"As ready as I'll ever be, Calendra." He debated telling the other about his letter, then decided against it. One could never be too careful, especially since Eye had to be one of the peers normally in New Augusta.

"Let us hope he is more outgoing than on the last open court."

"Extroversion does not necessarily make an Emperor."

"What else does he have?" asked Calendra wryly.

Selern shrugged. "Too soon to tell."

"You may be right."

Selern followed Calendra through the portal, and the two walked side by side toward the Grand Throne Room.

LXVIII.

HAMLINE RODIRE WIPED his forehead again.

"You all right, squire?" asked the pilot.

"For some reason, I'm warm today, Jorio. Just warm."

"You are sure you are well?"

"I am fine, just fine," lied Hamline. More than ten years ago, it had seemed to easy to take on the whole planet. Now Corso was back, looking as young as ever, those hawk-yellow eyes demanding allegiance and-harder to deny-justice, and it wasn't quite so easy.

"Anyone trailing us?" The fact that he could ask the question without raising Jorio's suspicions about the reason would have embarrassed him a decade earlier.

"Not close, if they are."

Rodire leaned back in a wide rear seat, tried to ignore the whisper of the wind past the canopy as the flitter sped toward Bayou Rio, tried to push away the glimpse of sadness he had glimpsed behind Corso's eyes, the sadness that made Rodire feel decades younger than the wealthy Shaik.

Where Corso had come from, Rodire wasn't sure, though he had strong Imperial connections of some sort. Nor was the source of his wealth known, only that he had set up CE, Limited, with a unique biological process, one that allowed production of a cheap nonpolluting organic thread substitute for standard synthetic hydrocarbons and silicons.

From that, CE, Limited, had branched into a number of other products, including most recently battle and stun vests for the planetary police, since Carlina had discovered that the thread produced by the CE proprietary hothouse "plants" could be interwoven with synthsteel threads to produce a cheaper, lightweight, and effective body armor.

In return, the Ministry of Domestic Security had employed some of its agents to track down employees who had taken cuttings of the plants to insure that the company remained the sole supplier of the special organic thread.

Rodire frowned as he recalled the developments. He had not remembered Corso ever worrying about employees who tried to grow their own plants. Rodire had mentioned it once, and Corso had laughed it off by pointing out that even a garden full of the plants would only support a family and that most people didn't want to work that hard merely to get thread.

"We're nearly there, squire."

"Fine, Jorio. Fine. Just wait for me, please."

The pilot set the flitter down and eased it toward the left edge of the paved square on the gentlest of ground cushions.

The rear door popped open, and Rodire let his stiff frame carry him down the steps. He glanced around to get his bearings. It had been years, but from what he recalled, the inn should be off to his left.

He turned, taking a firmer grip on the case with the documents within.

"I beg your pardon, ser."

Hamline's head shot up at the intrusion, ready to snap until he saw the brown uniform of Domestic Security.

"Yes, officer?"

"I suggest you return to your flitter, ser. This area has been cordoned off... Hamline . . . And please try not to react too strongly, old friend."

Rodire choked down a response, and shot a glance at the officer, recognizing, with a chill, the same hawk-yellow eyes, realizing that the uniform was not quite standard.

"Yes, Officer Corso, I'll do . . . as you say." He managed to drag the words out.

Rodire turned back toward the flitter, which, he noted absently, Jorio had not shut down. The "security" man followed.

"What is the matter, squire?" Jorio peered from the cockpit.

"Nothing, except the officer has indicated that this area has been closed. We'll have to . . ." Rodire looked back at Corso.

"Why don't you return to your estate?"

". . . go on out to the country place . . . ."

"But, squire . . ."

Rodire reentered the cabin, and, while surprised that Corso followed, was more surprised when the Shaik lifted a stunner.

Thrumm!

Clank!

Corso yanked the unconscious pilot from his seat, kicking aside the dart pistol that had not been fired by Jorio, and set the body on the cabin floor before settling himself behind the controls.

"Let's see. . ."

Rodire watched, half-numb, as Corso's hands played over the controls, as the steps retracted, as the cabin door closed, and as the pilot's canopy snapped into place.

Click. Snap.

"There's probably another homer planted somewhere, Hamline, but we'll have to see. They can't object if you merely go home. Besides, they don't function well at low levels. Carlina's friends are out in force, although they didn't close off the pad. That was a liberty that I took. Funny . . . no one even protested, and that's not a good sign."

The attorney sank into his padded seat, not looking at his own pilot, who he had never dreamed would have been armed.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"You do. Or you will. You will. Got those forms? Fine. Make out the transfer orders to transfer thirty percent of the common stock from me to you."

"Thirty percent? Thirty percent?"

"Right. Gives you working control and no excuses. You still have twenty-one percent, I assume. How much does Carlina control?"

Rodire nodded to Corso's first question.

"Yes or no? How much? I can't look at the moment."

"Yes," rasped Rodire. "She controls around forty percent. Don't know what she owns. Worked under the rules that off-planet proxies are controlled by the administrator."

"That will end. Fill out the forms. Leave the cert numbers blank. We can fill those in later, when I give you the actual share certs."

Rodire opened the case, grasped it to keep from spilling the con-tents as the flitter banked.

"Just another few minutes . . ."

"Until what?" asked Rodire. His voice sounded hoarse.

"Until we're where we need to be."

The advocate listened to the higher roar of the wind and sharper pitch of the turbines. A glance outside told him that Corso had the flitter racing scarcely above the trees.

"Isn't this dangerous?"

"Not so dangerous as getting shot down, or tracking . . . some of the wilder storms I've been through."

Rodire forced himself to try to relax, but found his arms gripping the armrest on the right and the seat cushion on the left.

The whine began to drop. The wind's whistle dropped. The advocate felt his stomach rise into his throat before dropping back into place. He squinted as the summer light was replaced with dimness. The turbines quit.

"You can fly this, can't you?"

Rodire looked up to see Corso standing over him.

"Yes . . . of course . . . still do sometimes."

"Good. When I'm done, you'll have to fly yourself to your estate. Not that it's fair. I assume you know where we are."

"I can guess."

"Let's go."

Rodire stumbled out onto the bare tarmac. His eyes caught sight of an armed flitter across the bay, and another larger and blacker shape on which his eyes had trouble focusing. Rather than force his eyes to make out the black ship, since Corso was leading him there in any case, he turned to take another look at the flitter.

His eyes widened as he saw the two missiles mounted under the wing stubs.

"Corso . . . where . . . those are missiles . . . what . . . ?"

"Oh, yes . . . those. We should get to that shortly."

Rodire scratched his shoulder absently and followed the Shaik up the ramp into the shadowy ship. The space inside was smaller than he had anticipated, with only a small control room, and a crew room not much larger, where Corso sat him in a small collapsible chair.

"Will these take care of it from my point of view?" Corso thrust a file at him.

Rodire took the file. Inside were sets of the original share certs, all authenticated by the Imperial Bank and signed over. Only the transferee space was blank.

"How did you get that? They're not supposed to do that."

"It's legitimate, believe me."

"I believe you." Rodire shook his head. "That's more than enough. But what do you want me to do?"

"They're yours. Thirty percent of the common stock, plus the proxies for my remaining small interest."

The advocate wiped his forehead, once, twice. "For me?"

"Who else?" Corso caught his lower lip with his teeth, then let go. "Once Carlina ceases to be a factor, you need to be Chief Operating officer, at least long enough to get someone honest to run CE. That's what I want, and what El Lido needs. Get away from dealing with the government unless it's impossible not to. And destroy the company, plants and all, if you have to take orders from Domestic Security."

"But the Ministry of Security . . ."

"I'll make them leave you alone."

Corso turned away toward the wall of blanked screens and indicators.

"Commence Jam Trap Two. Commence Jam Trap Two."

"Commencing Jam Trap Two."

The coldly feminine voice that answered chilled Rodire to the bone. He wondered again who Corso really was, wondered how he had gotten involved. Rodire looked down at the fortune in his hands, then up at the slender man facing the controls.

Corso swung back to Rodire.

"Hamline. You have everything. Time for you to get to your estate. Sit tight. Sit tight for at least twenty-four hours. Don't leave your estate. Your town house is on the north side of Lidora, is it not?"

The attorney nodded.

"Call your children-you didn't remarry, I assume-and have them flit out within the next two hours. Call it a personal crisis, but get them here.

"Don't ask me why. Just do it. Hope all goes well, but the future is more important than a few people, even those I like, and that also includes you and me."

Corso barked a single, hard, laughing sound that expressed neither humor nor relief.

"Now . . . go. I'll open the bay port from here. Take the folder and your case."

Rodire mechanically took the folder and put it in his case, the case he had not even realized that Corso had brought from his flitter. He stood, and his steps carried him from the crew room and through the lock, down the ramp, and back to his own flitter.