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dresses, tight from the torso down but again with the broad, rippling sleeves. About half of the people wore headgear, some sort of tight-fitting cloth or leather skullcap matching one color from the rest of their attire; many of the skullcaps featured a sort of visor, a curved band of what looked like heavily polarized transparisteel, that fell before the wearer’s eyes or could be raised up to their foreheads.
    Belts were common, usually narrow single-color loops with no buckle or attachment showing. Some people wore three or four in different colors; others wore them looping from one hip to the opposite shoulder; others still wore both waist and shoulder belt rigs.
    And weapons were everywhere. From most of these belts hung sheathed long blades, short blades, pistols of some variety. Wedge could see few in the audience who were not armed in some way; even the children had knives at their belts.
    It occurred to Wedge, belatedly, that he could see no security detail on duty around this stage. He glanced atTycho; the colonel’s return glance indicated that he, too, noticed the lack.
    Wedge said, “Tomer, I suppose I’m not concerned if you’re not, but what are you using for security here?”
    Tomer’s answer was tinged with amusement. “Why, the crowd.”
    “Ah. And what if they wanted to cause a problem?”
    “Others would stop them,” Tomer said. “For instance, let’s say someone jumped on the stage with the intent of killing you. He’d give you fair warning, of course, and choice of weapons.”
    “Of course,” Wedge repeated.
    “Then you could choose to kill him yourself or refuse him. If you refused, he should withdraw, but might theoretically press the issue, if he was stupid.”
    “That’s where security issues become a trifle more important,” Wedge said.
    “If he pressed the issue, which is a grave breach of etiquette—”
    Wedge heard Janson snort in amusement.
    “—then someone in the crowd would probably shoot him dead, just to please you.”
    Wedge glanced back at the diplomat. “Just like that.”
    “Just like that.”
    “Oh, stop worrying, Wedge.” Janson’s grin was infectious. “It’s obvious they adore you. You could throw up all over yourself and they’d love it. By nightfall they’d all be doing it. They’d call it the ‘Wedge Purge.’ They’d be eating different-colored foods just to add variety.”
    Wedge felt his stomach lurch. He half turned to glare accusingly at Tycho. “I thought maybe you’d be able to do what I never could. Get Wes up to an emotional age of fourteen, maybe fifteen.”
    Tycho gave him a tight little shake of the head. “No power in the universe could do that. Not Darth Vaderand the dark side of the Force, not the nuclear devastation of an exploding sun.”
    Janson waved at the audience. “They’d be competing for distance and volume.”
    “Wes, just shut up. Tomer, how is it that you know this reprobate?”
    The diplomat offered a rueful shake of his head. “I was once a pilot. Briefly. Tierfon Yellow Aces. My talents lay elsewhere, though, so I ended up in a less violent service.”
    Janson nodded amiably. “His talents certainly did lie elsewhere. They weren’t in landing. Tomer here made the Aces’ list for a landing almost horrible enough to kill him two different ways.”
    Tomer sighed and ignored him.
    “His Y-wing was shot to pieces and his repulsorlifts were dead,” Janson continued. “Had to land, though, or he’d never get dinner. Luckily we were based on a low-grav moon at the time, big long stretch of duracrete serving as a landing zone. All the other Y-wings clear off the landing zone and he lines up on it, descends toward it like he was landing an atmospheric fighter without repulsorlifts. Drops his skids as he gets close. The skids take the initial impact but he bounces, so he’s like some sort of hop-and-grab insect all down the duracrete. But he’s lucky enough that he stays top side up. Finally he’s bled off a