At this, Amherst's red face faded to white. "You... you... contemptible lowlife scum. How dare you."
"I dare a lot," Brim replied lightly. "It's part of my job."
Amherst's eyes narrowed in violent anger while his fingers struggled to twist their opposites from his hands. "I shall have you killed for your lack of respect," he whispered in a low, choked voice.
"Probably a good idea," Brim said carelessly. "Clearly, you don't have the guts to do it yourself."
"Y-you... are... a... d-dead... man," Amherst stuttered, clearly at the end of control.
"You may want to think about that for a while," Brim said, rising from his chair and placing it carefully back against the wall. "I'll be a xaxtdamned troublesome corpse for both you and your CIGA clowns. Murder is still illegal in this Empire, even for a CIGA—and people will know just who to investigate."
"I could never be convicted," Amherst snarled in a prideful voice. "I have power that you cannot even dream of."
Brim nodded. "You probably do at that," he agreed, "—and pinning a murder charge on someone with your connections very well might not work. Especially since the courts would have to play fair, which you wouldn't." He grinned. "But there are at least two other reasons you'll never come after me."
"And what might they be?" Amherst demanded, dripping with sarcasm.
"Names come to mind," Brim said with a grim smile. "Ursis and Borodov. Bears. They don't have to play fair, either. And if anything happens to me, you'll be the first one they go after. Tell me, Amherst, have you ever seen a man die by being disemboweled—like a Sodeskayan crag wolf?
Nik Ursis claims it's very noisy and takes a long time."
Amherst's countenance suddenly lost its rage. "Disemboweled?" he asked in a diminished voice.
"Disemboweled," Brim assured him. "If anyone lays a hand on me, sooner or later you'll become real expert in the matter. Count on it."
"Carescrian mongrel," Amherst hissed.
Brim shrugged in dismissal and gathered his orders under his arm. "Better a mongrel than a dupe," he said scornfully on his way to the door. "Goodbye, Amherst," he said, stepping to the reception room. "Next time, don't call me, I'll call you. Understand?"
"I'll get you, Brim," Amherst hissed through his teeth, "if it's the last thing I do."
"Perhaps," Brim said with a sardonic grin, "—and perhaps not. But keep this in mind if you decide to try, my CIGA colleague: one way or another, it probably will be the last thing you do."
Not long after Brim and Moulding ensconced themselves at the VOQ's austere bar, a royal courier strode into the room, checked the microdisplay on his wrist, and made directly for them.
"Gentlemen," he said dryly, "His Majesty, Prince Onrad, recommended I try the bar first." In a crimson uniform with gleaming knee-high leather riding boots, the ramrod-straight envoy looked like royal prerogative personified. He delved for a moment in a luxurious, crimson-leather briefcase, then produced two sets of Fleet orders in their characteristic blue and gold cover-sheets, made a little bow, and departed without another word. The distinctive uniform's appearance at the bar had attracted no attention whatsoever. Brim guessed that here in Avalon, royal couriers were well known at every military watering place, especially when Onrad was in residence.
True to Collingswood's promise, the new orders countermanded their previous changes of station.
But—surprising to Brim—he and Moulding found themselves temporarily attached to the Dityasburg Institute on the Sodeskayan planet of Zhiv'ot as "researchers."
Moulding grinned. "Where did you think we might be sent?" he asked. "I can't imagine Avalon's going to be much of a home to the ISS for a while."
"I guess I hadn't given it much thought," Brim said with a grin. "But the Dityasburg Institute, of all places? Somehow Zhiv'ot didn't make it on my guess list at all."
"I don't suppose it is all that much warmer than Gimmas-Haefdon, is it?" Moulding commented with a grin. "Bears seem to prefer nippy climates."
"In any case, you won't have to worry about... what kind of darts were those, again?" Brim asked.
"Poison fluggo darts," Moulding prompted, rolling his eyes. "At least in Hobro I was in no danger of freezing to death."
"True," Brim agreed, ordering another round of the VOQ's ancient Logish Meem, "and I'll be surprised if we spend too much time in the G.F.S.S. anyway. Onrad's got more on his mind than winning next year's Mitchell Trophy."
Moulding grinned. "You know," he said, "I've had the same frightening thought. Do you suppose we're learning to second-guess the old boy?"
"We'd better," Brim laughed, "—for our own good. I'd say His Highness will probably be part of our lives for a long time to come."
"I'll drink to that," Moulding said, raising his goblet.
They both did.
Brim might have settled in quickly at the galaxy-famous Dityasburg Institute. He was instantly fascinated by its voluminous library facilities and radiation-proofed vacuum laboratories—many large enough to house actual starships with operating Drives. As it was, however, he and Moulding had less than a week to sample the sprawling campus before His Majesty, Prince Onrad, arrived aboard the veteran Imperial battlecruiser Princess Sherraine. The big starship thundered high over the campus on final into the nearby Dityasburg port facilities, shaking the massive campus buildings to their very foundations. Throughout the remainder of the day, and far into the night, the handsome old warship was joined by a veritable fleet of military and civilian starships from light cruisers to executive transports, while on campus a special dormitory filled quickly with Onrad's guests and their security forces.
The following morning, an extraordinary ISS meeting convened behind heavily guarded doors in one of the Institute's cold, damp lecture halls. It brought together some of the highest-ranking industrial leaders of the Empire, all sitting on harsh, wooden chairs defaced by years of bored students from all over the galaxy.
Brim, Moulding, and Ursis arrived shortly before Regula Collingswood led Prince Onrad and General Harry Drummond through the wide wooden doors. They were followed by a boisterous contingent of Sherrington engineers from Lys. Not long afterward, P. Dvigat Krasni IV, Senior Director of Krasni-Peych, arrived from Gromcow with Chief Comptroller M. Yekhat Poshline, Grand Duke Anastas Aleyi Borodov, and a number of senior propulsion engineers. Within the metacycle, Veronica Pike lead a second Sherrington contingent into the lecture hall, freshly arrived from the administrative and production shops outside Bromwich. A grinning Anna Romanoff walked beside her.