Virtue took that moment to examine her surroundings. Two of the walls were covered with artwork from all over the Democracy, most of it expensive, some of it good, none of it showing any consistency of taste. A third wall, composed of floor-to-ceiling windows, afforded a dramatic view of a blue river and a deep ravine just beyond the dome. The carpet was plush, made of some wiry alien fabric which seemed to shrink from the touch of her foot, then instantly moved back and pressed against it once she had set it down. There was a large holographic videoscreen, the controls of which were built into the arm of a leather couch. There were four matching chairs, two of them almost pristine, the other two showing some signs of wear. An alien musical instrument, bulky as a piano but of a type she had never seen before, was carefully angled into a corner. Atop it were six small cubes, each containing a hologram of a member of the Sokol family. She picked up one containing the representation of a lovely young woman and examined it.

“My youngest daughter,” said a firm, friendly voice, and she turned to find that Sokol had entered the room.

He was a tall man, burly without being overweight, with a well-groomed shock of steel-gray hair and a dapper mustache. His eyes were a deep blue, his nose absolutely straight, his chin square without being prominent. He wore an elegantly embroidered suit of a style that had recently been popular on Deluros VIII.

“She’s very pretty,” replied Virtue, setting the cube back down.

“Thank you,” said Sokol. “I’ll tell her you said so.” He touched a concealed control behind a picture, and instantly a section of the carpet disappeared and a small but well-stocked bar rose from the floor. “Can I fix you a drink?”

“Why not?” she replied.

“What will you have?”

“What do you recommend?”

He reached for a strangely shaped bottle. “Cygnian cognac. A gift from a friend who recently returned from Altair.”

“I thought you said it was Cygnian,” remarked Virtue, filing the reference to Altair away for future reference.

“I did. But Cygnian cognac is in demand all across the galaxy.” He paused, then smiled. “If you’d ever tasted the stuff they brew on Altair, you’d know why he brought me this instead.”

He poured two glasses and handed one to her.

“Very good,” she replied, taking a sip.

“Won’t you have a seat?” he said, escorting her to a chair, then sitting down across from her. He pulled out a large cigar. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all.”

“It’s from old Earth itself,” he said proudly, lighting up. “They’re very hard to come by these days.”

“I can imagine.”

“Still,” he said, exhaling a streak of smoke, “they’re worth the effort.” He paused. “By the way, where’s your camera crew?”