"Besides," Ruth continued, "you'll need somebody on Ganny's ship who's a computer and communications whiz. Anton, you can't be two places at once. If things do go into the crapper, probably the only chance you'll have of getting out is if somebody in the backup getaway ship can substitute for your skills manipulating God-knows-what in the way of Mesan security systems. 'Cause you're not likely to have time to do it, what with all the guns blazing in the getaway and probably having not much more than a tin can and some wires to worth with even if you did. Have enough time, that is."

Now, she flashed that same quick smile at Uncle Andrew. "Meaning no offense."

"None taken," he said, smiling back. "I'm a whiz with anything mechanical or electrical, and I'm even pretty good with computer hardware. But that's about it."

Ruth looked back at Cachat and Zilwicki, triumphantly. "So there. It's all settled."

"I'm for it," said Ganny forcefully. "In fact, I'm making it a condition. Either the princess comes with us, or the deal's off. I could give you all sorts of reasons for that, but the only really important one is that I'm getting even with you for playing tricks on my boys." She gave Brice and his friends a look that could best be described as disgusted. "Taking advantage of their stunted forebrains! Ed, put your tongue back in your mouth. You too, James."

She said nothing to Brice. He felt very suave, although he'd have to double-check the dictionary to make sure the word meant what he thought it meant. Now that Princess Ruth was coming along, he had a feeling he wasn't going to get away with his usual vocabulary habits. Use any long and/or fancy-sounding word you want, serene in the knowledge that your dummy cousins won't know if you got it wrong.

Didn't matter. What he was already thinking of as The Great Adventure would probably be better with a smart princess along. Even if such a fantastical creature was completely absent from the classics.

Chapter Twenty-Two

"I'm glad you decided not to get hardnosed about it, Jeremy," said Hugh Arai, as he lowered himself into a chair in the War Secretary's office. "Lowered" was the proper term, too. The chair didn't look all that sturdy, and Hugh massed slightly over two hundred kilos. That weight was calculated Earth-normal, true, but Torch's gravity wasn't that much lower. Certainly not enough to make a difference.

Jeremy watched the delicate process with a sardonic smile. "You really needn't take so much care," he said. "If you crush the miserable thing, maybe I'll be able to get the State Accounting Office to authorize more suitable furniture. Not likely, though." He took a seat behind the desk. "I'm sorry to say that the anal-retentive manias of the SAO's officials is the clearest evidence I've ever seen that Manpower's genetic schemes actually work according to plan. Most of them are J-11s."

Now sure that the chair would hold his weight, Hugh looked up and gave Jeremy a smile. J-11s were the "model" of slave that was supposedly designed to handle technical work of an accounting and record-keeping nature. Like all such precise Manpower designations, it was mostly nonsense. Manpower's geneticists did breed for those skills, but genes were far more plastic than they liked to admit—certainly to their customers. There was no gene for "accounting," nor was there one for "file-keeping."

It was true that slaves designed for a certain task tended to do it well. But that was far more likely the product of the slave's training and—probably most important of all—the slave's own self-expectation, than any genetic wizardry on Manpower's part.

That said . . . In Hugh's experience, J-11s did tend to be anal-retentive. That manifested itself primarily in a certain sort of knee-jerk stinginess. You might as well try to get blood from a stone as squeeze money out of a J-11 was a common wisecrack among genetic slaves and ex-slaves.

"As for the other," Jeremy continued, waving his hand in an airy gesture, "I am magnanimous by nature. It is well known."

"It most certainly is not."

Jeremy shrugged. "Those gypsies aren't the first people who've ever had to cut a deal with the devil in order to stay alive. Plenty of slaves and ex-slaves have done the same. But it was clear enough they didn't go any further than they had to, and . . . The fact that they adopted so many slaves spoke in their favor."

He gave Hugh a beady eye. "As you knew it would, so you can stop pretending you weren't trying to manipulate me."

"Manipulate the situation, it'd be better to say. I was just playing it by ear, so to speak. I wasn't actually sure what use we could get out of Parmley Station, but I had the sense that there had to be something."

He smiled, perhaps a bit ruefully. "Mind you, I wasn't expecting such an enthusiastic response as soon as we got here. Cachat and Zilwicki reacted like treecats discovering a bin full of celery."

Jeremy's smile was definitely on the rueful side. "I've sometimes regretted the way we let those damn spooks run loose among us. I'm not sure who's worse. Sometimes I think it's Cachat, sometimes Zilwicki—and in my darkest moments I think they're both playing a charade so I won't notice that Princess Ruth is the one really running amok."

"I'm a little astonished that the Wintons agreed to let her stay here."

"It's not really that odd, if you're willing to stretch the definition of 'public service.' The Manticoran dynasty has always had a tradition that its youngsters can't just lounge about idly."

Hugh shook his head. "In the nature of things, spying is hardly what you'd call 'public' service. And—being cynical about it—that's mostly the purpose of having young royals displaying their patriotic merits, isn't it?"

Jeremy pondered the question, for a moment. "Actually, no. Not with that dynasty, anyway. With most it would be, true enough. But I think the main concern of the Wintons is with maintaining their own . . . call it 'fiber,' for lack of a better term. The big problem with letting young royals spend their time loafing is that eventually they became the royals, and then it won't be long before the dynasty itself is a loafer."

He gave Arai another beady gaze. "I can tell you that our own founding dynast has stated any number of times that no kid of hers is going to be an idler."

Unwarily, Hugh said, "Well, good. But first she has to produce said kids."

Too late, he recognized the beadiness of the gaze. Jeremy hadn't become one of the galaxy's deadliest pistoleers if he hadn't known how to keep his eyes on the target.

"Exactly so. And for that, unless we opt for artificial insemination—and you really don't want to hear the Queen's opinion on thatsubject, trust me—we need a consort."

"Not a chance, Jeremy," said Hugh, chuckling. "Leaving aside the fact that I barely know the girl, having just met her, I have my own career plans."

Jeremy X had an impressive sneer, as you'd expect. "Oh, right. I forgot. Hugh Arai plans to devote his life to the retail-trade slaughter of Manpower villains. 'Slaughter,' did I say? A better term would be 'pruning.' Very careful pruning, one tiny little slaver bud at a time. God forbid he should forego that grand opportunity in order to help forge an entire star nation of ex-slaves, which could actually do some 'slaughtering.' "

"We both agreed on my career, years ago," Hugh said mildly. "Godfather."

Jeremy glared at him. "I'm not your godfather, damn it! I'm your adviser—and my advice has changed. That's because the situation has changed."

"I'm still not playing Bachelor of the Week, Jeremy. For Christ sake, I just met the woman! I've spent a total of maybe two hours in her presence, not one minute of which was taken up by a personal exchange between the two of us. Not even an exchange concerning the time of day, much less anything intimate."