"Prince Hal," the woman said in whispered desperation. She took his hands in hers. Her palms were clammy.
He'd drunk too much, or—
But he must have drunk too much. "Those people down there could colonize the surface some day," Wilding said. He enfolded the woman's tiny hands in his own, trying instinctively to warm her. "They could colonize the stars. All they need are leaders."
"Prince Hal," Francine begged, "don't talk like this. Please? You're scaring me."
"You're afraid of change," Wilding said. "The mob's afraid of change, everybody's afraid of change. So Wyoming Keep has the Twelve Families, and all the other Keeps have their equivalents. Comfortable oligarchies determined to preserve the status quo until the whole system runs down. And no leaders!"
Francine lifted Wilding's hand to her mouth. She pressed it with her teeth and lips, an action somewhere between a kiss and a nibble. He could feel her heart beating.
More fireworks went off to amuse the Carnival crowd.
"It's nothing but a jungle life," Wilding whispered.
The woman stepped back and raised her hands to her neckline. There was hard decision in her eyes. "All right, Prince Hal," she said. "You want a leader? Then I'll lead you!"
Francine touched a catch. Her garment slid away to become a pool at her feet. She was nude beneath it. Her body was hairless and perfect.
"And you'll like where I take you, honey," she added with practiced enthusiasm.
EPILOGUE
September 5, 387 AS. 1751 hours.
"Here ye go, buddy," said the short, grinning thug with the scarred face. He tapped on the door marked chief of staff. "Mr Brainard'll fix you up just fine, I'll bet."
The Callahan kept his face impassive, though a vein stood out from his neck. He never lost his temper in front of underlings.
The man who had brought him from the guarded entrance to here, when he had demanded to be taken directly to the Wilding, was named Leaf. The Callahan knew him by reputation—rather better than he wished were the case.
The Chief of Staff's office was opened from the inside by another thug. This one was named Caffey, and the Callahan knew of him also.
"Gen'leman to see Mr Brainard, Fish," Leaf said with a broad smile.
He was play-acting; both of them were. This was nothing but a show, with the Callahan forming both the straight man and the audience.
Caffey raised an eyebrow. "Alone?" he said.
He was a marginally smoother character than Leaf. At any rate, the muted beige tunic and trousers affected by all the Association functionaries had a civilian appearance on Caffey, while the garments seemed to be a prison uniform when Leaf wore them.
Looks were immaterial. Leaf and Caffey had equal authority as the Association's Commissioners of Security. They were equally brutal, equally ruthless; and equally dedicated to their job.
"There's half a dozen more come with him," Leaf said, "but one at a time seemed safer. The rest 're cooling their heels in the guardroom. Unless they got smart with Newton, in which case they're just cooling."
Caffey chuckled. "Takes a real direct view of doing his job, that boy. Too dumb to get tricky, I s'pose."
"The men you're talking about are the Council of the Twelve Families," said the Callahan, finally stung to a response. "Not a street gang! We're here to meet with the Wilding."
Leaf grinned. "Not a street gang, I guess," he said. The soft change of emphasis made his words a threat.
Caffey looked over his shoulder. His stocky body still blocked the doorway. "D'ye want to see Mr Callahan, sir?" he called, proving he had known perfectly well from the beginning who he was dealing with.
"Of course, Fish," answered the unseen within. "I'd be delighted."
Caffey stepped aside, gestured the Callahan mockingly forward, and closed the door behind himself.
Brainard sat behind a desk which was large and expensively outfitted, but cluttered with hard copy. He had the tired, worn appearance of a man older than his chronological age. His face and hands was flecked with minute dimples. Plastic surgery had not quite restored the texture Brainard's skin had had before jungle sores ate into it.
The Wilding's chief of staff looked hard and dangerous. The Callahan had reason to know that Brainard was both those things, and more.
"I didn't come to talk with you, Brainard," the Callahan said. "My business—our business—is with the Wilding."
Brainard shrugged. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing the Callahan to one of the comfortable chairs facing the desk. "Since you're going to talk to me anyway."
He smiled at his visitor. The expression was as precise as the click of a gunlock. "And as a suggestion, Mr Callahan . . . unless you refer to him as Director Wilding, I'm the only one you are going to talk to this afternoon."