fashion, but all five of the newcomers nodded their heads.
“Our ship fell under attack in the heliopause,” said the first man, round-bellied with dark skin and elaborate dark-green and yellow tattoos. DeKarn knew him as Ruh Pinckney. “The trade ship carrying us fell into trouble among the asteroid belt. The Marketmaker was close by and was able to take us on board. We are grateful to Captain Sgarthad, and ask you receive him as a friend.”
“Trouble?” asked Tross, his brows rising. “What has become of Captain Iltekinov?”
“He is recovering in my sick bay,” Sgarthad said, gravely. “He and his crew were taken ill. I hope they will be around and about soon.”
“Have you brought disease among us?” asked Twelve sternly.
“Not at all,” Sgarthad said, turning his charming smile upon her. “My chief medical officer said it was undoubtedly something in the crew rations—they would not have served it to their guests, of course.”
“No,” Pinckney insisted. “We’re all well. We wish to take our places. We have been monitoring your negotiations, and wish to register our disapproval.”
“On what point?” demanded Fourteen, the skin tightening over her sharp cheekbones.
“Several.” Pinckney drew a glittering memory crystal out of his sleeve and looked around for a port in which to shove it.
“You are not seated yet,” Zembke reminded them. “All points will be taken in order as has always been done. You must be recognized first.”
“Very well,” said the middle-aged woman with bleached-white hair at his side, Tam Quelph. She shot a quick smile around the room. She beckoned to her delegation. They all offered a bow to Sgarthad and made for the empty seats at the narrow end of the table. Immediately, the screens behind them lit up with images of the Yolk system, their system flag, and an image of their planetary administrator, an able and admirable man but so ugly that DeKarn’s eyes automatically turned back to Sgarthad as an antidote. He smiled broadly at her. She looked away hastily. The Yolk system anthem played. Automatically, she clapped a hand on the table to turn down the volume.
The rest of the councillors returned to their seats. DeKarn activated the Boske symbols in the screens around her colleagues, as did her fellows of the other systems. They were at last complete in number.
“As a member of the host delegation, I welcome the representatives from Yolk,” she said formally, nodding to them. “Eleven, will you read into the record the minutes of the meeting of the last full council of three years ago?”
“Yes, First Councillor,” Eleven said. Dob Rengin was a slim, quick-moving man with a long, bony face and bright blue eyes. His white and red tattoos looked as haphazard if he had put them on himself in hasty strokes and crossbars. He stretched both hands over the tabletop.
“Just a moment,” quavered the Twenty-Third Councillor, raising a shaking hand toward Sgarthad. “Why is he still here?”
“Yes,” Zembke said, narrowing an eye at the visitor. “This meeting is closed to anyone not of the council.”
“Do you speak for the entire group?” Sgarthad asked him.
“Yes, he does,” DeKarn said, cutting off the others before they could protest one way or another, “provisionally, pending discussion. Our discourse is not for your ears or any other outsider.”
“But we want him to stay,” Pinckney said urgently. “He is a valued friend.”
“Thirty-Sixth Councillor, it is against the rules,” DeKarn said. The entire Yolkovian contingent looked distressed. Their gratitude was understandable, but reluctance to have him out of their sight was puzzling. They had had a trying experience making their way to the council. DeKarn hated to add to their misery. “Very well, let us put the question to a vote.”
“I protest!” shouted Fourteen, pointing a nic-tube at Sgarthad. “This is a disruption of protocol! There are thousands of questions on the
“Our ship fell under attack in the heliopause,” said the first man, round-bellied with dark skin and elaborate dark-green and yellow tattoos. DeKarn knew him as Ruh Pinckney. “The trade ship carrying us fell into trouble among the asteroid belt. The Marketmaker was close by and was able to take us on board. We are grateful to Captain Sgarthad, and ask you receive him as a friend.”
“Trouble?” asked Tross, his brows rising. “What has become of Captain Iltekinov?”
“He is recovering in my sick bay,” Sgarthad said, gravely. “He and his crew were taken ill. I hope they will be around and about soon.”
“Have you brought disease among us?” asked Twelve sternly.
“Not at all,” Sgarthad said, turning his charming smile upon her. “My chief medical officer said it was undoubtedly something in the crew rations—they would not have served it to their guests, of course.”
“No,” Pinckney insisted. “We’re all well. We wish to take our places. We have been monitoring your negotiations, and wish to register our disapproval.”
“On what point?” demanded Fourteen, the skin tightening over her sharp cheekbones.
“Several.” Pinckney drew a glittering memory crystal out of his sleeve and looked around for a port in which to shove it.
“You are not seated yet,” Zembke reminded them. “All points will be taken in order as has always been done. You must be recognized first.”
“Very well,” said the middle-aged woman with bleached-white hair at his side, Tam Quelph. She shot a quick smile around the room. She beckoned to her delegation. They all offered a bow to Sgarthad and made for the empty seats at the narrow end of the table. Immediately, the screens behind them lit up with images of the Yolk system, their system flag, and an image of their planetary administrator, an able and admirable man but so ugly that DeKarn’s eyes automatically turned back to Sgarthad as an antidote. He smiled broadly at her. She looked away hastily. The Yolk system anthem played. Automatically, she clapped a hand on the table to turn down the volume.
The rest of the councillors returned to their seats. DeKarn activated the Boske symbols in the screens around her colleagues, as did her fellows of the other systems. They were at last complete in number.
“As a member of the host delegation, I welcome the representatives from Yolk,” she said formally, nodding to them. “Eleven, will you read into the record the minutes of the meeting of the last full council of three years ago?”
“Yes, First Councillor,” Eleven said. Dob Rengin was a slim, quick-moving man with a long, bony face and bright blue eyes. His white and red tattoos looked as haphazard if he had put them on himself in hasty strokes and crossbars. He stretched both hands over the tabletop.
“Just a moment,” quavered the Twenty-Third Councillor, raising a shaking hand toward Sgarthad. “Why is he still here?”
“Yes,” Zembke said, narrowing an eye at the visitor. “This meeting is closed to anyone not of the council.”
“Do you speak for the entire group?” Sgarthad asked him.
“Yes, he does,” DeKarn said, cutting off the others before they could protest one way or another, “provisionally, pending discussion. Our discourse is not for your ears or any other outsider.”
“But we want him to stay,” Pinckney said urgently. “He is a valued friend.”
“Thirty-Sixth Councillor, it is against the rules,” DeKarn said. The entire Yolkovian contingent looked distressed. Their gratitude was understandable, but reluctance to have him out of their sight was puzzling. They had had a trying experience making their way to the council. DeKarn hated to add to their misery. “Very well, let us put the question to a vote.”
“I protest!” shouted Fourteen, pointing a nic-tube at Sgarthad. “This is a disruption of protocol! There are thousands of questions on the
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