condemned to waste away in the Great Square of Vorbarr Sultana.
And to think they always said Dorca Vorbarra had no sense of humor .
. ."
Bothari smiled grimly, and Baz chuckled; Hathaway's laugh was
more hollow. "Charming," he muttered.
"But it had a happy ending," Miles went on. Hathaway brightened.
"The Cetagandans invaded us about that point, and Lord
Vorloupulous was released."
"By the Cetagandans? Lucky," commented Hathaway.
"No, by Emperor Dorca, to fight the Cetagandans. You understand, he wasn't pardoned—the sentence was merely delayed. When the
First Cetagandan War was over, he would have been expected to show
up to complete it. But he died fighting, in battle, so he had an
honorable death after all."
"That's a happy ending?" Hathaway shrugged. "Oh, well."
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Baz, Miles noted, had become silent and withdrawn again. Miles
smiled at him, experimentally; he smiled back awkwardly, looking
younger for it. Miles made his decision.
"Mr. Jesek, I'm going to make you a proposition, which you can take or leave. That ship I mentioned is the RG 132. The jump pilot
officer's name is Arde Mayhew. If you can disappear—I mean really
disappear—for the next couple of days, and then get in touch with him at the Silica shuttleport, he'll see that you get a berth on his ship, outbound."
"Why should you help me at all, Mr.—Lord—"
"Mr. Naismith, for all practical purposes." Miles shrugged. "Call it a fancy for seeing people get second chances. It's something they're not very keen on, at home."
Home, Baz's eyes echoed silently again. "Well—it was good to hear the accent again, for a little time. I might just take you up on that," he remembered to be cagey, "or I might not."
Miles nodded, retrieved his bottle, motioned to Bothari, and
withdrew. They threaded their way back across the recycling center
with an occasional muted clank. When Miles looked back, Jesek was a shadow, melting toward another exit.
Miles became conscious of a profound frown from Sergeant
Bothari. He smiled wryly, and kicked over a control casing from some junked industrial robot, lying skeletally athwart a mound of other
rubble. "Would you have had me turn him in?" he asked softly. "But you're Service to the bone, I suppose you would. So would my father, I guess—he's so all-fired stringent about the law, no matter how ghastly the consequences."
Bothari grew still. "Not—always, my lord." He retreated into a suddenly neutral silence.
* * *
"Miles," whispered Elena, detaining from a nocturnal trip to the bathroom from the bedroom she was sharing with Mrs. Naismith,
"aren't you ever going to bed? It's almost morning."
"Not sleepy." He entered yet another inquiry on his grandmother's comconsole. It was true; he still felt fresh, and preternaturally alert.