“Outercom circuits ready, sir,” Rovian announced after a study of the main panel. He slipped on a headband receiver. Every incoming signal would go there, to be heard by him alone.
“Take the bridge, then.” Flandry rose. “I’ll interrogate the prisoner. When the time comes to change vectors, notify me immediately but don’t wait for me to arrive before you do it.”
What he really told Rovian was: Monitor transmissions. Snelund’s bound to yell when he learns what’s happened. If we’re out of hyperwave range by that time, he’ll probably send a boat after us. Either way, he’ll demand our return, and Pickens might well give in. That could make a delicate situation. The minute it looks like coming about, we’re to sheer off and get the devil away. I’d rather be able to prove by the log that I never could have received any order from Pickens, than try to make a court-martial agree I was right in disregarding it.
But those two alone knew the code. Possibly the ratings who had gone to the palace with their exec could have guessed. No matter there. They were rough and close-mouthed and, after what they had seen en route from Terra, callously cheerful about any inconvenience they might have caused His Excellency. “Aye, sir,” said Rovian.
Flandry went down a companionway and along a throbbing passage to his cabin. The door had no chime. He knocked.
“Who is it?” The voice that came through the thin panel was a husky contralto, singingly accented — and how tired, how empty!
“Captain, my lady. May I come in?”
“I can’t stop you.”
Flandry stepped through and closed the door behind him. His cabin had room for little more than a bunk, a desk and chair, a closet, some shelves and drawers. His bonnet brushed the overhead. A curtain hid a washbasin, toilet, and shower stall. He’d had no chance to install many personal possessions. The sound and vibration and oily-electrical odor of the ship filled the air.
He had not even seen a picture of Kathryn McCormac. Suddenly everything else dissolved around him. He thought afterward he must have given her a courtly bow, because he found his bonnet clutched in his fingers, but he couldn’t remember.
She was five standard years older than him, he knew, and in no Terran fashion of beauty. Her figure was too tall, too wide-shouldered and deep-bosomed, too firmly muscled beneath a skin that was still, after her imprisonment, too suntanned. The face was broad; across the high cheekbones, between the luminous eyes (gold-flecked green under thick black brows), in the blunt nose and generous mouth and strong chin. Her hair was banged over her forehead, bobbed below her ears, thick and wavy, amber with shadings of gold and copper. She wore the brief nacreous gown and crystaflex sandals in which she had been taken from the palace. Mother looked sort of like her, Flandry realized. He hauled his wits back in. “Welcome aboard, my lady.” He could feel his smile was a touch unstable. “Permit me to introduce myself.” He did. “Entirely at your service,” he finished, and held out his hand.
She did not give him hers, either to shake or lass, nor did she rise from his chair. He observed the darknesses around and behind her eyes, hollowing of cheeks, faint dusting of freckles … “Good day, Commander.” Her tone was not warm or cold or anything.
Flandry lowered his bunk and himself onto it. “What may I offer you?” he asked. “We have the regular assortment of drinks and drugs. And would you like a bite to eat?” He extended his opened cigaret case.
“Nothing.”
He regarded her. Stop skyhooting, son. You’ve been celibate unrightfully long. She’s handsome and — he dragged it forth — no doubt you speculated about her possible availability … after what’s happened to her. Forget it. Save your villainies for the opposition.
He said slowly: “You don’t want to accept hospitality from the Imperium. Correct? Please be sensible, my lady. You know you’ll take nourishment to stay alive, as you did in Snelund’s house. Why not begin now? My cause isn’t necessarily irreconcilable with yours. I had you fetched here, at some risk, intending that we’d discuss matters.”
She turned her head. Their glances locked. After a while that seemed lengthy, he saw part of the tension go from her. “Thanks, Commander,” she said. Did her lips flutter the ghostliest bit upward? “Coffee and a sandwich ’ud taste well, for truth.”
Flandry got on the intercom to the galley. She refused a cigaret but said she didn’t mind if he smoked. He inhaled several times before he said, fast:
“I’m afraid an escort destroyer leaves something to be desired in the way of accommodations. You’ll have this cabin, of course. I’ll move in with the mates; one of them can throw a pad on the deck. But I’ll have to leave my clothes and so forth where they are. I hope the steward and I won’t disturb you too badly, trotting in and out. You can take your meals here or in the wardroom, as you prefer. I’ll see you get some spare coveralls or whatever to wear — sorry I didn’t think to lay in a female outfit — and I’ll clear a drawer to keep them in. A propos which—” he rose and opened one in his desk — “I’ll leave this unlocked. It has the nonsecret items. Including a souvenir of mine.” He took out a Merseian war knife. “Know how to handle this cheap and chippy chopper? I can demonstrate. It’s not much use if you get in the way of a bullet, a blast, a stun beam, et cetera. But you’d be surprised what it can do at close quarters.” Again he caught her gaze. “Do be careful with it, my lady,” he said low. “You’ve nothing to fear on my ship. The situation might alter. But I’d hate to think you’d gotten reckless with my souvenir and bowed out of the universe when there was no real need.”
The breath hissed between her teeth. Color and pallor chased each other across her face. The hand she reached out for the knife wavered. She let it fall, raised it back to her eyes, clenched the remaining fist, and fought not to weep.
Flandry turned his back and browsed through a full-size copy of a translated Genji Monogatori that he’d brought alone to pass the time. The snack arrived. When he had closed the door on the messman and set the tray on his desk, Kathryn McCormac was her own captain again.
“You’re a strider, sir,” she told him. He cocked his brows. “Aenean word,” she explained. “A strong, good man … let me say a gentleman.”
He stroked his mustache. “A gentleman manqué, perhaps.” He sat back down on the bunk. Their knees brushed. “No business discussion over food. Abominable perversion, that.” She flinched. “Would you care for music?” he asked hastily. “My tastes are plebeian, but I’ve been careful to learn what’s considered high art.” He operated a selector. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik awoke in joy.
“That’s beautiful,” she said when she had finished eating. “Terran?”