“That will be enough, Doctor.” Honor’s voice had not risen, but it carried such cold, quiet venom that Suchon jerked back in her chair in shock. Icy brown eyes surveyed her with deadly dispassion, and her dark face paled.

“What you mean, Doctor,” Honor went on after a moment in that same cold voice, “is that if I detach your attendants—and especially Montoya, who’s been carrying two-thirds of your load ever since I came aboard—you will be required to get up out of your comfortable chair and attend to your duties yourself.”

Suchon’s face darkened as flushed anger replaced the paleness of shock. She opened her mouth, but Honor stopped her with a raised hand and a thin smile.

“Before you explain to me that I don’t understand the arcana of your profession, Commander,” she said softly, “I should, perhaps, mention to you that both of my parents are physicians.” Suchon paled once more. “In fact, my father was a surgeon commander himself before his retirement. Doctor Alfred Harrington—perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

Her smile grew even thinner as Suchon recognized the name. Alfred Harrington had been Assistant Chief of Neurosurgery at Basingford Medical Center, the Fleet’s main hospital on Manticore, before his retirement.

“As a result, Doctor, I think you’ll find I have quite an adequate grasp of precisely what your duties to this ship entail. And, I might add, since the topic has come up, that I’m not at all satisfied with the way you’ve discharged those duties since I assumed command.” Her smile vanished, and Suchon swallowed.

“If, however, the five individuals you’ve mentioned are, indeed, indispensable to Fearless’s Medical Department,” Honor went on after a short, pregnant pause, “I’m certain I can make other arrangements to keep them aboard. Of course, in that eventuality it will be necessary to find some single individual with sufficient medical experience to replace all five of them to assign to the customs detachment. Someone like you, Doctor Suchon.”

She held the surgeon commander’s eyes with a cold, level stare, and it was Suchon who looked away.

“Was there anything else, Doctor?” Honor asked softly. The physician gave a choppy headshake, and Honor nodded.

“Dismissed, then, Doctor.” She returned her attention to her terminal, and Commander Suchon rose and walked silently from the compartment.

Lieutenant Andreas Venizelos stood with his memo board under his arm and smiled politely at the red-faced Havenite merchant skipper.

“—so you can take yourself, and your mangy ‘customs party,’ and go straight to hell!” The Havenite finished his diatribe and stood glaring at the slim officer before him.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Captain Merker,” the lieutenant replied with punctilious courtesy. “According to Basilisk Control, you transshipped cargo at—” he consulted his memo board “—Orbital Warehouse Baker-Tango-One-Four. As I’m certain you’re aware, Sir, that constitutes a materials transfer in Manticoran space. As such, under Paragraph Ten, Subsection Three, of the Commercial Regulations as amended by Parliament in 278 A.L., the senior customs officer is required to inspect your cargo before passing you for transit to the Junction’s central nexus. Accordingly, I’m afraid I must insist on carrying out my duties before I can clear you for transit. I am, of course, extremely sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.”