Dar paced the lounge furiously, hands locked behind his back. “What’s he doing in there—reading them the whole script?”

“Calm down, Da … uh. Perry.” Whitey leaned back in his chair like a cat by a fire, a tall drink in his hand. “It means it’s going well. If the execs didn’t like his presentation, he’d’ve been out half an hour ago.”

The door opened, and Stroganoff shuffled in, holding the script in front of him as though it were a tray, eyes glazed.

Dar pounced on him. “Well? What’s the word? They like it? They gonna buy it? What?”

Stroganoff’s head swiveled toward him, but his gaze went right through Dar. Father Marco pried Dar away with a soothing murmur, and Whitey echoed him: “Calm down, Perry. They won’t finish deciding for a while yet … How’d it go, David?”

Stroganoff’s head turned toward Whitey, but his eyes still didn’t quite focus. “Tod … why didn’t you warn me?”

“Warn?” Whitey frowned. “About what?”

“About this!” Stroganoff held the script out reverently. “I gave ‘em the overview, and the audience potential, the cost-minimalization, and the company-image enhancement, and they sat there looking bored, so I started reading them the first few lines, just to give ‘em the idea—and I couldn’t stop! I just kept going, right through the whole thing—and they didn’t cut me off! Not a word! They actually listened!”

Whitey grinned and sat back. “Well. Nice to be appreciated.”

“Appreciated! My lord, Tod, that’s topping the Prize!” Dar heaved a silent sigh. He might make it to Earth, after all.

 

They were laughing and chattering as they came back into their hotel, riding high on a triumph—until a grave-faced major domo stepped up to Whitey and intoned, “Mr. Tambourin, sir?”

The laughter cut off as though it had been sliced with a razor blade. Whitey turned to the man in livery, frowning. “Yes?”

“There’s a call waiting, from Mr. Horatio Bocello, sir. He’s been quite insistent in his demands that he speak with you.”

Whitey’s face cracked into a cream-whiskered grin. “Old Horatio!”

Sam was staring, shocked. Father Marco blinked. Even Lona looked impressed. Dar looked around. Then they all jumped to catch up with Whitey.

But the major domo was ahead of them. “Ah, Mr. Tambourin?”

Whitey looked back. “Yes?”

“He really has been quite insistent, sir. The staff would very much appreciate it if you would take the call as soon as you arrive in your suite.”

“Yeah. I know what Horatio’s like when he gets ‘insistent.’ ” Whitey’s grin was downright evil. “Don’t worry, my good man—I’ll hit the phone as soon as I’m upstairs. You can tell Terra the call’s going through.” His hand brushed the major domo’s as he turned away; the man glanced at his palm, and his eyebrows shot up. “Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure. Come on, troops!” Whitey was striding away toward the lift tube.

His “crew” lurched into motion behind him. “Who’s Horatio Bocello?” Dar hissed.

“Only the richest man on Terra, gnappie!” Sam hissed back.

“Which means, in the whole system. Devout Catholic, too…” Father Marco said thoughtfully.

“Patron of the arts—especially Grandpa’s,” Lona added.

Dar swallowed heavily, and walked faster.

When Whitey careened through the door, the com screen was already alive with white noise, its beeper beeping. Whitey pressed the “answer” button and thumbed the toggle that uncapped his camera. The screen cleared, showing a thin, long-jawed, bony face with a receding iron-gray hairline, a blade of a nose, and burning eyes. The eyes focussed on Whitey, and the face grinned. “Tambourin, you old scalawag! Where’ve you been?”

“In a hundred bars on fifteen planets, Cello.” Whitey grinned back at him. “You want exact figures, you’ll have to tell me how long it’s been.”

“What—five years, this time? Why don’t you write, reprobate?”

“Buy it from your book-channel, windy. How’s your empire?”

Bocello shrugged, with a trace of annoyance. “You win some, you lose some, and it keeps growing, all by itself.”

Whitey nodded. “No change.”

“It was a lot more fun back in the Northeast Kingdom.”

“I know.” Whitey smiled fondly, gazing back down the years. “Running around in homemade armor, chopping at each other with rattan swords.”

“And for the parties, dressing up like a fourteenth-century duke. Except you, of course. You never could decide whether you wanted to be a knight or a troubadour.”

Dar nudged Lona, having a legitimate reason, and whispered, “What’re they talking about?”

“A bag of mixed nuts,” Lona whispered back. “Some group they both belonged to when they were young. Used to go out to a park on weekends and pretend they were still living in the middle ages.”

“Well, I finally did.” Whitey’s smile gentled. “I swung to the troubadour—and you finally accepted your birthright obligations, and turned into a baron.”

“Yes, without the title.” Bocello’s face clouded. “But it’s not as much fun, Tod.”

“You’ve got to lock into reality sometime, Cello. You keep tabs on the old Kingdom?”

Bocello nodded. “Still. I’m still a member. I sneak into the annual festival every now and then. You should, too.”

“I do, when I run into a Kingdom. But there aren’t too many of ‘em on the colony planets yet, Cello. Hold onto your sword, Your Grace—you may need it.”

Bocello was suddenly alert. “You see the signs, too, eh? But I don’t think there’ll be chaos, Tod.”

“No,” Whitey agreed, “just the reverse. It’s a dictator that’s coming, not a warlord. Can’t you do anything about it, Cello? You, with all your money!”

Bocello shook his head sadly. “I always sneered at politics, Tod—and now it’s too late.” He frowned, suddenly intent. “You’re not planning to try to stop it, are you? To throw yourself in the path of a runaway destrier?”

“Romanticism’s for the young, Cello,” Whitey said gently. “No, I just got a modern idea, that’s all.”

“Yes, I heard.” Bocello’s face split into a mischievous grin. “And I love it! Damn fine poem, Tod! Damn fine.”

Whitey scowled. “Got eyes and ears everywhere, don’t you?”

“Tod!” Bocello protested, wounded. “I own OPI—or fifty-one percent of it, anyway. They knew it was too hot to handle, so they bucked it on up to me fastest!”

“You’re going to decide whether or not my epic gets made?”

Dar held his breath.

Bocello shrugged impatiently. “What is there to decide? The way your last book sold, we couldn’t possibly lose money on Tod Tambourin’s first screenplay! All I want to know is, how quickly can you do it?”

Whitey grinned. “My crew’s ready to go tomorrow, Cello.”

“Wonderful. But you’ll need a little while to cast the actors and have the sets designed and built.”

“Yeah, but we can shoot the documentary sequences meanwhile. And, Cello …” Whitey’s voice lowered. “ …if we’re going to have the I.D.E. Assembly and the Executive Secretary in that one sequence, I think we’d better shoot them fast.”

“Yes, I know.” Bocello sobered. “The whole thing’s built around the I.D.E.” He leaned forward, suddenly intense, eyes burning. “Very fast, Tod—before the whole program’s just an historical document!”

 

Dar fastened his webbing and looked around at the luxurious cavern of the shuttle’s passenger cabin. “Little different from a burro-boat, isn’t it?”

“You could put two of them inside here,” Sam agreed. “Maybe three.”

Dar swiveled his head to look at her, puzzled. “You’ve been awfully moody these past couple of hours. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Sam shook her head with total conviction. “Absolutely nothing is wrong.” But she still gazed off into space.

“It was that call from Horatio Bocello that did it, isn’t it? What was so bad about it—didn’t realize the I.D.E. was in this bad a shape?”