Fell was listening with raised brows, caught between amusement and annoyance.
Bel twitched. "So if I were to pull out a weapon and blow your head off, it would be perfectly legal?"
The bodyguard tensed, balance and center-of-gravity flowing into launch position.
"Quash it, Bel," Miles muttered under his breath.
But Ryoval was beginning to enjoy baiting his Betan interruptor. "You have no weapon. But legality aside, my subordinates have instructions to avenge me. It is, as it were, a natural or virtual law. In effect you'd find such an ill-advised impulse to be illegal indeed."
Baron Fell caught Miles's eye and tilted his head just slightly. Time to intervene. "Time to move on, Captain," Miles said. "We aren't the baron's only guests here."
"Try the hot buffet," suggested Fell affably.
Ryoval pointedly dropped Bel from his attention and turned to Miles. "Do stop by my establishment if you get downside, Admiral. Even a Betan could stand to expand the horizons of his experience. I'm sure my staff could find something of interest in your price range."
"Not any more," said Miles. "Baron Fell already has our credit chit."
"Ah, too bad. Your next trip, perhaps." Ryoval turned away in easy dismissal.
Bel didn't budge. "You can't sell a galactic citizen down there," gesturing jerkily to the curve of the planet beyond the viewport. The quaddie Nicol, watching from behind her dulcimer, had no expression at all upon her face, but her intense blue eyes blazed.
Ryoval turned back, feigning sudden surprise. "Why, Captain, I just realized. Betan—you must be a genuine genetic hermaphrodite. You possess a marketable rarity yourself. I can offer you an eye-opening employment experience at easily twice your current rate of pay. And you wouldn't even have to get shot at. I guarantee you'd be extremely popular. Group rates."
Miles swore he could see Thorne's blood pressure skyrocketing as the meaning of what Ryoval had just said sunk in. The hermaphrodite's face darkened, and it drew breath. Miles reached up and grasped Bel by the shoulder, hard. The breath held.
"No?" said Ryoval, cocking his head. "Oh, well. But seriously, I would pay well for a tissue sample, for my files."
Bel's breath exploded. "My clone-siblings, to be—be—some sort of sex-slaves into the next century! Over my dead body—or yours– you—"
Bel was so mad it was stuttering, a phenomenon Miles had never seen in seven years' acquaintance including combat.
"So Betan," smirked Ryoval.
"Stop it, Ry," growled Fell.
Ryoval sighed. "Oh, very well. But it's so easy."
"We can't win, Bel," hissed Miles. "It's time to withdraw." The bodyguard was quivering.
Fell gave Miles an approving nod.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Baron Fell," Miles said formally. "Good day, Baron Ryoval."
"Good day, Admiral," said Ryoval, regretfully giving up what was obviously the best sport he'd had all day. "You seem a cosmopolitan sort, for a Betan. Perhaps you can visit us sometime without your moral friend, here."
A war of words should be won with words. "I don't think so," Miles murmured, racking his brain for some stunning insult to withdraw on.
"What a shame," said Ryoval. "We have a dog-and-dwarf act I'm sure you'd find fascinating."
There was a moment's absolute silence.
"Fry 'em from orbit," Bel suggested tightly.
Miles grinned through clenched teeth, bowed, and backed off, Bel's sleeve clutched firmly in his hand. As he turned he could hear Ryoval laughing.
Fell's major domo appeared at their elbows within moments. "This way to the exit, please, officers," he smiled. Miles had never before been thrown out of any place with such exquisite politeness.
Back aboard the Ariel in dock, Thorne paced the wardroom while Miles sat and sipped coffee as hot and black as his own thoughts.
"Sorry I lost my temper with that squirt Ryoval," Bel apologized gruffly.
"Squirt, hell," said Miles. "The brain in that body has got to be at least a hundred years old. He played you like a violin. No. We couldn't expect to count coup on him. I admit, it would have been nice if you'd had the sense to shut up." He sucked air to cool his scalded tongue.
Bel made a disturbed gesture of acknowledgment and paced on. "And that poor girl, trapped in that bubble—I had one chance to talk to her, and I blew it—I blithered. …"
She really had brought out the male in Thorne, Miles reflected wryly. "Happens to the best of us," he murmured. He smiled into his coffee, then frowned. No. Better not to encourage Thorne's interest in the quaddie after all. She was clearly much more than just one of Fell's house servants. They had one ship here, a crew of twenty; even if he had the whole Dendarii fleet to back him he'd want to think twice about offending Baron Fell in Fell's own territory. They had a mission. Speaking of which, where was their blasted pick-up? Why hadn't he yet contacted them as arranged? The intercom in the wall bleeped. Thorne strode to it. "Thorne here."
"This is Corporal Nout at the portside docking hatch. There's a . . . woman here who's asking to see you."
Thorne and Miles exchanged a raised-brows glance. "What's her name?" asked Thorne.
An off-side mumble, then, "She says it's Nicol."
Thorne grunted in surprise. "Very well. Have her escorted to the wardroom."
"Yes, Captain." The corporal failed to kill his intercom before turning away, and his voice drifted back, ". . . stay in this outfit long enough, you see one of everything."
Nicol appeared in the doorway balanced in a float chair, a hovering tubular cup that seemed to be looking for its saucer, enameled in a blue that precisely matched her eyes. She slipped it through the doorway as easily as a woman twitching her hips, zipped to a halt near Miles's table, and adjusted the height to that of a person sitting. The controls, run by her lower hands, left her uppers entirely free. The lower body support must have been custom-designed just for her. Miles watched her maneuver with great interest. He hadn't been sure she could even live outside her null-gee bubble. He'd expected her to be weak. She didn't look weak. She looked determined. She looked at Thorne.
Thorne looked all cheered up. "Nicol. How nice to see you again."
She nodded shortly. "Captain Thorne. Admiral Naismith." She glanced back and forth between them, and fastened on Thorne. Miles thought he could see why. He sipped coffee and waited for developments.
"Captain Thorne. You are a mercenary, are you not?"
"Yes. . . ."
"And . . . pardon me if I misunderstood, but it seemed to me you had a certain . . . empathy, for my situation. An understanding of my position."
Thorne rendered her a slightly idiotic bow. "I understand you are dangling over a pit."
Her lips tightened, and she nodded mutely.
"She got herself into it," Miles pointed out.
Her chin lifted. "And I intend to get myself out of it."
Miles turned a hand palm-out, and sipped again.
She readjusted her float chair, a nervous gesture ending at about the same altitude it began.
"It seems to me," said Miles, "that Baron Fell is a formidable protector. I'm not sure you have anything to fear from Ryoval's, er, carnal interest in you as long as Fell's in charge."
"Baron Fell is dying." She tossed her head. "Or at any rate, he thinks he is."
"So I gathered. Why doesn't he have a clone made?"
"He did. It was all set up with House Bharaputra. The clone was fourteen years old, full-sized. Then a couple of months ago, somebody assassinated the clone. The baron still hasn't found out for sure who did it, though he has a little list. Headed by his half-brother."