“Ocampo,” Hart said, clearly pained that the assistant secretary of state was being referred to as “that dude.” “The number two man in the department. And there was nothing going on with her face,” Hart said.

“She was definitely wearing her ‘please shut the hell up,’ face,” Wilson said, to me. “Trust me, I have seen it many times.”

I looked over to Hart. “It’s true,” he said. “Harry has seen the ambassador’s ‘shut up’ face more than most.”

“Speak of the devil,” Wilson said, and motioned slightly with his head. “Look who’s coming this way.” I glanced over and saw a middle-aged man in a resplendent Colonial Union diplomatic uniform, followed by a young woman, heading our direction.

“The fatuous gasbag?” I asked.

“Secretary Ocampo,” Hart said, emphatically.

“Same thing,” Wilson said.

“Gentlemen,” Ocampo said, coming up to us.

“Hello, Secretary Ocampo,” Wilson said, very smoothly, and I thought I saw Hart relax maybe a tiny bit. “What may we do for you, sir?”

“Well, since you’re standing between me and the punch, perhaps you would be so kind as to get me a cup,” he said.

“Let me get that for you,” Hart said, and nearly dropped his own glass in the process.

“Thank you,” Ocampo said. “Schmidt, yes? One of Abumwe’s people.” He then turned to Wilson. “And you are?”

“Lieutenant Harry Wilson.”

“Really,” Ocampo said, and sounded impressed. “You’re the one who saved the daughter of the secretary of state of the United States when Earth Station was destroyed.”

“Danielle Lowen,” Wilson said. “And yes. She’s a diplomat in her own right, of course.”

“Of course,” Ocampo said. “But the fact that she’s Secretary Lowen’s daughter didn’t hurt. It’s one reason why the U.S. is one of the few countries on Earth that will speak to the Colonial Union in any capacity.”

“I’m happy to be useful, sir,” Wilson said. Hart handed him his punch.

“Thank you,” Ocampo said, to Hart, and then turned his attention back to Wilson. “I understand you also skydived from Earth Station all the way down to Earth with Miss Lowen.”

“That’s correct, sir,” Wilson said.

“That must have been some experience.”

“I mostly remember trying not to go ‘splat’ at the end of it.”

“Of course,” Ocampo said. He turned to me next, registering my lack of dress uniform and the crew bag at my feet, and waited for me to identify myself.

“Rafe Daquin,” I said, taking the hint. “I’m crashing the party, sir.”

“He’s a friend of mine who happened to be on station,” Hart said. “He’s a pilot on a trade ship.”

“Oh,” Ocampo said. “Which one?”

“The Chandler,” I said.

“Isn’t that interesting,” Ocampo said. “I’ve booked passage on the Chandler.”

“You have?” I asked.