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COCKTAIL HOUR
"Rogues!" Jeremy said, raising his glass. "To rogues and renegades and mercenaries!"
The new client gazed down into the stemmed cocktail glass, viewing its contents (a brandy alexander) with the direst suspicion. Nevertheless, he drank the toast.
"Welcome!" Jeremy said. "Enjoy your first visit!"
"*First* visit?"
"Oh, you'll be back. Just like all of our satisfied customers."
"There's no point in arguing with a psychostrategist," Vye said, licking a splash of brandy off his upper lip. "Even a rogue one. He'll just tell you 'I told you so.'"
"How does it work?" the client asked. He was a sturdy-looking middle-aged man, with dark hair that could use a cut. You could tell his clothes had been luxurious once, but they were worn now, even threadbare. If he found anything to smile at (he hadn't so far, camp patter made him uncomfortable) he tended to cover his mouth with his hand, as if his uneven, stained teeth were something of an embarrassment.
"A simple biological process," Vye said. "And you have nothing to worry about. It's not really hungry, you see."
Jeremy cooed, in his best psychostrategist voice, "We have an arrangement with our charming neighbors topside. The Hommiks don't care to give house-room to baby girls. Theoretically, then, the Seska come and take them in."
"But," Vye said. "It's been a hard winter. So they're not quite so nippy on their pins."
"Forget I asked," the client said. "When? Right away?"
"What have you brought us?" Jeremy Carnell asked. "The money, of course, but what else?"
"Well, I didn't know what to bring. There's a crate of mellodisks and viztapes and bookplaques. And a suitcase full of money."
"The problem is, you see," Carnell said, "When you know you can do anything, anything at all, satisfy any sort of appetite...well, you get the most awful craving for novelty."
"New blood," Dorian said.
"I expect that that explains the kairopan trade," the client said. "Almost time for another harvest, isn't it? I can remember the last one...that was my first command..."
"The money--bullion?" Dorian asked, stemming the flood of reminiscence. The customers paid well, but not well enough to justify listening to war stories.
"Zerok gold. The best. I've done all right for myself, you see. In the mercenary trade. Done well enough that I can afford to do something for myself."
THE NEXT MORNING
Carnell tapped on the door. "Here's your breakfast tray...how did you sleep?"
"Like a baby," the client said. He wasn't sure whether he should mention whoever--whatever--visited him during the night. Perhaps it had been a hallucination, after all. And if not, he didn't know if it was considered an amenity, like the soaps and shampoos in the ensuite bathroom, or whether it was the equivalent of a hostess gift. Or an excise tax.
He liked to think that he gave as good as he got.
"Your new kit is in the wardrobe," Carnell said. "Part of the service."
The client pointedly swung the breakfast tray onto his lap and stolidly ate toast until Carnell went away. He drew the line at voguing.
When he opened the wardrobe, he did smile this time, startled but pleased by the brilliant white teeth that the mirror revealed. He appreciated the irony of the beautifully tailored Federation blacks, fitting his long limbs. The color suited his newly fresh, fair skin and set off his blue eyes. He cinched the belt around his tight waist and drew up the mirror-shining boots.
There was a guest book by the airlock, but Tarrant didn't bother to sign it.