"I'm pretty sure men want to get laid too," Miles said rather apologetically.

"Well, yes, but it's not such an all-encompassing desire. They have some brain cells left over for other functions."

"You can't tell me women don't reciprocate."

"Maybe we're more selective."

"Your argument is not supported by the statistics. Almost everybody seems to get married. They can't be that selective."

She looked thoughtful, apparently struck by this. "Only in our culture. Kareen says on Beta Colony they do it differently."

"They do everything differently on Beta Colony."

"So maybe it is just contagious."

So how come I seem immune? "I'm surprised none of you girls have been snapped up yet."

"It's because there's four of us, I think," Delia confided. "Fellows get close to the herd, and then get all confused as to who's their target."

"I can see that," Miles allowed. En masse, the Koudelka blondes were a most unnerving phenomenon. "Looking to ditch your sisters, are you?"

"Any time," Delia sighed.

The Vorvolks strolled by, and stopped to chat; Miles and Delia ended up drifting back to Madame Koudelka in their wake, and the party broke up. Miles returned to Vorkosigan House, to scrounge around diligently for any task other than the homework the departing Lady Alys had dropped on him.

Miles was ensconced in the Yellow Parlor after dinner in a close review of Tsipis's monthly financial report, making notes and still ignoring the pile of leather-bound, dusty volumes in the corner, when Martin barged in.

"Somebody came to the door," Martin announced in a tone of mild amazement. As an apprentice butler, a chore he had picked up by default in addition to his duties as driver and occasional dishwasher, Martin had received instructions on the appropriate methods for ushering visitors inside, and guiding them through the labyrinth of the house to its living inhabitant. It was perhaps time for a short review of the principles involved.

Miles set down his reader-unit. "So . . . did you let him, her, or it in? Not a salesperson, I trust; the gate guard's usually good about keeping them out. . . ."

Duv Galeni stepped in behind Martin. Miles swallowed his patter. Galeni was in uniform, still the undress greens of his day's office duties. He did not appear to be armed. In fact, he mostly looked just tired. And a little disturbed, but without that subtle manic edge that Miles had learned to red-flag. "Oh," Miles managed. "Come in. Have a seat."

Galeni's hand opened dryly, acknowledging the invitation despite the fact that he was in already. He settled stiffly into a straight chair.

"Would you . . . care for a drink?"

"No, thank you."

"Ah, that will be all, then, Martin. Thank you." After a beat, Martin took the hint, and decamped.

Miles had no idea where this was going, so merely raised his brows.

Galeni cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I believe I owe you an apology. I was out of line."