Conflict Of Honors by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

pulled sharply together as he looked up. "Does Sav Rid have delusions of grandeur? Sit, sit. Have you eaten? Will you drink? Did you sleep well?"

    Priscilla considered him. "I don't know. Thank you. Yes. No. Very. Did you?"

    "Not too badly," he said, raising his glass. "Though Mr. Saunderson's idea of a party is a bit risqué. We played charades. And sang rounds. The youngest Ms. Saunderson attempted to elicit my promise to wed her when she comes of age." He shook his head. "Alas, it seems clear she is more enamored of adventuring about the galaxy than she is of my elegant person, so there's a brilliant match gone begging. I have your test scores. Are you interested in discussing them now?"

    Priscilla made an effort to settle her stomach firmly in place. "Yes, sir."

    He ran his fingers in a quick series over the keys. "Physics, math, astrogation—yes, yes, yes. Colors red, colors blue, taste in books—yes?" He glanced up. "Prebatout. You recall the question? 'How many toes should a prebatout have?' And here is Priscilla Mendoza saying, 'As many as it feels comfortable with.' I've only known one other person to answer that particular question that way."

    "Have you?' Priscilla asked, hands ice cold. "Was she a suspected thief, too?"

    "Thief? No, a scout. Though, come to think of it, the two trades might have some similarities. I've never considered it in that light. I'll ask, the next time I see him . . . ." He returned to the screen, humming to himself.

    Priscilla curled her fingers carefully around the armrests, refusing to rise to the bait—if it was bait—of his last comment. Let him talk, since he seemed to like it so much.

    He moved his shoulders, gave the keypad a final tap, and leaned back. "You don't have a pilot's license? That won't do, will it? Let me see . . . forty-eight crew members, counting the captain—eight of them pilots. Too few by far. You'll have to study, Ms. Mendoza. I insist on it. Every ninth shift you'll be on the bridge for lessons."

    "Wait a minute." She took a breath. "You're signing me on? As a pilot?"

    "As a pilot?" he repeated blandly. "No, how could I do that? You're not a pilot, are you, Ms. Mendoza? That's why you'll need to take lessons. Certification's no problem. I'm rated master, all conditions—is something wrong?"

    "Forgive me," she said carefully. "I thought you were captain. And Master Trader, of course. You're a pilot, too?"

    "A little of this, a little of that. The Passage is a family enterprise, after all. Owned and operated by Clan Korval. And piloting runs in the blood, so to speak. I got my first class when I was sixteen Standards—been ratable for a few years before that, of course. Did my first solo on this ship when I was fourteen—but rules are rules, and they clearly state that no one may be certified until sixteen Standards. But I was saying—what was I saying? Oh, yes. Since I'm a master pilot, there won't be any delay once you earn your certification. Are you certain you haven't got a license, Ms. Mendoza? Third class, perhaps?"

    "I'm certain, Captain." Things were moving too fast; the torrent of words was threatening to unmoor her fragile hold on serenity. "Just what will my position be?"

    "Hmm? Oh—pet librarian."

    "Pet librarian?"

    "We have a very nice pet library," he told her gravely. "Now, details. We're nearly half done with the route. I can offer you flat rate from Jankalim to Solcintra—approximately a tenth-cantra upon docking. You'd be eligible for the low-man share of any bonus the ship might earn from this point on—finder's fees and special awards are the same for everyone, based on profit of found cargo and merit, as judged by the majority of the crew." He raised his glass. "Questions?"

    She had a myriad of them, but only one was forthcoming. "Why," she demanded irritably, "do you keep waving that glass around if you never drink from it?"

    He grinned. "But I do drink from it. Sometimes. More questions?"

    She sighed.