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from grimacing. At his
flower-loving attorney’s insistence, he had planted a small rose garden in the
rear yard of his prison-home and tended the blooms faithfully every day.
Joaquin claimed that the image of a disgraced ex-Cabinet Minister tending his
garden as he once tended his constituents would excite sympathy from the
public, but Evan nursed the conviction that the man just needed a place to
stash the overflow from his own extensive cultivations.
    “I hope you didn’t fertilize it yet. You need to wait at least
another two weeks.”
    “Yes, Quino.”
    “Then you must use the special mix I gave you for the Jewellers’
Loop hybrids, not the standard mix I gave you for the others.”
    “Yes, Quino.”
    “And you must wait until late afternoon. Spread no more than two
hundred grams around the base of the plant, then follow with a liberal
watering.”
    God help me. “ Yes , Quino.”
    By the time the lift reached the ground floor, Evan had mentally
dismembered the Crème Caramel with an ax and was about to start on his
attorney. The door swept aside; he stepped out of the car and almost collided
with a man dressed in summerweights. Short. Stocky. A round, tawny face cut by
a perpetual scowl. Black eyes hidden by sloping cheekbones and drooping lids.
    “Hello, Roshi.” Evan stepped around the supreme commander of the
Commonwealth Service, then dodged sideways to avoid his aide. “Inspecting your
fences, are you?”
    “Evan.” Admiral-General Hiroshi Mako pulled up short, then looked
in apparent disinterest from him to Joaquin. Only if you looked hard could you
detect the mild working of his broad jaw that betrayed his unease. But then,
what could he say? How are you? What brings you here? “Hellish weather
we’re having.” When in doubt, there was always the weather.
    Evan racked his brain for a suitably neutral reply. “Plays hell
with the roses.”
    Mako’s eyes clouded as he watched the lift doors close. He stepped
aside as his aide grabbed for the closing door and thumped the
keypad—unfortunately for him, the man’s efforts proved wasted. “You raise
roses? Ah yes, I saw something about that on one of the news shows.” Mako’s
guttural bass kicked upward a tone in grudging interest. “Tamiko raises them,
too.” His voice warmed as he spoke his wife’s name. “The J-Loop varieties give
her the hardest time, judging from her muttering. She refuses to accept mere
climate as an excuse for failure to thrive.”
    “She should contact Dr. Banquo at the Botanical Gardens—the woman
was born on Phillipa and knows everything about Jewellers’ Loop hybrids.” Joaquin
leaned forward in shared conspiracy. “The secret is in the fertilizer.”
    That’s government in a nutshell. Evan caught the aide
eyeing him and tugged at his somber, dark blue jacket. Do I look that bad? He had lost weight, and he hadn’t been sleeping well, but what else would you
expect—?
    “ Damn. ”
    He turned to find Joaquin standing with his hand pressed to his
stomach and a look of stricken concentration on his face. “Watch my bag.” He
dropped his briefbag at Evan’s feet and hurried toward a discreetly marked door
near the lobby entry.
    Evan answered Mako’s questioning look. “New cook. She tends toward
a heavy hand with some of the more pharmaceutically active colonial herbs.”
    Mako winced in sympathy, then turned to his aide. “See if you can
find out which herbs she used, Colonel. The last thing we need at next month’s
off-site is an attack of the trots.”
    “Yes, sir.” The man pulled a small handheld from the slipcase on
his belt and muttered a notation.
    Evan watched the man; whoever he was, he didn’t look like the
typical Base Command poop boy. Distinctive, in the close-clipped, wire-lean way
that typified Roshi’s New Service. The nasty scar that grooved his face from
the edge of his nose to the corner of his mouth accentuated his sharp-featured
homeliness, its dull white color a marked