Cauldron of Ghosts by David Weber, Eric Flint Read Free Book Online Page B

masquerading as biologists—”
    Again he glanced at Arai. “Meaning no offense. Just telling it like it is.” The smile became a grin.
    Back to the imaginary want ad: “—for the purpose of hunting down any and all practitioners of the slave trade, which individuals are noted—no, notorious—throughout the inhabited portions of the galaxy for their cruelty and depraved indifference to human life, including that of starship mechanics.”
    Triumphantly, he set down the imaginary tablet. “Ha!”
    Ruth had waited for him to finish. Impatiently, because she was impatient with silliness by nature. But she’d still waited. She knew Artlett well enough by now to know there was no point in trying to derail him when he was hell-bent on riding his broad (broad? say better, oceanically expansive) sense of humor to the end of the track.
    “If we might return to reality for a moment,” she said, “ your duties will keep you on Parmley Station most of the time. A construct that is not only one of the largest space-going installations within light-years of its solar system but is by now almost as heavily armed as an orbital fortress.”
    Hugh shook his head. “Bit of an exaggeration, Ruth. The defenses and armaments on Parmley Station aren’t designed to fight off a battle fleet.”
    Andrew started to say something, probably along the lines of claiming that Arai was supporting him, but Hugh’s deep voice rode over him easily. “But they’ll squash any pirates or slavers who show up as easily as swatting an insect.”
    He gave Artlett a beady gaze: “As you know perfectly well, since you were paid to be a consultant when we designed those defenses.”
    “Still.” Andrew was nothing if not stubborn. He waved his hand in a gesture that might mean . . . pretty much anything. “Pirates. Slavers. Dangerous people, no matter how you slice it.”
    He decided to fall back onto more sensible grounds. “And like I said, I’d miss Steph.”
    Ruth pounced. “Why is that? I just talked to her this morning and she seemed quite amenable to relocating to Parmley Station.”
    Andrew stared at her. “She . . . But—she told me—it was just a few weeks ago!”
    Ruth waved her hand airily. “That was then, this is now. She’s had time since to gauge the real possibilities at either place. Here, on Torch, it seems like everybody and their grandmother is setting up a restaurant. The competition is brutal. The hours, long; the income . . .” The princess made a face, as if she had any idea of the harsh realities of trying to run a small restaurant.
    Which, of course, she didn’t. But Ruth Winton never let petty details like her own ignorance get in the way of a good argument. She pressed on.
    “Whereas on Parmley Station—” The royal expression became positively beatific, as she contemplated the commercial advantages of opening a restaurant there.
    “It’s a busted enterprise,” jeered Artlett. “A pipe dream on the part of my great-uncle Michael Parmley—a screwball if there ever was one—who poured a fortune into building the galaxy’s most derelict orbital amusement park.”
    “That was then, this is now,” interjected Hugh Arai. “As you know perfectly well, Andrew.” He leaned forward. “Today, it’s on the verge of becoming Beowulf’s central hub for covert operations against Mesa and Manpower.”
    “The best clientele you could ask for!” Ruth said enthusiastically. “Beefy commando types. They eat like horses and tip like the upper crust.”
    Most of that was pretty accurate. Not all covert operations people were beefy; but they did tend to eat a lot. That was a combination of a usually high-powered metabolism with near-constant physical training.
    The analogy to the tipping habits of upper crust gamblers was wide of the mark, though. Wealthy people actually tended to be on the cheapskate side when it came to things like tipping. And charity, for that matter. It had been a constant for millennia that