“Not well enough. I got shot in the gut anyway.” He shivered; whatever the experts said about the impossibility of remembering pain, he would never forget his.
“Well, then—what do you really like to do?”
“Talk,” George said promptly, surprising himself. Then, more slowly, “Talk, and . . . and make people do things. Just by talking at them. Sometimes it backfires.”
“Yes,” his father said. “Sometimes it does, but when it works . . . you know you’ve just described my career.”
“Law?! I wouldn’t be any good at that!”
“Because you’re lazy, self-indulgent, and sometimes drive people crazy?”
“That’s not how I’d have put it, but yes.”
“George, you’ve defined yourself in relation to Ronnie and Buttons and their friends for years. Rich, idle, spoiled, all that. But you’re not, really. That’s why they find you odious. Not because you are idle and spoiled, but because you pretend to be, and they scent it like hounds scent blood. For instance—suppose you tell me about Varioster Limited versus Transgene.”
George scowled, and hesitated. It had popped into his head, but he didn’t like where his father was headed. He gave a precis of the case, then said, “The only reason I know about it is that you left the brief out one time when I was trying to find your signature pad so I could get a signed excuse for class.”
His father grinned. “George, most kids who want to forge a signature simply use a copy algorithm in their notepads. They don’t wade through thousand-page briefs, and remember them well enough to give a cogent precis twelve years later.”
“Was it that far back?” It surprised him; he’d thought it was only seven or eight, and said so.
“Not quite,” his father said. “So you remember that as well, do you?” Tricked again. At least it had been by an expert. “You might not find it as boring as you think, George. After all, you’ve been sneaking looks at my work for years—has it been that bad?”
“Well . . . no.” But law school would be. He could just imagine day after day with a cube reader.
“The thing is,” his father said, “when you’re in law, everyone assumes the odiousness comes from that. And you can save most of it for the courtroom.”
“Law school . . .” he muttered.
“Law school is where I met your mother,” his father said. “It’s not all cube readers.”
The ginger-haired girl he vaguely remembered from that Hunt Ball grinned at him from across the room when he went in to take the placement exam. She had certainly grown up, he thought. He had enjoyed that evening, but he hadn’t seen her since he’d left Sirialis. Now—she winked at him and he winked back. She’d never called him odious. He looked at the exam, and realized it was full of things he actually knew something about.
Brigdis Sirkin reported to the crew lounge of the great liner, hoping her luck had changed. Lady Cecelia had found her this berth. She had said goodbye to Brun and Meharry and the rest the day before, over in the Regular Space Service section of Rockhouse Major. Now she was committed to a civilian life. She had few regrets.
“Brigdis Sirkin?” That was the third mate, checking crew aboard. “Welcome aboard! We’ve heard about you; we’re all glad to have you on our ship.”
Here they found her exotic. Her adventures convinced them she was extraordinary, someone of exceptional courage and wit. As the weeks passed, Sirkin relaxed, finding new friends and a lot less tension. She found it hard to define the difference; the crew were all highly competent, and the standard of courtesy was as high. But the great ship had polish without an edge, like a ceremonial, a work of art and not a weapon. She liked that. She was glad to have known Meharry and Brun and the others, glad to know what protected her and her crewmates . . . but even more glad that she was no longer trying to live up to that standard.
The curtained alcove gave them privacy; the cooks gave them the best food for light-years around. They ate slowly, taking the time to savor every nuance of flavor. Their table conversation lingered on the antics of favorite relatives: nieces and nephews, for the most part. The waiter, carrying away the remains of the fish course, commented to the kitchen worker who received the tray, “It’s so nice to see real quality. Ladies who appreciate good food, who take the time to be courteous to the staff. Just sitting there talking about their families without a care in the world. Reminds me of my own auntie.” Later, when they were giggling over something he didn’t understand, he reported again. “Perhaps a bit tipsy—all that champagne, you know—but they’re rather sweet, if you know what I mean. Perfectly harmless.”