"Cecelia . . ."

"Yes. "

"You look . . . younger. Dye your hair?"

Cecelia's heart sank. Of course she looked younger; she had rejuved several years before, to a nominal forty. He had known that. They had slept together after that. "Rejuv, Kevil," she said

briskly. It was hard to look at him, but she knew she must. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you were hurt," she said.

"Me . . . too. I can't . . . remember . . . all."

Was the slurred voice from the injury, or from drugs? Cecelia glanced around, but saw no litter of

pillboxes.

"I've been to visit Ronnie and Raffaele," she said. To her delight, the spark in his eyes brightened.

"How are . . . they?"

"They're fine, except that the developer's done something foul with the colony they're on." She

told him about it, gauging his attention span by his expression. For a few minutes at a time, he seemed the old Kevil-his eyes bright, his face intent. Then he would blink, and the expression slacken. She stopped, and waited, and when he seemed focussed again she went on.

"You're . . . really . . . talking to me." He smiled, a genuine smile this time.

"Yes, of course."

"You . . . understand . . ."

"Not completely, Kevil. But I know you need something to chew on."

"Yes. They keep asking me . . . questions . . . tests . . . can't remember. . . ."

"I hated those," Cecelia said, remembering her own convalescence, the idiocy of the questions in

the standard tests.

"Name three vegetables, name five fruits . . ."

"Name the CEO of Excet Environmental Group," Cecelia said, as if it were another on the list.

"Silvester Conselline," Kevil said instantly, then looked blank. "What was that?"

"A reasonable question," Cecelia said. "And one I wanted the answer to. Ronnie and Raffa are, as I

said, practically marooned on Excet-24, and Brun says that's an Excet Group colony planet. I want

to know who's responsible for shorting the colony of its startup supplies and staff."

"Probably not Silvester," Kevil said, sounding even more awake now. "He's been spending most of his time trying to convince the universe he's a great composer. But he does tend to sign anything anyone puts in front of him."

A tap at the door. The nurse looked in, his expression exactly the one Cecelia least liked to see.

"Ser Mahoney needs his rest, madam. Perhaps another time?"

"Go on-take a break," Cecelia said to the nurse. "I'm experienced with this-I've been a convalescent myself."

"But his lunch . . . his diet-"

"And I can cook. Go on now."

Finally he left, protesting and warning and muttering. Cecelia watched through the scan pickup

until she had seen him go all the way down the street and board a tram.

"Officious," she said to Kevil, when she came back to him.

"You think . . . he's up to something," Kevil said.

"Nurses are always up to something," Cecelia said. "But in addition to that, yes. Now." She pulled the scrambler she carried out of her bag and turned it on. Kevil gave her a puzzled look. "Remnant of my times with Heris Serrano and those Fleet refugees she foisted on me as crew. Oblo whatever- his-name-was. Good advice, I realized after awhile. Always carry a means of tapping someone else's data, and always protect your own conversations."

Kevil grinned. "You always were smarter . . . than people thought."

"Yes, and so were you. Kevil-what's happened? Why only one nurse? Why haven't you had a proper limb replacement?"

"No money."

Cecelia stared at him, shocked. "But Kevil-you've always had money, pots of it."

"No more. It . . . isn't there."

"But-what happened?"

"I don't know. One day there, then-it wasn't. George tried-couldn't find out-"

"Someone fiddled the databases? But-people would notice-"

"Not unless it was their account. The people who normally handled my accounts would notice, unless

they'd been transferred."

"And that's not hard at all . . ." Cecelia mused. "And there are new Ministers in the relevant Ministries, and a huge muddle all over . . ."

"Yes. I think . . . it happened . . . when Bunny died."

If that were true, it would mean-no, could mean-that it was related. That the same person or

persons planned the attack on Bunny's life, and Kevil's fortunes.

"I know . . . something . . . I know it's because I know something . . . but Cece, I can't

remember what it is I'm supposed to know. I can't remember. I can't think-" A muscle in his face twitched; his hand shook.

"Kevil . . . relax. Please. Let me fix you lunch-yes, you come with me into the kitchen-and we'll

talk some more. I know I can help."

It took a struggle to get Kevil up, and Cecelia fought down her fury when she saw his unbalanced,

lurching gait. But in the kitchen, he seemed more comfortable in the chair, his good arm propped on the wide wooden table, than he had in the study.

"I'm assuming you don't have a cook because of the money-"

"Yes."

She fixed him fruit, bread, cheese. There were custards in the refrigerator, but she didn't trust

them-custards could conceal drugs. He ate, clumsily, with his left hand.

"Kevil, do you remember giving me your access codes?"

A blank look. "Access codes?"

"The second night. After we decided it wouldn't work. You said, 'If I'm ever in the state you were

in, I want to know you're on my side.' And you gave them to me. You've forgotten, but I haven't."

"Cecelia-"

"When George gets home, we'll get to work. Tonight. There's no time to waste."

"I can't . . . help much."

"You did that, years ago. We'll take care of it." Somehow. Cecelia scolded herself internally-she was turning into everyone's helpful old aunt again. Well, if she was going to take her turn being civic-minded, helpful, and useful, she might as well make a thorough job of it. She'd had another brilliant idea.

Waltraude Meyerson, tenured professor of antique studies on loan to the Regular Space Service as a consulant on Texan history and culture, sat quietly in the corner of the room with her recorder on, watching the NewTex women argue about religion and education without getting involved. She hoped. This was the first conflict she'd seen among the women who had fled Our Texas, and she was fascinated.

It had been months, and only now was the rigid rank structure breaking down. The first wives of the Rangers had each run her own household without interference from the other first wives-Primas, they were all called. Prima Bowie, the one Waltraude felt she knew best, actually ranked second in the hierarchy; the Ranger Captain's first wife outranked her. That was Prima Travis, but she was older and had less vitality than Prima Bowie. Usually she let Prima Bowie make decisions, but not today.

They were arguing about schools again. Under Familias law, the children-all of them-were supposed to be in school. Parents could choose from a wide variety of schools, or school their children at home, and the requirements were-to an academic like Waltraude-minimal. All children must become literate in at least two languages, study some very basic science and mathematics, and the Code of Citizens. But these women had steadfastly resisted sending the children to school from the beginning. No one had been able to figure out why, because the women would not explain what they considered self-explanatory. Now, in the argument, Waltraude began to grasp the problem.