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the size of his family’s estate at Rogubarachno, huge and ancient. Older than his father’s House, in a sense. Mayon had already been a surgical college of considerable antiquity and status when the Aznir were still busily annexing worlds without the tedious interference of the Jurisdiction and its impressively efficient Fleet; that was well before their crucial first encounter with the Jurisdiction’s Bench, and the subsequent substitution of armed conquest with aggressive market management. The classrooms he’d occupied during his student years had ranged from back rooms in drinking houses to the blindingly sterile theaters where infectious diseases were treated; but he didn’t think he’d ever sat a class in someone’s office until now.
    “Good-greeting, Student Koscuisko, Student Noycannir. Thank you, please be seated.”
    Slept in teachers’ offices, yes; quarreled with the Administration over the interpretation of some test results or clinical indications, perhaps. He’d never sat in class with only one fellow Student, either. Huge as Mayon complex was, it had always been packed to fullest capacity with students and staff even so, because it was the very best facility in known Jurisdiction Space for those who wished to learn the art of surgery and medicine. Only the strict planning codes that had controlled construction for over five hundred years, Standard, had prevented Mayon from becoming claustrophobic. Student housing varied naturally according to the needs and the resources of each Student; but there had been sky and air enough for everybody, even in the heart of the great Surgical College itself. Andrej had only been here at Fleet Orientation Station Medical for two days. He missed the night breeze already.
    “You’ll have reviewed the assigned material, of course. Rhyti, anyone? Please, help yourselves.” The Tutor’s gesture indicated the serving-set on the Tutor’s squarish shining work-table, just between Andrej and Student Noycannir. She had declined to speak to him except to return his greeting. Andrej didn’t care whether she liked him or not; there were too many other things to think about. He’d never had much use for overly compulsive Students. Aggression could cover for lack of skill for a time, that was true. Sooner or later, though, competitiveness failed before superior ability.
    Andrej fixed himself a flask of rhyti in polite silence. Joslire had brought cavene for fast-meal this morning; Andrej didn’t like cavene, and had said so. He would have had some now, though, if the Tutor suggested it. In Andrej’s experience teachers expected everything they said to be taken as good advice or outright direction. But Noycannir just sat there — and did not move to take a flask for herself when Andrej nudged the serving-set closer to her elbow.
    “You will have noted that the Term is to comprise six Standard months of instruction, twenty-four weeks. Student Noycannir, you’ll not need to adjust your time-sense, since Chilleau Judiciary is of course on Standard time. Student Koscuisko, I expect you’re still on Standard time from Mayon, unless going back to Azanry reset you to home-chrono. How long were you home?”
    Azanry did not follow the Jurisdiction Standard, but he hadn’t been back there for long enough to have forgotten. “Two months, Tutor Chonis. Perhaps five weeks, by local reckoning.” Not long at all. There had been plenty of time to embrace his old servants, to tour his fields, to visit his land-pledges. Time enough to compromise the lady Marana and quarrel with his father. Not long enough to change his father’s mind or make him understand.
    “Well, you’ll have leave again soon enough, I’m sure. As I was saying, the Term is twenty-four weeks. Perhaps thirty, if the Administration identifies a weakness in some aspect of your professional development.”
    The Remedial Levels, that was what Chonis meant. An extra cushion of time to serve as catch-up for dull