“Name?”
“Laslo Boorck.”
“Imperial I.D. or passport?”
The hefty man handed across the Imperial I.D., looking down on the purser from near two hundred centimeters. In turn, the purser placed the flat card in the reader.
“Palmprint.”
“Yas…” The hand went on the scanner.
The scanner remained silent for a moment, then flickered once, then turned green.
Bleep.
“Welcome aboard, citizen Boorck.”
Citizen Boorck ambled a few steps, then waited.
“Next. Name?”
“Lestina Nazdru.” The woman, with her red-and-silver-streaked hair, was clearly a different type from the sedate and overweight agricultural specialist whom she accompanied. Her nails glittered, and her eyelids drooped under their own weight.
The purser did his best not to stare at the translucent blouse.
“I.D., please.”
“Of course, officer.”
She placed her hand on the screen with a practiced motion. The long nails glittered alternating red and silver.
Again the scanner hesitated, but finally flickered green.
Bleep.
“Welcome aboard…”
“Thank you.” Her voice was low, a shade too hard but pleasant, if vaguely professional.
The purser smiled faintly as the woman rejoined her husband, if their reservations could be believed. He’d seen all types, and a lot of the October-May marriages looked like the pair he had just passed on board the M. Monroe. Older and heavier man, wealthy, but with minimal taste, and an attractive wife not that much younger, but of even more questionable taste and background.
Remembering the hesitation of the scanner, he glanced at the short list on his screen to compare profiles, but neither the heavy man nor his companion matched the handful of names and profiles. The automatics were supposed to match names against prints. The list contained individuals for whom various law enforcement or military authorities had placed a detention order. He scanned the list again, then looked up.
“Next.”
Behind him, the October-May couple walked toward their silver status stateroom, holding hands casually.
“You like the ship?” asked the man.
“A touch beneath you, Laslo, but it will do.” She looked along the narrow corridor. “Shouldn’t we turn here somewhere, dear?”
“I believe so, honeydrop. I do believe so.”
The man stopped and fumbled with the silver-colored card.
“All passengers. All passengers. The Monroe will be leaving orbit station in five standard minutes, bound for Certis three. We will be leaving Accord orbit station in five minutes, bound for Certis three, with a final destination of Alphane four. If you are not bound for Certis three or Alphane four, please contact ship personnel immediately.”
The stateroom door opened, and the man withdrew the silver card, gesturing to the woman.
“After you, dear.”
“You can be so courtly when you have to, Laslo.”
He followed her inside. Two built-in and plush chairs flanked a table. Over the table was a screen. The view on the screen showed the mixed blue-green of planetary continents and water covered with swirls of clouds, as seen from orbit.
The woman closed the door and flopped into one of the chairs.
“Take a load off, Las.”
“In a minute…”
“They got any entertainment on the screen? Who wants to see a dumb planet every time you travel? Seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
“You’re so right, dear. But Accord has such marvelous agricultural techniques. I thought it might look different from orbit.”
“Laslo, you dragged me here on business, left me in that tiny hotel while you went running through the countryside. You still smell like manure. Once we get to Alphane…We’re going to Alphane for some civilized times and some real fun. And some comfort. Freshers with perfume, not old-fashioned showers. Real Tarlian caviar. You promised!”
“So I did. So I did. And where are we? We are on an Imperial ship bound for Alphane.”
The silver-and-red-haired woman kicked off one shoe, then the other.
“Are our bags here yet?”
“They should have arrived before us. Let me check.” He opened the artificially veneered closet door. Two expensive and expansive black leather bags, matching, were set on the racks, side by side.
“They’re here.”
“Tell me, Laslo, why was that ship’s man looking at his screen every time he checked someone in?”
“Looking for some criminal, I suppose.” The heavy man eased himself into the other chair.
“Do they ever look for women?”
“I would suppose that they might. Women break the law as much as men…although, dear, I suspect that they do not get caught as often.”
He took her left hand, the one on the table.
She disengaged it deftly.
“Laslo, I feel rather tired, and it’s likely I will continue to feel tired until after I return to civilization.”
The man sighed. “I understand, dear. I do understand.”
“You’re always so understanding, Laslo. It’s one of your great strengths, you know.”
“Thank you.” The man looked up at the screen. A slight shiver passed underfoot.
“The Monroe is now leaving orbit. The Monroe is now leaving orbit. The dining room will be open in fifteen standard minutes. The dining room will be open in fifteen standard minutes. Please confirm your reservations in advance. Please confirm your reservations in advance.”
The woman smoothed her long hair back over her right ear, then over her left ear, tapped her fingernails on the table.
“You might damage the grain of the wood, dear.”
“What grain? Can’t you recognize cheap veneer?”
“I suppose it’s the principle of the thing.” He looked straight into her muddy brown eyes. “Will you be ready for dinner soon?”
“I will be ready for dinner when I am ready. That shouldn’t be long.”
“In that case, I will meet you in the lounge, dear.” The man levered himself out of the chair, straightened his short jacket, and moved to the stateroom door.
“That’s a dear.”
The doorway opened, then closed with a firm click.