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into the second room with his belt detector, "Clean here, too," he added after
a moment. "I like this less and less."
"Maybe it's not the Avalonians," Nathaniel murmured. "The native Artosans
here? Or the long arm of the Empire? Or some outsystem?"
The taller Ecolitan shrugged. "As a poor struggling professor must I consider
the alternatives."
"A small amount of that dialogue travels a long way."
"Yet journeys of light-years, they begin with but one pace." Sylvia mock-
glared. Nathaniel grinned.
"I'm cleaning up, dear Envoy. You may do as you please, but I do not intend to
continue to look like a frump." She gestured toward the connecting door.
"The message I have received." He backed away, then stepped through the door,
which closed with a distinct thump. The Ecolitan shook his head. The way
everything was going, resolving the trade wars between the Coordinate and the
Empire and getting Sylvia out of the Empire had been simple. Now, they not
only had to worry about conducting a study and resolving the problems behind
it, but he had to worry about Sylvia's mindset that morality required millions
of dead bodies before drastic action could be taken.
He'd been at the Institute too long. That was the way most people thought, and
being reminded of it by someone you cared for was a shock. He pursed his lips.
Or was it chat the current unsolved problems always seemed more insurmountable
than the past difficulties chat had already been resolved? He took a long,
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slow, deep breath before heading for his own fresher.
Later, with a clean set of greens on, a smooth face, and all the grime removed
by a fresher spray not much more sophisticated than a ancient shower,
Nathaniel rapped on the connecting door. "Time to head down to the lounge."
"In a moment."
"Let me know." He'd barely seated himself in one of the chairs when Sylvia
stepped through the door, carrying her datacase. "I'm ready for high tea. I'm
hungry."
"Also am I," he offered in mock seriousness. She rolled her eyes.
Whaler picked up his own case, then opened the door, noting that the room had
no external locks. "Trusting types, or they want us to be trusting," said
Sylvia. "Colony planets are often that way. They just execute thieves. It has
a rather convincing effect on honesty, even if a few innocents pay as well."
"Someone always pays."
Their boots echoed on the polished unicorn tiles as they walked toward the
steps and down them to the main floor. "The lounge is to the left," he
offered. "I recall."
Why was he always putting his field boots in his mouth? Sylvia knew where the
lounge was. He'd just been making conversation, and he was coming off as
incredibly patronizing.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, reaching out and squeezing his hand. "You didn't
mean it that way."
"Thank you." He smiled. "I was trying to fill the awkwardness, and . . . I'm
not very good at small talk that's not intellectual, and there . . ." He shook
his head. "Unless you're playing a role," she added. "You're good at that, but
I get the feeling you don't enjoy it with people you like."
"Right."
Sylvia knew more about him from a relatively short period of casual
observation-or was it casual?-than he'd ever expected.
They stepped through the green-curtained archway into a room that could have
been transported from centuries past, with dark wooden tables and matching
chairs upholstered in a green velvetlike material. A silver tea service sat
upon the wooden cart beside the white-linened circular table, where Robert
Walkerson sat facing the doorway. The other tables were vacant.
The port officer rose as they entered the room. "I can see that you two are
looking more chipper."
The two Ecolitans took seats on either side of Walkerson, who sat down and
gestured toward the tea cart. "Tea or liftea?"
"Liftea," answered Nathaniel. "The same," murmured Sylvia. "It's not the same
as real Avalonian tea."
"Nothing, I have heard, quite resembles the tea of New Avalon, nor the effect
it has on those who are unused to it." Nathaniel inclined his head.
"Try some of the cakes." Walkerson nodded toward the circular platter in the
middle of the table.
"Did you find out how it happened?" Nathaniel glanced at the handful of cakes
in the middle of the green-rimmed, offwhite china platter. Two were round and
white, several were dark and square, and one had white icing with green
stripes.
"Ryster-Jeeves found what looked to be a leak in the fuel line. With all the
damage and the heat, it's hard to tell, but he thinks it was metal fatigue.
Our groundcars here aren't new, and you know what it costs to ship them. We
don't have that kind of manufacturing up yet."
"There's not much in the way of mining," said Sylvia. "How much of a problem
is that?"
"Artos doesn't have satellites and no real hydrocarbons in its geologic past.
Metals mining has to go deep." The Avalonian lifted his cup and inhaled the
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steam. "We do get some good tea, but its chancy yet, and it's from under
plastic,"
"That looks to be good china. Might it be local?" asked Nathaniel.
"It is. Off the highlands of the back continent. Gheric-Shrews found it, but
it's more of a hobby for her than honest commerce."
Nathaniel tried a small brown cake, the one with green-andwhite striped icing,
forcing himself to eat it slowly, while not gagging on a texture that seemed
heavily saturated with a rather raw substitute for rum. "Potent, those are."
"I agree." The Ecolitan took a long sip of liftea. Sylvia tried a white cake,
and from her polite and small mouthfuls, Nathaniel suspected her choice had
been little better than his.
"Did they determine what occurred to your man?"
"The explosion drove glass fragments through him. Ugly. Very ugly." The Port
Chief shook his head. "I can't believe Halverson's dead. He seemed such a nice
young fellow, and he was fresh from New Brista."
"Most tragic." Nathaniel shook his head. "All too often, inadequate capital
investment is paid for in the currency of human life."
"That would be an odd way of putting it." Walkerson's tone was even, almost
flat.
"Governments are fond of chat," Nathaniel answered. "It is often easier to
explain away loss of life with greater facility than investment of credits and
resources. When they do not wish to provide sufficient capital assets-whether
groundcars, flitters, or fusactors-those under pressure to complete the task
at hand are put at greater risk. Some die who would not do so otherwise." The
Ecolitan shrugged. "All chose involved shake their heads sadly, decry the
tragedy, and continue to undercapitalize the venture."
"You've seen it before, I see."
"In many places," Nathaniel agreed. "Gold makes honest men thieves."
"Do you share your colleague's cynicism, Ecolitan FerroMaine?" Walkerson
turned to Sylvia.
"I'd have to say that Professor Whaler is being extraordinarily polite in his
phrasing. Governments prefer to spend lives rather than credits." Sylvia took
a sip of her liftea.
"About this survey," ventured Walkerson after the silence had filled the
lounge. "Where will you begin?"
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