Starliner(48)

"I know that," Urdener said, "I know that. What happened is that I lost over a hundred of my staff when you radioed news that war had broken out. They're boarding your ship right now."

"Huh?" said Ran.

"Grantholm nationals," Urdener explained. "Reservists, most of them. They're going home to join their military."

He sighed and shook his head. "We shouldn't have hired so much of our staff from one planet, I suppose," he went on. "But—you know, there's nobody like a Grantholmer to keep a labor crew's noses to the grindstone. Nobody like them at all."

Urdener touched his forehead in a half-serious salute. "Can't stand here gabbing," he said. "Just wanted to apologize to you, is all."

He headed back down the gangplank.

Ran looked at Wanda. "I'm sorry," he said. He thought of adding something, but he couldn't decide what to say—especially with the two ratings on Wanda's shift staring at the officers. Mohacks had disappeared down the corridor.

"You're right," Wanda said. She touched the switch that shut the compartment to the outside. The hatch began to swing closed from top and bottom simultaneously.

"And Federated Earth is right," she continued, staring out as the rectangle of yellow haze narrowed. "At home, they're surplus population. Here they're doing something for themselves and for mankind. Eventually."

"I don't like it either," Ran said softly. He might have touched her hand if it weren't for the enlisted personnel.

The hatch ground closed, then coughed several times to clear its seal of dust. Pressure in the compartment increased momentarily; then the ventilation fans cut to idle.

"I've had a pretty comfortable life," Wanda said. She met Ran's eyes. "I guess I don't like having my nose rubbed in the fact that a lot of people don't, even on Earth."

She smiled, shifted to put her body between herself and her subordinates, and squeezed Ran's hand.

"Let's get cleaned up and help the commander," Ran said. "If he's got a hundred Grantholm slave drivers coming aboard, he's going to want us around."





IN TRANSIT:

BISCAY TO AIN AL-MAHDI

Miss Oanh found the Quiet Room tucked at the end of a blank corridor. The bulkheads whispered. They enclosed the starliner's service mains, not living spaces.

The Empress provided a generally acceptable ambiance for her Third Class passengers and expected them to adapt to it. For those who could pay, however, the huge ship had nooks and crannies molded to every foible.

Most passengers would visit the Starlight Bar only once in a voyage, if that often; but the "experience of sponge space," or the possibility of that experience, might affect their choice of a starliner and the enthusiasm with which they recommended the Empress of Earth to their friends.

The wrought iron gateway of the Quiet Room passed even less traffic than entered the Starlight Bar; but those who wanted solemn silence in a setting apart from that of their suite often wanted it very much.

Lanterns hung to either side of the arch, softly illuminating through the grillwork an interior paneled in dark pine. A Kurdish runner, woven from deep reds and browns, carpeted the center of the small retreat. The exposed flooring was of boards thirty centimeters wide, pinned to the joists beneath by dowels. The four high-backed chairs were of black oak, with leather cushions fastened to the frames by tarnished brass brads.

At the end of the room was what could have been an altarpiece, richly carven but without specific religious content. A pair of electronic "candles" stood on the wood, programmed to sense the slightest breeze and to flicker in response.

Miss Oanh stepped into the empty room. Two of the chairs faced the altarpiece. She started to sit down in one of them.

It gave a startled gasp. She screamed.

The young man who'd been sitting in the chair jumped to his feet. "I'm terribly sorry!" he blurted. "I didn't hear you come—"

Oanh put a hand to her chest. "Oh my goodness!" she said. "I'm so sorry, I thought the room was empty."

As Oanh spoke, she looked around quickly to be sure that there weren't people scowling from the chairs facing one another from the sides of the room.

"No, no, it's just us," the young man said. "Ah—I'm Franz Streseman. Though if you want to be alone, miss, I should be going anyway. I'm just . . ."

"Oh, please, no," Oanh said. Franz was a slim man of average height—for most cultures, the delicate builds of Nevasa being an exception. He had strong, regular features with a small moustache which to Oanh gave an exotic tinge to his good looks. "I wasn't . . . That is—"

She looked at her hands. "It isn't that I wanted to be alone, but if—"