"What sort of things?"

He shrugged minutely. "Just about everything. Machines, electronics, abused hand tools, failing marriages, badly written manuscripts, you name it."

"Computers?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Good! I'm sure the community will make a lot of use of you." She cast about for some pretext for continuing the conversation, and fell back on an old standby. "Have you had lunch?"

He raised an eyebrow. "No. Got any suggestions?"

"Well," she said, "we could go back to my place, but it's a four-mile hike. There's a fresh-fish shack just up the way, though. Straight from the Kropotkin to your table. Join me?"

"Okay," he said. "I hope it's not too expensive. I'm a little low on funds at the moment."

"Not a problem, Martin." She smiled her best smile. "It'll be my treat."

They sat over fried whitefish sandwiches drenched in tartar sauce, accompanied by crisp French fries and apple juice. Though he said little, he was perfectly attentive. She chattered, gossiped, and waved her hands like a teenaged girl after a school dance, and his eyes never wavered from her face. Some of the other patrons tried to feign disinterest; others didn't bother. Presently Martin drew her attention to their half-abashed audience.

"Why are they so interested?"

Althea looked quickly around her. She giggled as several pairs of eyes swerved back to the meals set before them.

"My family's sort of a big deal in this area," she said. "And a lot of the other clans have tried to marry me to their scions."

He cocked an eyebrow. "And failed, I hope?"

You hope? "Well, of course!"

He looked pleased, and she strained hard to repress a second giggle. "Then again," she said, "it might be that there's a new stud in town. A young and handsome one that nobody knows anything about, at that."

He peered theatrically at her. "Who?"

"C'mon!"

He laughed. "You can't hand me a straight line like that and expect me not to use it."

"Jokester?"

"When the occasion warrants."

Althea smiled broadly. "I like that."

"Glad to hear it. So what do you enjoy, other than fried fish on chabata buns and running like a cheetah on nitro?"

"Hm, let's see." She pretended to ponder. "Free fall engineering. Propellant chemistry. Vacuum tech." He sat forward, new interest kindled in his expression. "High-efficiency photovoltaics. Orbital mechanics." She paused as if struck by recollection. "Oh, and making great gouting gobs of money."

He chuckled. "Spaceflight, eh?"

"You betcha. Why not? It's how the Spoonerites got here. It's really kinda sad that we haven't continued that tradition."

He smirked. "Does one flight make a tradition?"

"Well, one really long one might!"

"Okay." He sat back and folded his hands across his middle. "But what about the great gouting gobs of money?"

"It takes a lot to build a manned spacecraft. I want to get up to the Relic. I've already got a lot, but it'll take just about all of it just to build an orbital spaceplane that can reach it, and I have some expensive plans for once I'm up there."

He nodded. "Who's going to design this spaceplane?"

"Who else?"

"You're quite sure of yourself."

She suppressed the tart reply that rose to her lips.

"Yes, Martin, I am."

He regarded her critically but optimistically, with a definite sense of approval. His gaze teased at the possibilities circulating in her brain. Presently he nodded in a fashion that said just making sure without need of words. Warmth rose in her again.

"Have you started?" he said.

"Not quite yet. Why?"

"Think you could use a foil?"

"Hm?"

"You know, a devil's advocate. Someone who'll try to pick your plans apart from an outsider's perspective, look for stuff you missed." His expression turned markedly sober. "Spaceflight's a chancy undertaking. When things start to go wrong, you can't just go next door and ask to borrow some tools. I wouldn't want to lose my new friend to an uncrossed t or an undotted i."

She looked directly into his eyes for a long moment. "You're serious."

He nodded.

"You're pretty sure of yourself, too."

He shrugged. "To be good at fixing things, you have to be able to spot flaws."

"This isn't about fixing things, Martin."

"You might be surprised."

Silence stretched between them. He sat unmoving. She was hovering between Let me think about it and Sure, come on aboard, and leaning ever more strongly toward the latter, when she caught a particular face at the edge of her vision.

Barton Kramnik sat alone at a small table across the room. He was staring at her as if he hoped to wound her with the pressure of his gaze. She met his glare and smiled coolly at him, and he lowered his eyes to his plate.

"Someone you know?" Martin's voice was soft.

She nodded. "Not a friend."

"Well, then let's be off." They rose, and he offered her his hand. She took it.

She steered the two of them past Kramnik's table and stopped them there.

"Hello, Bart. Enjoying your lunch?"

He glared at her again but did not reply.

"The lady is addressing you, sir," Martin said, "gently and courteously." Althea's gaze darted to his face. "A gentleman would reply in kind."

Althea came to full alert. The edge on her companion's words was entirely implicit, yet she was in no doubt of it, nor of what powered it.

The Song of the Alpha Male. Being sung over me, at that.

Her pulse quickened.

"Yes," the Kramnik scion ground out at last. "I am."

Althea grinned. "So did we." She looked fondly up at Martin and squeezed his hand. "Let's go, dear."

When they were outside, he said, "One of your suitors?"

She shuddered. "Please, let's not go there. Up for a longish walk?"

"Hm? Where to?"

"Morelon House." The encounter with Barton Kramnik had goosed the innate wildness that she seldom allowed free rein. She decided to give it its day. "There are a couple of things I'd like my new friend to see."

"Oh?" Martin's smile turned tentative. "Not things you could show me here and now, I take it?"

"Well, I could," she allowed, "but it might shock the other patrons. Besides, I think my new friend has a couple of things I'd like to see." She widened her eyes to their widest. "And feel."

He regarded her soberly for a long moment. "You're quite sure you want me to be that good a friend?"

She opened her mouth, closed it abruptly.

-It's called chivalry, Al.

Hm? What are you talking about, Grandpere?

-Comes from an old word for 'horseman.' It refers to the gentleman's code. A gentleman would never encourage a woman he admires to put herself out for him, much less at risk of heartbreak, disease, or an unplanned child. Beside that, you've let him know that you're rich. He wants you to have every chance to rethink your offer.

Hm. It's not like he twisted my arm.

-Irrelevant. A gentleman...strike that: A good man tries to protect the women around him from anything that might endanger them, including their own flights of fancy. This appears to be a good man. Very.

I hardly need to be protected, Grandpere.

-But he doesn't know that, does he?

Ah. Gotcha. A little reassurance would be in order, then?

-Just so. Proceed deliberately, but with confidence.

Count on it.

"Martin," she murmured, "I'm not a virgin. I've had regular injections of Inconceivable these past thirteen years. I've got an immune system that can't be beat. And if I even thought you might be trying to 'play' me, I wouldn't invite you home; I'd rip off your head and drop-kick it into the river. So: yes or no?"

He glanced at the restaurant door, looked back at Althea, and squeezed her hand. "Okay, let's be off."

They were.

"Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer!" she gasped.

"Oh my dear sweet God," he gasped in reply. He started to withdraw from her body, but she tightened her arms around him, forbidding it, and he relaxed.

"What on Hope was that?" she murmured when she'd regained some self-command.

He took a moment to reply.

"I don't know, Al," he said. "Just calling it an orgasm would demean it. What about you?"

She pretended briefly to be lost in thought. "Well, if I go by the stories, the Chaos would come off second-best." She flexed her pubococcygeal muscles in a rippling caress. He groaned in sweet torment as his body surrendered a last trickle of his seed.

"That's all I've got for you, Al." He propped himself on his elbows and gazed into her eyes. "I felt like my whole body was emptying itself into you." He grinned. "What a mess that would have made, eh?"

She laughed and pulled him back down, savoring his weight and the warmth of his flesh against her.

"You've got a point there," she said. "I'm not sure I could hold that much." She squeezed him gently, and felt his mouth curve against her cheek.

The mansion was nearly silent around them. No one had seen Althea bring her new friend into Morelon House. She contemplated the probable range of Charisse's, Elyse's, Chuck's, and Teodor's reactions to him, and decided to present him as a new neighbor and a dinner guest. Anything more personal could surely wait.

Smart girl.

Grandpere! This is not a good time.

No? It looked like a really good time from here. You and Martin were rocking the seismographs on Sulla.

Grandpere...

Yes, dear?

Are you always listening in?