“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but would one of you insufferable know-it-alls care to explain to me where that—” she pointed at the scarlet numeral “2” which had appeared in the “Strikes” column “—came from? I thought it was only strike one.”

“That was before the foul ball, Mike,” Honor explained brightly.

“But he hit it,” Henke protested.

“It doesn’t matter. A foul ball counts as a strike.”

“But—”

Henke broke off as the pitcher delivered a curveball, which the batter promptly hooked foul over the third base dugout. She looked expectantly at the scoreboard, then drew a deep breath as the count of balls and strikes remained unchanged.

“I thought you said—” she began.

“Foul balls are only strikes until the count has already reached two strikes,” Honor said. “After that, they don’t count as strikes… or balls, either, for that matter. Unless one of them is caught by one of the fielders, of course. Then it counts as an out instead of a dead ball.”

Henke regarded her sourly, and Honor grinned back. The countess glowered, then turned an equally disapproving expression upon the armsman.

“ ‘Simple game,’ ” she snorted. “Right. Sure!”

· · • · ·

The Harrington Treecats lost by a score of eleven to two.

Michelle Henke tried valiantly to project an air of proper commiseration as the luxury air car swept up to the owner’s box’s private slip to collect her and her hostess’ party. Alas, her success was less than total.

“It isn’t nice to gloat, Mike,” Honor informed her with a certain severity.

“Gloat? Me, gloat? Me, a peer of the Star Kingdom, gloat just because your team got waxed while you and your friend the Colonel were so busy pointing out my abysmal ignorance to me? How could you possibly suggest that I’d do such a thing?”

“Possibly because I’ve known you so long.”

“And possibly because it’s exactly what you’d be doing if our positions were reversed,” Henke suggested.

“All things are possible,” Honor agreed. “On the other hand, some are less likely than others, and given the strength of my own character, that one’s less likely than most.”

“Oh, of course. I keep forgetting what a modest, shy and retiring type you are, Honor,” Henke said as they climbed into the air limo, followed by LaFollet, carrying Nimitz’s mate Samantha, and the rest of Honor’s regular three-man detachment.

“Not shy and retiring. Simply a more mature and responsible individual.”

“Not so mature and responsible that you didn’t name your team after a certain furry, six-footed celery-thief and his friends,” Henke shot back, reaching out to rub the treecat on Honor’s shoulder between his ears.

“Nimitz and Samantha had nothing to do with my choice,” Honor replied. “Mind you, they approved of it, but I actually picked it as the lesser of two evils.” She grimaced. “It was that, or the ‘Harrington Salamanders.’ ”

Henke looked up sharply, then spluttered a half-smothered laugh.

“You’re joking!”

“I wish I were. As a matter of fact, the Commissioner of Baseball had already assigned the Salamanders name when the Owners’ Committee and the Rules Committee agreed to expand the league. I had an awful time changing their minds.”