But all the Thuriens are like that, aren't they? Does it really go back to their ancient ancestors on Minerva, where there were no land carnivores and predators? I've read the things you've written about all that. It explains so much of their social structure today. I really need to learn more."
Danchekker decided that his moment had come. Mildred must have seen him swell in anticipation or caught a glint in his eye through his spectacles, for she paused just as she was about to resume, and looked at him curiously.
"How would you like to learn everything you want to know, firsthand, from the best source you could possibly wish for?" he asked her. Mildred frowned, not knowing what to make of this. Danchekker dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and tossed out his other hand expansively. "From the Thurien psychologists, biologists, and social visionaries themselves! All of them-anyone you care to approach, with all their records and theories, plans and history available and accessible. You said yourself how informal they are."
Mildred shook her head, thrown off track and flummoxed. "Christian, I don't think I quite follow… What, exactly, are you talking about?"
Danchekker beamed in the way of someone finally divulging a secret he could contain no longer. "I have managed to arrange precisely such an opportunity for you: to go there personally, to Thurien, and meet some of their most prominent scientific figures and social leaders. They will be more than happy to help with everything you need to know. A writer's chance of a lifetime!"
Mildred stared at him incredulously. "Me? Go to Thurien?… Are you serious? I… I don't think I quite know what to say."
Danchekker brushed an imaginary crumb from his lapel with a thumb. "The least I could do as a modest contribution, considering the acquaintances I have been fortunate enough to make there," he told her. "Frenua Showm, an inner member of their highest policy-making organization, will take care of you personally and arrange the right introductions."
"My God, this is…" Mildred put a hand up to her mouth and shook her head again. "Quite a shock, you understand."
"I am sure you will rise to it admirably."
Mildred emitted a long, shaky breath and gulped from her water glass. "When is this supposed to happen?"
"A Thurien vessel called the Ishtar is in orbit above Earth currently, in connection with a technical and cultural exchange mission visiting eastern Asia. It will be returning seven days from now. I took the liberty of reserving you a place on it."
"Seven days! My word…" Mildred put a hand to her chest weakly.
Danchekker waved a hand carelessly. "I know the Thuriens are obliging, and one only has to ask. But it means that places on their ships tend to be filled quickly. And the Ishtar is only a small craft, apparently. I didn't want to risk your being disappointed."
"Christian, was this your idea?" A suspicious note had crept into Mildred's voice.
Danchekker spread his palms with the expression of bewildered innocence of a boy insisting he had no idea how the frog had gotten into his sister's bed. "I talk to Frenua all the time, and happened to mention your project and its research needs. The offer was entirely theirs." A mild feeling of discomfort flickered for a moment as he said this, but lightning didn't strike.
Finally, Mildred absorbed what he was saying. She sat back in her chair and looked at him disbelievingly. "Well… what do I say? I knew I'd come to the right person."
"Does that mean you're agreeable?"
"It'll be a bit of a rush getting organized at this kind of notice… But of course. As you said, a writer's chance of a lifetime."
"Splendid. It calls for a bottle of wine, don't you think?" Danchekker turned his head from side to side, searching for a waiter.
"I thought you didn't drink," Mildred said.
Danchekker pursed his lips for a moment, then shrugged. "There are moments in life when a rare exception might be permitted," he replied.
He was still cackling to himself an hour later, when he paid the cabbie off at Goddard, having dropped Mildred at her hotel on the way back to begin making her arrangements.
CHAPTER FOUR
A friend of Hunt's named Rita, who was widowed, attractive, sophisticated, and, remarkably, unattached, ran a Turkish-cuisine restaurant that he visited from time to time in Silver Spring. A couple of months previously, she had prevailed upon him to escort her to a wedding she had been invited to of an old friend from college days. It had all gone very pleasantly, and he in turn enlisted her as his dinner companion for Owen's retirement dinner at the Carnarvon. She appeared promptly when he collected her shortly after six o'clock, tall and shapely, her honey-blond hair worn high, and wearing a white stole over a sparkling orange gown, high-necked and sleeveless, Oriental style. "Susie Wong tonight, are we?" Hunt quipped as she took his arm to walk to the airmobile that he had arrived in-rented.
"It goes with the tuxedo image of this James Bondish-looking Englishman. Are you packing a gun, too?"
"I knew I'd forgotten something." Hunt saw her in to the passenger seat, closed the door, and walked around to the driver's side.
"Is it going to be stuffy and horribly technical with all those scientists and UNSA people?" Rita asked as he climbed in.
Hunt okayed the destination for the flight computer and started the turbine, taking an unnaturally long time to reply. The announcement he was due to make was going to be public knowledge soon enough anyway, he started to tell himself. But on the other hand, there was such a thing as professional decorum. He would be left in an awkward situation if he started going into it now, and Owen had second thoughts. "Oh, I think you'll find it interesting enough," was all he said finally.
They were among the early arrivals at the reception, but the room filled quickly. Caldwell arrived with his wife, Maeve, and had also brought Mitzi, his secretary, and her husband. Danchekker showed up on his own, looking about as at home in black-tie attire as an ostrich in ballet tights. Hunt and Rita did the requisite social round, swapping shop and small talk, meeting the two visitors from Geneva, and paying their respects to Owen. Rita carried it all through with poise, fitting in easily and naturally in a way that warmed everyone they talked to. Hunt found himself wondering, not for the first time, if he should be thinking seriously about settling into a more conventional role and finding himself a permanent companion in life. By all the criteria that were supposed to matter, he wouldn't do any better than this person clinging to his arm and captivating his colleagues right now-even Danchekker. And yet… He couldn't put a finger on just what it was that didn't feel right. Deciding there was an empty slot in life and looking around for someone to fill it didn't seem to be the way. The right person would make their own slot. Or was it that for someone of his restless, loner disposition, compulsively changing his life whenever it threatened to close in by becoming too secure and predictable, there couldn't be a "right" person?