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a piercing stare. He stepped between us and put his arm around Dellin’s shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. The Liaison First said something to the Liaison Second in a voice too low for me to catch his meaning.
    “Seat yourself, Keepress,” said M’lennin. I did so, choosing a spot before the platter of parr. I winced when my bottom settled on the padded bench.
    M’len, standing over me, grinned and reached under the table. When his hand reappeared, it held a cushion. I took it and placed it beneath me, and sat again, this time gingerly.
    The Liaison First took his armed chair at the narrow end of the table. The pilot sat across from me. He introduced himself as Dalf Tragett, of Beten, a B.F. planet in the adjacent quadrant. I had had Betenese in Astria. They are tiny powerhouses, brilliant and sensitive. The Betenese are among the best mathematical minds in the B.F., much sought as astrogators. We exchanged suitable pleasantries and I asked after two captains I knew from his home town. He was flattered, surprised at my interest, and we chatted.
    Dellin had not seated, but continued his inspection of the tapestries that hung from the gray walls of the huge and lofty dining hall, that inspection which my entrance had interrupted.
    I was piqued.
    M’lennin was openly amused. He leaned back in his steel and sueded armchair, sipping brin. As host, he should have served us, but he did not.
    I rose to serve the pilot, and turned to face M’len, letting my hair fall over my shoulder so the Betenese could not see my face. I stuck my tongue out at the Liaison First, and he choked on his frothy mouthful.
    “Brin is a lightly intoxicating drink, brewed from grain called binnirin, which grows both wild and cultivated all over Silistra and is one of our staple crops,” said I, handing a crystal glass of amber liquid to the pilot. He sipped it hesitantly, then nodded and took a larger swallow.
    “It will not, of course,” I continued, “intoxicate a Beten, unless one of such prodigious appetites were to drink, perhaps, a whole barrel.”
    We both laughed. I poured another tall foaming glass and carried it across the hall to Dellin, where he was dutifully inspecting a Torth sculptured panel. I looked back over my shoulder and saw M’len handing a pipe to the pilot.
    “Liaison,” said I, a safe distance from his broad back, “will you taste brin?”
    He turned and looked past me toward the table. We were well out of earshot, if we kept our voices down.
    “Keepress,” said he, extending his hand for the glass, “I will have whatever you see fit to give me,” and his eyes were frank and appreciative.
    I tossed my head, letting some of my nearly dry hair fall over my breast. The curling ends rested on my naked thigh.
    “My couch-price,” I breathed, “is fifty gold dippars, in Astria. Here, however, I am at the Liaison First’s disposal. Should you make an arrangement with him, I would have no choice but to honor it.”
    A cloud crossed Dellin’s face. Had I misread him?
    “I would give you that chance,” said he. His voice was low but angry. “I would make an arrangement with you, not M’lennin. I want nothing not freely given.” I saw that he had much to learn of Silistra.
    “And I cannot,” I explained, “give you what is not mine to give.”
    He looked at me, not understanding, leaning his shoulder against the Torth panel, sipping his brin so that I could not see the expression on his face.
    “You are incredibly beautiful,” he tried again.
    “Surely worth fifty gold dippars, then?” I asked.
    “Doubtless,” he confirmed.
    “I cannot lower my price, my value, my status, by lying with a man like some binnirin farmer’s daughter, for nothing. Do you understand? On Silistra, such things are not done. If you would have me this night, you must pay my couch-price to M’len, or strike with him some bargain.” I smiled reassuringly. “You have much to learn before you go to Arlet.”
    He raked his