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The Sergeant's own bored reaction to the tour clinched the
argument; Miles conceded. And yet . . .
It was his hyper imagination, maybe. The less they found the more
queasy Miles became. Were they looking in the wrong army's
cemetery? Miles's own mother had changed allegiances to return to
Barrayar with his father; maybe Bothari's romance had not taken so
prosperous a turn. But if that were so, should they even be looking in cemeteries? Maybe he should be hunting Elena's mother in the comm
link directory. . . . He did not quite dare suggest it.
He wished he had not been so intimidated by the conspiracy of
silence surrounding Elena's birth as to refrain from pumping
Countess Vorkosigan. Well, when they returned home he would screw
up his courage and demand the truth of her, and let her wisdom guide him as to how much to pass on to Bothari's daughter.
For now, Miles stepped after Elena through the scanner, enjoying
her air of wonder, and looking forward like a magician to pulling Beta Colony out of a hat for her delight.
The Sergeant stepped through the machine. It gave a rude blat.
Agent Timmons shook his head and sighed. "You never give up, do you, Sergeant?"
"Ah, if I may interrupt," said Miles, "the lady and I are cleared, are we not?" Receiving a nod, he retrieved their stunners and his own travel documentation. "I'll show Elena around the shuttleport, then, while you two are discussing your, er, differences. You can bring the luggage when he gets done with it, Sergeant. Meet you in the main
concourse."
"You will not—" began Bothari.
"We'll be perfectly all right," Miles assured him airily. He grasped Elena's elbow and hustled her off before his bodyguard could
marshall further objections.
Elena looked back over her shoulder. "Is my father really trying to smuggle in an illegal weapon?"
"Weapons. I expect so," said Miles apologetically. "I don't authorize it, and it never works, but I guess he feels undressed
without deadly force. If the Betans are as good at spotting everyone else's goods as they are at spotting ours, we really don't have anything to worry about."
He watched her, sideways, as they entered the main concourse,
and had the satisfaction of seeing her catch her breath. Golden light, at once brilliant and comfortable, spun down from a huge high vault upon a great tropical garden, dark with foliage, vibrant with flowers and birds, murmurous with fountains.
"It's like stepping into a giant terrarium," she commented. "I feel like a little horned hopper."
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"Exactly," he agreed. "The Silica Zoo maintains it. One of their extended habitats."