Blue Dorsai eyes as cold as river water lifted under thick gray brows to consider him. For part of a second the situation trembled on the balance-point of Dorsai pride with the older man’s curiosity weighed against the bare-faced impudence of Donal’s claim to acquaintance. Then the marshal took Donal’s fist in a hard grip.

“So he remembered Hendrik Galt, did he?” the marshal smiled. “I haven’t heard from Eachan for years.”

Donal felt a slight, cold shiver of excitement course down his spine. Of all people, he had chosen one of the ranking Dorsai soldiers of his day to bluff acquaintance with. Hendrik Galt, First Marshal of Freiland.

“He sends you his regards, sir,” said Donal, “and . . . but perhaps I can bring you the letter after dinner and you can read it for yourself.”

“To be sure,” said the marshal. “I’m in Stateroom Nineteen.”

Donal was still standing. The occasion could hardly be prolonged further. But rescue came—as something in Donal had more than half-expected it would—from farther down the table.

“Perhaps,” said the gray-haired man in a soft and pleasant voice, “your young friend would enjoy eating with us before you take him back to your stateroom, Hendrik?”

“I’d be honored,” said Donal, with glib promptness. He pulled out the empty float before him and sat down upon it, nodding courteously to the rest of the company at the table as he did so. The eyes of the girl met him from the table’s far end. They were as hard and still as emeralds caught in the rock.

MERCENARY II

“Anea Marlivana,” said Hendrik Galt, introducing Donal around the table. “And the gentleman who was pleased to invite you—William of Ceta, Prince and Chairman of the Board.”

“Greatly honored,” murmured Donal, inclining his head toward them.

“. . . The Unit Commandant, here, my adjutant . . . Hugh Killien—”

Donal and the Commandant Freilander nodded to each other.

“. . And ArDell Montor, of Newton.” The loose-limbed young man slumping in his float, lifted a careless, half-drunken hand in a slight wave of acknowledgment. His eyes—so dark as to appear almost black under the light eyebrows that matched his rather heavy, blond hair, cleared for a disconcerting fraction of a second to stare sharply at Donal, then faded back to indifference. “ArDell,” said Galt, humorlessly, “set a new high score for the competitive exams on Newton. His field was social dynamics.”

“Indeed,” muttered the Newtonian, with something between a snort and a laugh. “Indeed, was. Was, indeed.” He lifted a heavy tumbler from the table before him and buried his nose in its light golden contents.

“ArDell—” said the gray-haired William, gently reproving. ArDell lifted his drink-pale face and stared at the older man, snorted again, on laughter, and lifted the tumbler again to his lips.

“Are you enlisted somewhere at the moment, Graeme?” asked the Freilander, turning to Donal.