A lot of money was being spent to woo . . . not the dead, Miles supposed, but the living.  Although for personal long-term cryo-sequestration, one might well want an immortal entity like a corporation left in charge.  Their impressive fronts promised a number of things, but mostly continuity.  If only one didn't know that at the secret heart of all such organizations, corporations and governments alike, it still came down to a finite number of fallible people talking to each other . . .

The big groundcar slowed and turned, passing under an enormous red torii gate—WhiteChrys lost no time in asserting its chosen corporate style.  The security beeped them through electronically without a pause.  They rounded a stand of pine trees and pulled up before the headquarters building.  An efficient tower block rose behind, but the visitor first threaded an imitation-traditional garden, all water and walkways, moss clumps, raked pebbles, and delicate red maples.  The theme continued inside the big glass lobby with gnarled miniature trees and severe flower arrangements.  Amid all this tasteful splendor their hosts awaited, bowing, and Miles shook off the last of his lingering seizure fatigue and gathered his wits.

Ron Wing in person proved middle-aged and trim in formal business attire: undercoat, wide-sleeved outer coat with just a hint of winged shoulders, and baggy trousers in subtle muted blues, complete right down to the split-toe socks and sandals.  Style, fabric and cut all signaled status, money, and mode as surely as a Barrayaran Vor male's quasi-military tunic, trousers, and half-boots.  The calculated dress was backed up by shrewd eyes and a sober attention.

At Wing's elbow hovered the fellow who had delicately conveyed WhiteChrys's bribe to the Lord Auditor at the party the night before the terrorists/activists/idiotists had struck, so rudely interrupting their promising exchange.  Hideyuki Storrs bore the title of executive vice president for development.  He wore a slimmer version of his boss's garb, much like Vorlynkin's studiously local dress, tradition modified by utility; Miles had pegged him as a high-ranking minion, but not quite inner circle.

The development department plainly wanted to take up where they'd left off, and Miles was reminded not to let himself be unruffled too soon.  No point in wasting a free edge.  Half of Miles's maneuvering yesterday had been to climb the chain of command up to One Who Knows.  As Aida passed the party on to Storrs, who made the formal introductions to Wing, Miles thought with satisfaction, Target acquired.  Locked on.  By Wing's smile, Miles wondered if his opposite was thinking something similar.

I am more important to you than I ought to be.  Why?

"I'm so pleased," said Wing, "that you have allowed us to make up for some of the inconveniences you have lately suffered, Lord Vorkosigan."

Miles made an it's-not-your-fault wave of his free hand, undercut by a thin grimace, and returned, "We can only be grateful that no one was seriously injured or killed in the whole escapade."