close. "I haven't bothered you, have I? I let you hang around in my center for days on end, it's all right as long as you don't carry anything out—that's not wood, is it? oh, all right . . . I'll overlook it this time, but I want you to talk to these guys. I figure you owe me. All right?
Anyway, they're Barrayarans."
Baz glanced up at them sharply, his expression a strange mixture
of hunger and dismay. His lips formed a silent word. Miles read it, Home. I'm silhouetted, thought Miles; let's get down where he can see the light on my face. He picked his way down beside Hathaway.
Baz stared at him. "You're no Barrayaran," he said flatly.
"I'm half Betan," Miles replied, feeling no desire to go into his medical history just then. "But I was raised on Barrayar. It's home."
"Home," whispered the man, barely audibly.
"You're a long way from home." Miles upended a plastic casing from something-or-other—it had some wires hanging out of it, giving it a sad disembowelled air—and seated himself. Bothari took up
position above on the rubble within comfortable pouncing distance.
"Did you get stuck here or something? Do you, ah—need some help getting home?"
"No." The man glanced away, frowning. His fire had burned down.
He placed a metal grill from an air conditioner over it and laid his fish on top.
Hathaway eyed these preparations with fascination. "What are you going to do with that dead goldfish?"
"Eat it."
Hathaway looked revolted. "Look, mister—all you have to do is
report to a Shelter and get Carded, and you can have all the protein slices you want—any flavor, clean and fresh from the vats. Nobody has to eat a dead animal on this planet, really. Where'd you get it,
anyway?"
Baz replied uneasily, "Out of a fountain."
Hathaway gasped in horror. "Those displays belong to the Silica Zoo! You can't eat an exhibit!"
"There were lots of them. I didn't think anybody would miss one. It wasn't stealing. I caught it."
Miles rubbed his chin thoughtfully, gave a little upward jerk of his head, and pulled Pilot Officer Mayhew's green bottle, which he had
brought along on a last-minute impulse, from under his jacket. Baz
started at the movement, then relaxed when he saw it was no weapon.
By Barrayaran etiquette, Miles took a swallow first—he made it a
small one, this time—wiped the mouthpiece on his sleeve, and offered it to the thin man. "Drink, with dinner? It's good—makes you feel less hungry—dries up your sinuses, too. Tastes like horse-piss and honey."
Baz frowned, but took the bottle. "Thanks." He took a drink, and
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added in a strangled whisper, "Thanks!"
Baz slipped his dinner onto a cover plate from a tube-car wheel,