The waiter returned with a pot of coffee and cups. Grampas Ray and Trouble came through the door as the coffee was poured. As they stopped across from Kris, the waiter took them in with a glance. ''What do you want?'' he said, then frowned, worried his lower lip for a second, then his eyes got very big. ''Sir.''
Trouble seemed used to the reaction. He glanced around the table and ordered. ''Beer, dark, fresh brewed, one,'' he said, pointing at himself. ''Two,'' he pointed at Ray. ''Three,'' as his moving finger took in Harvey and he got a return nod. ''Four'' was Tru; ''five'' was a very bug-eyed Tom. Poor guy seemed torn between falling through the floor or taking the beer. Jack and Kris shook off the offer. ''Five then.''
As the waiter headed for the bar, Trouble took the last chair. In a second, Jack was up and offering his chair to Ray.
''Mr. President,'' he said.
''Not president today,'' Trouble said in supreme gloat as Ray clouded up. Ignoring him, Trouble turned to Kris.
''Who are these good-looking guys?''
''I think you met Tom at the reception, if he wasn't too busy hiding.'' Tom tried to nod at her grampas and glower at Kris, all at the same time. ''He also was my right arm when the Typhoon took on the rest of the squadron.''
''Well done, son,'' came from both older men. And the rest of Tom's face turned as red as his freckles.
Kris figured Tom had about as much concentrated Longknife attention as he could survive. ''This other fellow is my new Secret Service agent. Jack, meet Trouble. He's supposed to be my great-grandpa, but to Mother, he's just trouble.''
''Still?''
''She hasn't forgiven you for introducing me to orbital skiffs.''
''Woman has too long a memory.''
''Excuse me, I'll be over by the door,'' Jack said, backing away while still trying to keep his attention fully on the people talking to him as well as do the required search sweeps. Almost Kris laughed, but she remembered too well whose job it was to take her bullet.
Trouble grabbed the agent's elbow. ''No way. You hang around us, you might as well know the seamy side. Besides, this old codger sitting next to me needs special protection.''
Jack eyed Ray. ''From whom?''
''Himself,'' Trouble chortled.
''I may slit my throat,'' Ray grumbled.
''Don't let him fool you,'' Trouble cut in, grabbing a chair from the next table and pulling it over for Jack to settle into. ''Ray's tickled pink.''
''It's a lousy idea,'' Ray spat. ''It's half-baked. They don't know what they really want, and this whole lash-up is a poor way to fix whatever problem they want solved.''
Still unenlightened, they paused while the drinks arrived. Trouble raised his mug. Automatically, the others followed suit with beer or coffee. ''To His Majesty, King Raymond the First of that name,'' Trouble intoned.
Kris clanked her mug with the rest, mainly because Trouble was busy making sure there was a loud enough clink to drown out Ray's raspberry response to the toast.
''King who of what?'' she said after a sip of her coffee.
Glowering at Trouble, Ray explained. ''Some jokers who are old enough to know better think they'd have an easier time keeping sixty or eighty planets together in some kind of federation if they had a king sitting in the middle of all their politicking. By tomorrow they'll have thought it through and realized what a crappy idea it is.'' Ray raised his glass. ''To peace and quiet in a well-earned old age.''
''Hear! Hear!'' Harvey said, joining the toast.
Kris raised her mug with a heartfelt ''Hear! Hear!'' of her own.
Ignoring them, Trouble leaned back and took a long pull from his beer. ''In your dreams,'' he muttered.
''They want an ombudsman,'' Ray snapped. ''Well, I can be a fine ombudsman. I don't need a crown on my head to listen to a lot of whining losers.''
''Without a crown, you won't last a week. You'll tell them to stuff their bitching and take off for Santa Maria.''
''Well, at least there, I'm doing something worth doing.''
Trouble just shook his head. ''Not like you'd be doing here? Ray, old boy, everything we built eighty years ago is coming apart. They want you to help keep a chunk of it together.'' Kris nodded; glancing around the Scriptorum, she saw students whose lives were being decided for them by a lot of old men and women. Her own life among them. She and all these kids would be a lot better off with the likes of Grampa Ray in the mix.
''Damn it, Trouble, we served our time. In any decent world we'd be dead and pushing up flowers, and kids like Kris here would be having all the fun. It's not fair.''
Involuntarily, Kris leaned back in her chair, counting the different emotions racing through her gut. She was glad her grampas were still around for her to get to know when she needed them. Yes, it was her world out there, but she didn't mind sharing it.
Trouble reached across the table to rest a hand on his friend's elbow. ''You still miss Rita.''
''Every day, but that's not what I mean. They really should be Kris's worlds.''
Now Kris leaned forward to touch a man who was more an icon than a person to her. ''Grampa, they are my worlds. But that doesn't mean there's not room in them for you, too. They belong to me and the kids at the other tables…and they're yours, too. It looks like we're all in trouble. And if we need someone that we all remember as a good guy to have around to hold it together, well, did they say, ‘Buck up and soldier,' back in your day?''
''Probably more often than in yours,'' Ray grumbled.
''And next he'll be telling you about walking twenty miles to school, uphill and in the snow, summer, winter, spring, and fall.'' Trouble grinned. ''Weren't you the one saying a minute ago how we ought to respect them and let them have their world?''
''Let them have it, yes. Respect them, never.''
That got a laugh. Still, it was Ray who sobered first. ''I still say this king idea hasn't been thought through. Like not letting anyone in the king's family sit in their parliament, what did they call it, ‘House of Commons.' ''
Kris, the political science student, sat up straight. She and her friends had come up with some really far-out ideas during their bull sessions at the Scriptorum. This was a new one on her. ''What are they trying to do?''
''They want to cut down on the money in politics,'' Trouble explained. ''For the twenty years Ray's king, none of his kin can run for the House or donate money to any political party or campaign. They think that will keep big money out of politics. We noticed that your dad, Prime Minister Billy, wasn't there.''
Kris knew that money was the fuel and bane of politics. This approach had the advantage, if nothing else, of never being tried before. However, the mention of Father meant this scheme was going to stretch out to a certain Kris as well.
''Hold it, Grampa. I think you'd make a great king. But that doesn't mean you're going to make me a princess, does it? ‘Cause I've got to tell you, I've had all the problems a growing girl can handle just being the prime minister's brat.''
Trouble barked a laugh, but Grampa Ray just stared across the table at Kris. Then he smiled. Kris had the feeling that fleets of Iteeche had died after such a smile. ''Trouble, what if I make someone a duke or count?''
''Didn't know they were going to let you.'' Trouble stroked his jaw. ''They didn't say anything about more royalty.''
''There's a lot of things they didn't say anything about.''
Kris shook her head. ''Why do I think I should have kept my mouth shut?''
''No, Princess,'' Trouble said with an evil grin as Kris winced, ''that's just the kind of talk your grampas like. Gives us old coots great ideas.''
''No, bad ideas. Very bad ideas,'' Kris insisted to a grinning table.
Grampa Ray sat there eyeing them with a tight smile for a moment, looking very much like Kris thought a king should. Maybe the human race could use a king just now.
Before she finished the thought, Ray got to his feet. All followed him. He raised his mug, and five rose with his. ''To us, and those like us. May there always be enough of the few to keep the worlds turning for the many.''