"Skipper," Tissaurd said, "you know as well as I do. When a personal message comes into the COMM room, the whole ship knows what it says, especially when the Skipper's on the address. It's called a 'grapevine.' "
"A 'grapevine'?" Brim demanded. "What the xaxt is a grapevine?"
"Real grapevines are something like a logus bush, I think," Tissaurd answered with a frown.
"Spreading plants of some sort that grow on one of the little Rhodorian planets. But you get the meaning.
Look how the word spread when you got the unclassified message about old R.F.S. Rurik."
"WUN-der-ful," Brim grumped. "Isn't there any privacy at all?"
Tissaurd smiled. "Not through the unclassified message room, there isn't."
Brim was about to open his mouth when Tissaurd put her hand on his arm, "And I'm not finished, Mister Wilf Brim," she continued. "We'll clear up the thraggling COMM center some other time.
Right now—when there's nobody else in the wardroom—I want to talk about that Princess of yours, because, frankly, I don't think she has your best interests at heart. And that's putting it mildly."
"What're you trying to tell me?" Brim demanded.
"Is that question coming from Captain Brim or my friend and associate Wilf?" she demanded,
"Wilf," Brim grumped.
"In that case," Tissaurd said, looking him directly in the eye, "it is my studied opinion that your Margot Effer'wyck—or whoever is in control of that particular Margot Effer'wyck—is out to make serious trouble for you."
"Trouble? Margot?"
"That's the way I read things the one time I spoke to her," Tissaurd answered. "Possibly serious trouble. I think a liaison with her right now might prove to be dangerous."
"Oh, come on, Nadia," Brim snapped with a sudden feeling of harassment. "I know I said something was missing in our lovemaking a while back. But surely that doesn't qualify as danger, does it?"
"There is no way I can prove anything, Wilf," Tissaurd said. "But since the Chief thinks there's something wrong, too, maybe you ought to talk to him before you simply dismiss this out of hand."
By this time, Brim had heard enough. With a faltering grip on his temper he rose to his feet and scowled down at the tiny officer. "Nadia," he growled, "I understand and appreciate your concern for my well-being. I also appreciate the Chief's. But xaxtdamnit, I will not tolerate you two prying any further into my personal life, no matter what your good intentions are. Do you understand?"
"Your call, Wilf," Tissaurd said with an easygoing shrug. "You won't hear any more from me.
Sorry I got you upset."
Brim turned toward the door. "I am not upset," he grumped as he started for the bridge. But he was. And for the next two days, avoided all but the most official contact with either Tissaurd or his old friend Barbousse....
As Ambridge promised in his message, Margot contacted Brim shortly after her arrival in Magor aboard another of The Torond's powerful Dampier D.A. 79-II cruisers. "Tonight," she pledged breathlessly, "I have informed my retainers that I shall dine at the Palmerston—alone. Can you join me?"
"Of course," Brim answered. Somehow, it made sense. The Palmerston Club, located at the edge of Magor's diplomatic sector, was a purlieu of those who longed for the distant elegance of cities in more sophisticated homelands. To Brim, it always invoked thoughts of the quiet, elegant clubs in Avalon's urbane Courtland district. "It will be perfect..." he said.
It was.
He caught an early-afternoon shuttle to Magor and arrived at nearly the same instant as she. They surrendered their rented skimmers to white-gloved valets in happy silence before walking arm in arm under a long canopy toward the elaborately carved stone doorway of the Palmerston. Inside, a very formal majordomo dressed in ruffled shirt, cutaway coat with long tails, satin knickers and stockings, and slippers—all in white—recognized them by name and bowed elaborately. "Ah, Captain Brim, Baroness LaKarn," he rhapsodized, "you honor our humble establishment."
"Thank you, Westley," Brim said. "It is always a pleasure to visit the Palmerston." With Margot on his arm, he followed the man along a thickly carpeted passageway lined with huge portraits of antique landscapes. This led into a candle-lit chamber filled with the most compelling odors of food, perfumes, and smoke—both from a great fireplace and spiced cigarettes of a dozen exotic persuasions. The ceiling was low for its expanse, and supported by huge wooden beams that gave the impression of antiquity.
Sinuous music from a string orchestra blended with the faint clatter of tableware and hushed conversations in a dozen languages as they made their way among tables occupied by all manner of patrons; human, Bearish, flighted, reptilian—even a threesome of the pellucid Spirit races from outside the Home Galaxy who had only recently deigned to trade with their more substantially propagated neighbors. Brim's table, not far from the glowing fireplace, was perfectly located for discreet privacy.
"I love this place, Wilf," Margot whispered as the steward decanted a fine old vintage of Logish Meem.
''I do too," Brim agreed softly. The warm, dimly lighted room was comfortable in a very intimate manner that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"What does it remind you of?" she asked suddenly.
Brim frowned. "Well,," he began, sipping the superb old meem, "it does look a lot like those places off Courtland Plaza in Avalon, I suppose."
Margot smiled and nodded. "It's designed to look like one of those. But what else does it remind you of?"
Brim peered around the room. He'd dined here on a number of occasions, and indeed, there had been something familiar about it. But he'd seen so many similar establishments over the years... then it struck him. "The Mermaid Tavern on Gimmas Haefdon!" he exclaimed. "Of course."
"Isn't it wonderful?" Margot said dreamily. "It brings back so many good memories. Remember the first time we met there?" Her eyes focused somewhere in a different time and space. "You'd swallowed one of those locator transponders, and just as you were going to ask me upstairs, the Base called you up for duty."
"I never was certain," Brim said with a rueful smile. "Would you have gone upstairs with me?"
Margot smiled mysteriously. "That's my secret," she said. "But I will confess I was giving it some thorough preconsideration at the time—just in case you might ask."
Brim sighed theatrically. "Life is a lot too short to miss chances like that.''
"Over the years, we've more than made up for that one opportunity, wouldn't you say?" Margot asked with a suggestive little smile.
"Even once or twice at the Mermaid Tavern, if memory serves," Brim answered easily. "Yet I'm not sure we ever did make up for that particular night—or could. Some opportunities are so fundamentally unique they pretty much exist in their own Universe. Think about it," he said, looking Margot directly in the eye. "That was during the one special time in our lives when we weren't yet certain how the other would react, A time of... exploration, I suppose—special excitement." Instinctively, he took her hand. "By the time we did eventually fall in bed together, we were good friends, and I think both of us knew it was only a matter of time until it happened. Remember? You had most of your dress off just inside your suite at the Embassy. And we were rutting for all we were worth only a few cycles later."
"Yes," Margot whispered, her cheeks coloring. "I'd built up to it in my mind the whole evening."
She smiled. "I couldn't wait to feel you inside me. I'd been drenching my scanties since our first dance."