"One final question," Sr. Ecu said. "What is the legal basis for this tribunal? What's the point, if we do not have the force of law?"
"There'd be none," Mahoney said. "Sten thought you'd ask that, however. And he said to tell you he hadn't a clot of an idea. We don't exactly have regiments of Imperial legal scholars at our command."
"No, you don't," Sr. Ecu said. "My problem is that I can't imagine a circumstance where the Emperor would have ever allowed such a thing. He wouldn't have permitted anybody that kind of power. Not over him. And the problem we have now is that the council is acting in his name. With the same precedents and force of law."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Mahoney said. "As old as this empire is, something like this must have occurred at least once."
"I think you are right," Sr. Ecu said. "And once is all we need... Very well. I'll do it."
Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney was very relieved. He and the Manabi hammered out a few more details, and then it was time to go. Sr. Ecu had one parting comment that Mahoney puzzled over for some time.
"Oh... yes... I have a message for our young admiral," Sr. Ecu said.
"Yes?"
"Tell him whatever the mission he's on now—if it should fail..."
"Yes?" There was a bit more tension in Mahoney's voice.
"Tell him I still expect to meet with him again. No matter the outcome. And I only hope it's someplace where all beings can fly."
"He'll understand this?" Mahoney asked.
"Oh, yes... he'll understand."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The man who called himself Raschid looked at the sign:
EXPERIENCED COOK WANTED.
LONG HOURS, LOW PAY, FEW benefits, hard work, free food.
The man smiled slightly. It was honest, at the very least.
Above the ramshackle building a sign blinked in several colors, all of which hurt the eye: last blast tearoom and diner. Below that: prop.: Dingiswayo PATTIPONG.
A knot of three very primed sailors lurched out of the barroom next door and down the cracked plas sidewalk. Raschid smiled politely and stepped out of their way. One of the sailors looked regretful but passed on.
Again, Raschid smiled, his smile broadening as he heard the Yukawa-whine of a ship lifting off from the field just beyond a blastfence. The produce-sled driver had been correct—the spaceport was full of ships that had not lifted for some time and would likely never lift again. But there was traffic.
Raschid entered the diner.
The man who greeted him was very small and very dark. There were about ten tables and a counter in the diner. The small man was the only other person inside.
"Sr. Pattipong?"
"You police?"
"No. I want a job."
"You cook?"
"Yes."
"No. Not cook. Maybe cook where people not use knife if order wrong. Too pretty be cook down here."
Raschid did not answer.
"Where you cook last?"
Raschid muttered something inaudible.
Pattipong nodded once. "Maybe you cook. Cook never say where last. Too many wives... alks... children... police. Come. We see."
Pattipong led Raschid through the door into the kitchen, watching his expression closely. Pattipong nodded when that gawp of surprise came.
"Yes. Not good. I build station for gooood cook. Cnidarians. Stay two, almost three years. Then... go. Leave me with bathtub for cook station."
The cnidarians were intelligent aquatic corallike polyps that grew together as they matured... into mutual hatred. They... it must have been very, very good. Because Pattipong had specially built the kitchen. It was a now-drained tub, with all the necessary appliances and counters built circularly around it.
"Not good. Take gooood cook know how to use."
Raschid climbed into the pool.
"Couple eyes. Over easy," Pattipong ordered.
Raschid turned the heat on and put a pan on the fire. He brushed clarified butter from a nearby bowl on it, picked up—one-handed—two eggs from another bowl, and in a single motion cracked them both into the pan and disposed of the shells. Pattipong nodded involuntarily. Raschid chopped the heat down and waited as the eggs sizzled in the pan. Pattipong was watching his wrist closely. At just the right moment, Raschid flipped the eggs. They slid smoothly onto their blind sides.
Pattipong smiled. "You cook. No one else do that right."
"You want anything with your eggs?"
"No. Not want eggs. Hate eggs. Eggs make me..." Pattipong waved his hand across his buttocks. "Every-body else like eggs. I serve eggs. You have job. You cook now."
Raschid looked around the rather filthy kitchen. "Cook later. Lunch is an hour away. Clean now." Pattipong's speech patterns seemed habit-forming.
Pattipong considered, then bobbed his head. "Clean now. Cook later. I help."
And so began the Legend of the Eggs of Pattipong.
Pattipong described them on the menu as Imperial Eggs Benedict. For some reason, the name bothered Raschid. He argued-mildly. Pattipong told him to get back to the kitchen. "Imperial good name. Thailand... best elephants Royal Elephants. Or so I hear."
It started from boredom. The lunch crowd had been nearly nonexistent, and it was hours until dinner. Raschid wasn't sleepy enough to walk back to the tiny room he rented for a nap, didn't feel like drinking, and had no desire for a walk. It started with baking. Raschid felt about baking, mostly at least, the same way Pattipong did about eggs. It was too damned unpredictable, and he never understood exactly what ingredients should be changed to match the temperature, the humidity, the barometer, or whatever made his loaves look suddenly unleavened. But there were exceptions and this was one of them.
He had made sourdough starter a week or so before-warm water, equal amount of flour, a bit of sugar, and yeast. Cover in a nonmetallic dish and leave until it stinks.
He used that as a base for what were still called English muffins. They were equally easy to make. For about eight muffins, he brought a cup of milk to a boil, then took it off the stove and dumped in a little salt, a teaspoon of sugar, and two cupfuls of premixed biscuit flour. After he beat it all up, he let it rise until double size; then he beat in another cup of flour and let the dough rise once more.
The open-ended cylinders were half filled with the dough. Raschid did not mention that the short cylinders had been pet food containers with both ends cut off. Even in this district, somebody might get squeamish.
He brushed butter on his medium-hot grill and put the cylinders down. Once the open end had browned for a few seconds, he flipped the cylinder, browned the other side, and lifted the cylinder away, burning fingers in the process.
He added more butter and let the muffins get nearly black before putting them on a rack to cool. For use-within no more than four hours-he would split them with a fork and toast them.
He next found the best smoked ham he—or rather Pattipong—could afford. It was thin-sliced and browned in a wine-butter-cumin mixture.
"Best, it should be Earth ham. From Virginia. Or Kerry."
Pattipong goggled. "I didn't know you had ever been to Earth!" Raschid looked perplexed. "I—haven't. I think."
Then it was Raschid's turn to goggle. "Dingiswayo—the way you just talked."
"Normally, you mean? I slipped. Normal too much trouble. Talk too much trouble. Like eggs. Just hot air. Besides... talk short, people think you not understand. They more careful in asking what they want. Not careful in saying what they think you not understand.