they're doing something to you. Just don't kill anybody. My
diplomatic immunity doesn't go that far."
The exhausted Mayhew was swaying on his feet by the time the
Betans gave way. Miles, feeling like an old sea raider after a successful looting spree, bore him off.
"Two hours," muttered Bothari. "We've only been in this bloody place two bloody hours. . . ."
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CHAPTER SIX
"Miles, dear," his grandmother greeted him with a peck on the cheek as regulation as a salute. "You're rather late—trouble in customs again? Are you very tired from your trip?"
"Not a bit." He bounced on his heels, missing free fall and its unconstrained motion. He felt like taking a fifty-kilometer run, or going dancing, or something. The Botharis looked weary, though, and Pilot Officer Mayhew was nearly green. The pilot officer, after the briefest introduction, was shipped off to the spare bedroom in Mrs.
Naismith's apartment to wash, take his choice of too-small or too-
large borrowed pajamas, and fall unconscious across the bed as
though slugged with a mallet.
Miles's grandmother fed the survivors dinner, and as Miles had
hoped seemed quite taken with Elena. Elena was having an attack of
shyness in the presence of the admired Countess Vorkosigan's
mother, but Miles was fairly sure the old woman would soon bring
her out of it. Elena might even pick up a little of her Betan
indifference to Barrayaran class distinctions. Might it ease the
oppressive constraint that seemed to have been growing between
himself and Elena ever since they had ceased to be children? It was the damn Vor-suit he wore, Miles thought. There were days it felt like armor; archaic, clanking, encrusted and spiked. Uncomfortable to
wear, impossible to embrace. Give her a can opener, and let her see what a pale soft miserable slug this gaudy shell encloses—not that that would be any less repellent—his thoughts buried themselves in the
dark fall of Elena's hair, and he sighed. He realized his grandmother was speaking to him. "I beg your pardon, ma'am?"
"I said," she repeated patiently between bites, "one of my neighbors—you remember him, Mr. Hathaway, who works at the
recycling center—I know you met him when you were here to school—
"
"Oh, yeah, sure. Him."
"He has a little problem that we thought you might be able to help with, being Barrayaran. He's sort of been saving it for you, since we
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knew you were coming. He thought, if you weren't too tired, you