Mer reached out with fingers extended; her greeting was cultured, sociable, noncommittal. But from the widening of her pupils Konn deduced that the girl was aware of him by reputation. Her whole attitude shifted to circumspection. And... she had quietly made the assumption, from some unspoken exchange between them, that Rigone was in trouble. She sought ways to support him, eyes leaving Konn from time to time to glance at her paladin of the Bistro, as if waiting for instructions.
Strange, they were expecting him to make some demand of them, which they were steeling themselves to refuse. He was amused. He was here on nostalgic impulse. But he could always accommodate them and think of something to bother their peace. He was ever willing to ask service of those who saw themselves as servants. One only had to be careful not to ask more than could be given. That was simply a rule of good government.
“They still tell stories about you around here,” said Rigone with a gleam in his eye, preparing a drink while Mer called up an aerochair.
“They do, do they?” he said* graciously accepting the chair. “If I recall correctly I was quite sedate compared with today’s youth.”
“I’m certain the punch lines of the stories have become exaggerated over the years.”
One compliment deserved another. “My students tell me stories about you, too.”
Rigone laughed. “I wish they wouldn’t do that. I spend too much time smooth-talking the police.”
Wit was leading this man straight at his worst fear. To hide his smile, Hahukum sniffed at the drink to find out what his host had offered him. It smelled of the planet Armazin, imported and therefore impressive. “With charm as smooth as yours, I’m sure you’re never bothered by the police.”
“Never, unless some highly placed individual decides to rattle my trivial world.”
When people stated their fears that blatantly, they were asking for soothing reassurance—but it wasn’t Konn’s style to reassure glib criminals. “In that case,” replied the Admiral with an ambiguous irony, “I’m sure a small bribe is enough to settle the problem.”
Quite suddenly the girl-woman erupted in the curses of a dialect that meant that her cultured accent had been lately learned. She reacted hotly to what she perceived as a candied threat; and it was the candy, not the threat, that insulted her. “And when you’re through wire-brushing your asshole, just say what you want!”
Rigone reacted to her gaffe with horror. He made a small gesture to quiet his companion while he tried to master his own composure. She swiveled away in disgust to clean an already clean bartop.
“Please excuse..To the Admiral he was making the naval hand-sign for seventeen, which meant that Mer was only seventeen years old.
Konn cut him off. “I do want something.” He had just made a decision, again on impulse.
A wary Rigone now found himself trying frantically to revise his damage control in midsentence. He had been talking about the trials of teaching proper manners to modem youth... “Something from me? I can’t see what I have to offer—compared with your resources.”
“/can.”
Rigone rubbed one of his tattoos to give himself time to think. “That means you have been hearing fantasies about me. I can do nothing for you. I am an honest man. I refuse to offer you anything but the finest hospitality.”
“You’re into the fam-fixing business.” Not always legal. “Your work is very admired.”
“No, no. Not at all. Rumors! I have a kind heart. Sometimes when a student has psychological problems I find myself being a father to him... we talk... I help in whatever way I can...”
“Rigone,” cried Mer, “he’ll kill you if you don’t give him what he wants!”
Rigone laughed helplessly. “Admiral, what do I do with a woman who is that overprotective... besides strangle her?”
“You do exactly what she says.”
Rigone froze. “That would make my life impossibly difficult,” he said coldly.
“No, it wouldn’t. I’m not threatening you. I want you to modify my fam. Would I trust you with my fam if I were threatening you? It’s a small deal. You’ll do well. I pay for all services rendered. You spend a midnight watch souping up my fam; I help you in ways that no student can afford.” Rigone was perturbed. “You’re not making yourself clear. The Lyceum staff has available to it fam modifying tech far beyond anything I might muster.”
“You don’t understand. Why should I trust them? There’s a conspiracy against me at the Lyceum, and—unfortunately— they do have tech far beyond anything you’ve got. Think about it. The fam was originally a masterly modification of the psychic probe. It wasn’t used to augment minds; it was used to control them. A fam you’ve lived with all your life protects you against emotional control. The modem ones are designed that way. But how can it protect you when you’re not wearing it? Would you give your fam to a very skilled fam technician who had an interest in making you more amenable to his view of the universe?”
‘Then why would you trust me?”
“That’s my business.”
“Do what he wants, Rigone. You know as well as I—” “Shut up!” He turned back to Konn. “What is it that you are asking me to do? Fam augmentation is all very illegal. The fam damn near ruined the Founder’s Plan, and ever since Cloun-the-Stubbom you Pscholars have run a very tight galaxy-wide control on the laws governing fam use. I’ve been known to cross the line—but I survive because I’ve never violated the spirit of the law.”
“I was hoping you could install me a crib sheet.”
Rigone was incredulous. “You want a crib sheet installed in your functions stack?” He stared. “Why would you want a simple thing like that done?”
“Why would a student want it done? Maybe I have a heavy exam schedule.” The Admiral was grinning. “But it has to be a very good crib sheet—up to date, of course—one that, at the very least, has the Hasef-Im test among its algorithms. A student of mine bothered me with that one lately. I can’t keep up with these kids anymore, Rigone. Mathematics is a young man’s game. The Founder was dead when he was my age!” “I’m not even supposed to touch your mathematical functions,” Rigone protested.
“But you do, all the time. For a fee.”
“The stuff is encrypted,” said Rigone defensively. “I can’t crack that kind of code. I have no desire to crack it! I just install the stuff.”
“That’s good. Not being able to crack code is very good life insurance.”
Mer was staring at him in astonished uncertainty. “A Second Rank Pscholar who wants a math fix! Now I’ve heard everything! Aren’t you afraid we’ll tell?”
“The advantage of being the Crazy Admiral,” said Konn, “is that my colleagues both believe everything they hear about me and believe nothing. Of course, I’ll skin you alive for coat leather if I catch you telling—and close down the Teaser’s if I catch Rigone saying more than he should.”
“I haven’t promised anything. You’re an old man. That makes meddling dangerous.”
“I’m middle age,” corrected Konn.
“Why don’t you just sit down and learn the stuff? It’s safer. Get a sabbatical. A kid’s brain is still flexible and can handle a wild fam kicking it around. Yours is locked up, less shockproof. At worst you could sustain brain damage. The fix might not even take. No guarantee that you’d be able to call up the new functions.”