His innate sense of humor overrode the moment’s anger. Indeed, for a moment, he felt a certain embarrassment. The friendly-faced woman sitting across from him—whom he had approached for help, after all, not the other way around—was also a member of that same aristocracy. Very prominently, as a matter of fact. If the countess was ranked only middling-high in the Manticoran nobility’s stiff hereditary terms—all the stiffer for the fact that they had been artificially created when the planet was settled—the Tor fortune was greater than that of most dukes and duchesses.

Something in his thoughts must have shown, for Lady Catherine was suddenly beaming from ear to ear.

“Hey, sailor!” she chortled. “Go easy on me, willya? I can’t help it—I was born there.”

In that moment, Anton was stunned by how beautiful she looked. It was bizarre, in a way—a matter of pure personality radiating through the barrier of flesh. The countess’ face was not pretty in the least, beyond a certain open freshness. And while her figure was definitely feminine, its lanky—almost bony—lines were quite a ways outside the parameters of what was normally considered, by males at least, “sexy.” Yet Anton knew, without having to ask, that Lady Catherine had never even considered the body-sculpting which was so popular among Manticore’s upper crust. Even though for her, unlike most people, cost was no obstacle. As expensive as body-sculpting was, Lady Catherine could have paid for it out of the equivalent of pocket change.

It was just—the way she was. Here I am. This is how I look. You don’t like it? Then go—

Anton couldn’t help it. He was grinning himself. He could just imagine the coarse profanities which would follow.

The moment lasted, and lasted. Two people, strangers until that day, grinning at each other. And as it lasted, began to undergo what Anton, from his reading of the classics, understood as a sea change.

And so, his shock deepened. He had come here, carrying years’ worth of a widower’s grief and the newfound rage of a father whose child was in danger, looking for nothing more than help. And found—damned if it wasn’t true!—the first woman since that horrible day when Helen died who genuinely interested him.

He tried to pull his eyes away, but couldn’t. And as the grin faded from the countess’ face, he understood that he was not imagining anything. She, too, was feeling that tremendous pull.

The image of his daughter broke the spell. Helen, as a four-year-old girl, had been sitting on his lap at the very moment her mother died. Helen the mother had saved Helen the child. The father’s responsibility remained.

Lady Catherine cleared her throat. Anton knew that she was trying to leave him the emotional space he needed, and was deeply thankful. Yet, of course, the same uncanny intuitiveness just deepened the attraction.

“As you were saying, Captain…” Her voice was a bit husky.

Anton finally managed to look away from her. He ran a blunt-fingered hand through his stiff and bristly black hair.

“The thing is, ma’am—”

“Call me Cathy, why don’t you? Anton.”

He took the hand away. “Cathy, trust me on this. There are fissure lines running all through Havenite society. State Security is no exception. Oscar Saint-Just knows that as well—hell, better than—anyone in the universe. Except maybe Rob Pierre himself.”

He leaned forward, extending his hands. “So he’s careful to keep the sheep separated from the goats. More precisely—since no one has still been able to nail down telepathy—he lets the goats and the sheep separate themselves. The thugs volunteer for the concentration camps, and the young idealistic firebrands head for the front lines. Which, for spies, means places like Chicago.”

He nodded toward the window. “And that’s mostly the kind of State Security out there. In the lower ranks, at least. Tough, yes—even ruthless. But I know they weren’t the ones who took my daughter.”

Cathy leaned forward herself, also extending her hands. But where Anton’s movements had been tight and controlled, hers were jerky and expressive. “Anton, I can’t honestly say that I share your assessment. I don’t have your expertise in intelligence, of course, but my own work has brought me into contact with any number of young—ah, ‘firebrands.’ Some of them, I hate to say it, wouldn’t shrink from any blow directed at their enemy.”

Anton shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t. But they would shrink from using the wrong weapon.”

He held up the package in his hands. “This is the forensic report. You’re welcome to look at it if you want, but I can summarize the gist. The people who broke into our apartment and took my daughter—probably male and female both, judging from the chemical traces—left a clear genetic track. Crystal clear, in fact—the idiots were even careless enough not to eradicate skin oils from the note.”

“And they weren’t Peeps.”

“No. The genetic evidence carried not a trace of the normal Peep pattern. And it hardly matters, anyway, because the pattern they did carry is unmistakable. They were members of the Sacred Band—or, at least, people who came from that very distinct genetic stock.”

Cathy didn’t quite gasp, but her hand flew to her throat. “Are you serious?”

Anton was not surprised to see that Lady Catherine—Cathy—had not only heard of the Sacred Band but obviously didn’t doubt their existence. Most people wouldn’t have understood the term, and most of the ones who did would have immediately insisted that it was a fairy tale—a legend, like vampires. His suspicion was confirmed, and that knowledge brought him great satisfaction. There was only one way that the countess could have found out about the Sacred Band—she had been told by the very people Anton was searching for. The same people he had come here to find.

The countess was now staring blindly at the window. “But that makes no sense at all!” Her lips tightened. “Although I can now understand why you’re so insistent that this wasn’t a Peep operation.”

She gave Anton a shrewd glance. There was hostility in her eyes, but it wasn’t directed at him. “And—of course—I can understand why the ambassador and the admiral wouldn’t believe you.”

She sprang to her feet. “Fucking assholes!” The countess began pacing back and forth, waving her hands. “Fucking assholes,” she repeated. “Charter members of the Conservative Association, the both of them, God rot their souls. Since their only guiding political principle is gimme—”

Anton smiled grimly.

“—they can’t possibly understand people who take ideology seriously.” For an instant, like a prancing filly, she veered at him. “You’re a Crown Loyalist, I imagine.”

“Rock hard.”

Cathy brayed laughter. “Gryphon highlanders! Just as thick-skulled as their reputation.” But she veered even closer. “S’okay. I forgive you.” She ran slim fingers through his bristly hair before prancing away. Coming from anyone else except his daughter, that act of casual intimacy would have infuriated Anton. Coming from Cathy, it sent a spike down his spine which paralyzed him for an instant.

She was moving back and forth in front of the window, now. Her movements were jerky—almost awkward and ungainly—but they also expressed a fierce energy.

Anton was dazzled by the sight. The bright sunshine penetrated her skirt—a modest enough garment, in its own right, but not made of a heavy fabric—and showed her long legs almost as if they were bare. Very slender, they were, though the muscles were obviously well-toned. Anton felt a sudden rush of sheer passion, imagining them—

He forced that thought away. And, with his capacity for concentration, succeeded within seconds. But he retained a small glow in his heart. He hadn’t felt that kind of rush since his wife died. There was something pure about it, like an emotional cleanser.