She broke the connection, ascertained that 493 credits for computer usage would be added to her hotel tab, entered a request (without much hope) for a ten percent professional discount, took the elevator down to the fourth floor of the hotel, walked out on a platform, and caught the Hanging Tube—the inhabitants’ term for the elevated monorail—to Smythe’s office building. She noticed in passing that a thunderstorm was in full force outside the dome and that the noonday sky was almost black, and wondered idly what the little herbivores for which the planet had been named did to shield themselves from the weather, since she had seen precious few natural shelters on her way from the spaceport to the city.

When she arrived at Smythe’s building, she presented her credentials to a security guard at the door. The man gave them a perfunctory glance, nodded, and passed her through to the upper lobby, where she took an elevator to the roof.

The restaurant would have impressed anyone who had been born on the Frontier, but Virtue found it just a bit overdone: the tables were too small, the furniture too ornate, and there were too many very self-assured waiters hovering around. She ascertained that Smythe wasn’t there yet, found that he had reserved a table for two, allowed the maitre d’ to escort her to a seat, and ordered a mixed drink from the bar.

Smythe arrived about five minutes later, walked directly to the bar, ordered a drink for himself, and then joined her at the table.

“It’s good to see you again after all these years, Virtue,” he said, greeting her with an artificial smile.

“How nice of you to say so,” she replied dryly. “And how well you lie.”

“Let’s at least maintain the illusion of civility,” he said, unperturbed. “Until we’re through with lunch, anyway.”

“Suits me.”

He picked up his menu, pretended to study it for a moment, recommended a dish to Virtue, signaled for a waiter, and ordered for both of them.

“It’s been a long time,” he said when the waiter had gone off to the kitchen. “What is it now—five years?”

“Six.”

“I’ve seen your byline from time to time, when some of your features have come up for syndication. That was a very nice piece you did on the war with the Borgaves.”

“Ugly beasts, aren’t they?” she commented.

“How did you manage to land with the first invasion wave?” he asked. “That’s usually reserved for senior correspondents.”

“I bribed a nice young major.”

“That figures,” he said with a tinge of bitterness. “You always knew how to get what you wanted.”

“I still do,” she said, staring directly at him.

He met her gaze for a moment, then looked away uncomfortably. “Did you ever marry that fellow you used to live with?”

“I’ve lived with a number of people,” she replied. “I never married any of them.”