Ghosts of Columbia by L.E. Modesitt Jr.

lifted my handset, Gilda was saying, “Just a moment, Minister vanBecton.”
    “I have it, Gilda. Johan Eschbach here. I understand you had called.”
    “Bill vanBecton here. I do appreciate your prompt return of my call, Doktor Eschbach.” At that point, there was a click as Gilda left the wire. “I regret the necessity of the call, but I was hoping you could pay me a visit here within the next few days. The return of the prodigal son is a mixed blessing.”
    I stiffened at the deadly words recalling me to service, but only said, “Mixed indeed. I could be there on Friday afternoon.”
    “That would be more than adequate. Call it a consulting assignment based on past services. Of course, as in the past, we will pay your daily fee and expenses, and a bonus upon completion of your work.”
    “I thought I recognized the number.”
    “If so, you’ll know my office. I look forward to seeing you on Friday.”
    “And I you. Good day, Minister vanBecton.”
    “To you also, Doktor Eschbach.”
    I set down the handset slowly and looked out into the graying skies and swirling
leaves. Being recalled to service in the Spazi was scarcely what I had expected. While it was technically possible, I’d never heard of it happening before. And why now? Were Congresslady Alexander’s charges of Austro-Hungarian infiltration correct? Or did vanBecton know of my work for Ralston?
    I took a deep breath as the leaves swirled beneath me on the green. Nothing was ever simple, and nothing ever ended. I took another deep breath.

CHAPTER SIX

    W ednesday started like Tuesday, with a smiling Marie Rijn.
    “Today I intend to wash and press the curtains, Doktor. They’re dusty, and the windowsills are a disgrace. You may be neat, but …”
    The implication was that I wasn’t clean enough, and that the white lace curtains—did any truly Dutch residence have anything besides shimmering white lace curtains?—weren’t either.
    “I do appreciate it, Marie.”
    “I know, Doktor. Long hours you work and there being no family to be as clean as it should be …”
    I nodded and searched out my overcoat, leaving the house to her.
    The day was gray and windy. I didn’t see mister Derkin at Samaha’s, not that I probably ever would, and I did get to my office early.
    After reading and discarding David’s rewriting of the minutes of the last faculty meeting, I picked up the wireset and tried to reach Llysette. She answered neither her home number nor her office extension. Perhaps she was in class, although she usually managed to avoid teaching before nine-thirty.
    I rummaged through my case and laid out a draft of the test for Environmental Economics. Was the question on infrastructures too broad? Would they really understand—There was a rap on the door.
    “Johan?” Young Grimaldi stood in the door of my office. In his European-cut suits he was always chipper, and I suppose I would be too with that much money, even if his family had been forced to flee from Ferdinand. “Do you have a moment?”
    “Almost an hour, if you need it.” I grinned. “What’s on your mind?”
    He slipped into the hard chair across the desk from me with that aristocratic elegance. “They reopened Monte Carlo—the casino.”
    “Ferdinand did? When?”
    “Sometime last week. There’s always some delay in the news coming out of the Empire.”
    “At times I have thought it would be nice if our reporters had some delays imposed. Then a lot of trash wouldn’t make it to print.”
    He looked appalled. So I added, “I don’t mean Ferdinand’s kind of censorship—just delays. Does it really matter whether an aging movie star like Ann Frances Davis could never forget her one great love, an obscure football announcer named Dutch? Or whether Emelia vanDusen is going to wed Hans van Rijssen Broekhuysen and unite the two largest fortunes in New Amsterdam?” I took a deep breath. “The reopening bothers you?”
    “It shouldn’t. I’ve lived almost half my life