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Elena looked doubtful. "Is it dangerous, crossing the blockade? If you cooperate on their stop-and-search—"
"In this case, I think so. The cargo happens to be addressed to the other side of the fray."
"Would the mercenaries seize it? I mean, robotic combines or
whatever couldn't be classed as contraband—don't they have to abide by interstellar conventions?" Her doubt became wariness.
He stretched, still smiling. "You've almost got it. What is Beta Colony's most noted export?"
"Well, advanced technology, of course. Weapons and weapons
systems—" Her wariness became dismay. "Oh, Miles . . ."
"'Agricultural equipment,'" he snickered. "I'll bet! Anyway, there's this Felician who claims to be the agent for the company purchasing the equipment—that's another tip-off, that they should have a man
personally shepherding this cargo through—I'm going to go see him
first thing in the morning, as soon as the Sergeant wakes up. And
Mayhew, I'd better take Mayhew . . ."
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CHAPTER SEVEN
Miles reviewed his troops, before pressing the buzzer to the hotel
room. Even in civilian dress, there was no mistaking the Sergeant for anything but a soldier. Mayhew—washed, shaved, rested, fed, and
dressed in clean new clothes—looked infinitely better than yesterday, but still . . .
"Straighten up, Arde," advised Miles, "and try to look professional.
We've just got to get this cargo. I thought Betan medicine was
advanced enough to cure any kind of hangover. It's bound to make a
bad impression on this guy if you walk around clutching your
stomach."
"Grm," muttered Mayhew. But he did return his hands to his sides, and come more-or-less to attention. "You'll find out, kid," he added in a tone of bitter clairvoyance.
"And you're going to have to stop calling me 'kid,'" Miles added.
"You're my Armsman now. You're supposed to address me as 'my
lord.'"
"You really take that stuff seriously?"
One step at a time. "It's like a salute," Miles explained. "You salute the uniform, not the man. Being Vor is—is like wearing an invisible uniform you can never take off. Look at Sergeant Bothari—he's called me 'my lord' ever since I was born. If he can, you can. You're his
brother-in-arms, now."
Mayhew looked up at the Sergeant. Bothari looked back, his face
saturnine in the extreme. Miles had the impression that had Bothari been a more expressive man, he would have made a rude noise at the
concept of Mayhew as his brother-in-arms. Mayhew evidently
received the same impression, for he straightened up a little more, and bit out, "Yes, my lord."
Miles nodded approval, and pressed the buzzer.
The man who answered the door had dark almond eyes, high