The Officers' Open Mess was a blur of activity. There weren't any customers, but the staff had folded up most of the tables and chairs, and stacked the rest of the chairs on the tables. Two privates were enthusiastically mopping the floor. Another was behind the bar packing the bottles into boxes.
"Chance of dinner?" Lysander asked the mess steward.
"Yes, sir, but there's not much choice. Catfish and sweet potatoes—"
"Hum." Ursula smiled thinly. "Tanith standard fare—"
Sergeant Albright looked pained. "Yes, Ma'am, not up to the standards of the Mess, but we've got an alert on, you see."
"It's also all we'll get," Lysander said. "Please, Sergeant, I'd love some catfish and sweet potatoes. With beer, please."
"Yes, sir. Alieri, set up a table for Mr. Prince. Excuse me, sir, I'm needed in the kitchen."
"We don't have to eat," Ursula said. "I'd rather—"
"Of course we have to eat," Lysander said. "Certainly I do." He worked to keep his voice calm, and hoped he'd succeeded. Conflicting emotions boiled within him. He was eager to get away from Ursula, to get on with the mission and show Falkenberg what he could do. Odd, he thought; he liked being with Ursula. He even wondered if he might be in love with her, and what kinds of problems that would make for him. Certainly he felt guilty for being ready to leave her to go with Falkenberg. Mostly, though, he was more afraid that he wouldn't meet Falkenberg's expectations than anything else. He wanted to please Falkenberg more than he'd ever wanted to please his own father, and he didn't really understand that. Deep under all his emotions was the elemental fear of death, or worse, dismemberment.
Meanwhile, Ursula was being very understanding about his volunteering to go with Falkenberg, and while Lysander appreciated that, it was getting a bit hard to take.
They sat and waited for drinks. "I've made some arrangements," he said. "If I don't come back. The Regiment will take care of you—"
"If they'll give me my contract, I can take care of myself," Ursula said. "You won't be back, will you?"
"Don't be silly. I'm the colonel's aide. I'll have the best bodyguards in the galaxy. And besides all that, there's Harv."
"Sure. When are you leaving Tanith?"
"I'm not sure."
They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Then she smiled and said, "It's all right. I'll miss you."
I'll miss you, he thought. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't. The silence stretched on.
He was relieved when Sergeant Albright came over to their table. "Excuse me, sir, we're short handed, and the tables are packed. Would you mind if Captain Svoboda and Mrs. Fuller joined you? Thank you, sir." Albright left without waiting for an answer. A moment later a lanky officer limped up to the table.
"I'm Anton Svoboda. Headquarters Commandant. Your Highness, we've been told you've no objection to our joining you—"
"No, of course not, sir." Lysander stood. "I expect things will go better if you call me Lysander." He touched the cornet's insignia on his collar. "They told me the rule was first names in the mess. And this is Ursula Gordon."
"Pleased to meet you. Ursula. Lysander. Right." Svoboda said. "Juanita Fuller, Prince Lysander Collins of Sparta, at present a volunteer cornet of the regiment. Which means that your husband is no longer the junior comet. And Miss Ursula Gordon."
Captain Svoboda held out his arm to help Juanita sit, then sat down carefully. His left leg was encased in what looked like a large pillow. "Couple of crocks," he said. "Actually, they just let us both out of hospital this afternoon. Juanita's husband is in conference—"
"Ah," Lysander said. "Cornet Mark Fuller? I met him this afternoon in the Colonel's office. Apparently he's the colonel's pilot tonight."
"I hope they get done with him pretty soon," Juanita said.
"Yes, that can't be much fun, first day out of hospital and no one to welcome you home," Ursula said.
Juanita shook her head. "We don't have a home—"
"I'll take care of that," Svoboda said. "We'll find something. Although I'm not sure what I can do for right now." Svoboda shook his head. "Maybe you ought to stay in the hospital tonight."
"I'd sure rather not," Juanita said.
"What's the problem?" Lysander asked.
"Well, Cornet Fuller just joined the regiment," Svoboda said. "Hasn't been assigned quarters. He's been staying in the BOQ. Juanita was hit in the rescue operation, so she was sent directly to hospital when she got here, and no one thought to assign them married quarters. Usually it would be my job to take care of that sort of thing, but—" He pointed to his leg. "I haven't been at my desk since we rescued Mrs. Fuller." He shrugged. "Wouldn't be a problem if they hadn't let us out in the middle of a general alert. Which reminds me." Svoboda raised his voice slightly. "Albright."
"Sir!" The mess steward came over to the table.
"Sergeant, it looks like you're packing up to pull out."
"Yes, sir."
"May I see your orders?"
"They're in the kitchen, sir."
"Please bring them. Along with a bottle of wine. Anything that's open."
"Yes, sir."
They waited until Albright returned carrying a large jug of red wine. "Not officer quality, sir," Albright said apologetically.
"It will do," Svoboda said absently. "Pour me a glass, please." He took the message flimsy Albright handed him and read for a moment. "Bloody hell."
"Problem, sir?" Lysander asked.
"You could say that. Sergeant, you've been given the wrong orders. The regiment itself isn't moving out, just most of the battalions. Regimental headquarters will stay right here. You shouldn't be packing up."
"Cap'n, the orders say right there—"
"I see they do," Svoboda said. "But someone has punched in the wrong codes on the computer. I'll straighten it out, but meanwhile, you can stand down. You're not going anywhere." Svoboda looked down at his leg. "Neither one of us is."
"Yes, sir."
"So. I'll take care of this nonsense. You go find us something decent to drink. And see what you can scare up to make the catfish a bit more palatable."
Albright grinned. "Yes, sir. I think I can unpack something."
Svoboda reached beneath the table and lifted a portable computer console onto the place in front of him. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment," he said.
"Certainly," Lysander said. "But I confess some confusion—"
"Well," Svoboda said, "we have a data base of detailed order sets for nearly anything the Regiment might want to do. The colonel has ordered a general alert, and is shipping quite a lot of the regiment's strength out to—well, to various places. It sounds simple, but actually it's pretty complicated to move a battalion and all its gear and all the supplies it will need. There are thousands of items to worry about, stuff from battalion headquarters, stuff that has to be drawn from central supply—now suppose a battalion is to be reinforced with units that don't belong to it. More orders. Believe me, it can get sticky."
"Oh," Ursula said. "Yes, of course—"
"Computers handle most of it," Svoboda said. "We keep canned order sets for nearly every contingency. All it takes is calling out the proper ones. Only in this case, someone punched in the wrong code, so Sergeant Albright got the wrong orders." Svoboda bent over the bright blue screen, then typed quickly. "Hah. And here they were. Hmmm."
"Who did it?" Ursula asked.
"Little hard to tell," Svoboda said. He shrugged. "Won't take long to straighten out." He looked thoughtful, then shrugged again. "Can't think Barton will be foolish enough to attack this headquarters, but I expect I ought to buck this over to Rottermill, just in case it wasn't a mistake." He typed furiously for a moment.
"Attack?" Ursula asked. "How?"
"Bombs. Missiles," Svoboda said. "Not likely any would get through. We have a few nasty surprises for anyone who tries. Less likely that Barton would try it."
"Why wouldn't he?" Juanita asked.
"What would—Ah. Here's Sergeant Albright with something more fit to drink." Svoboda waited until the steward had poured a sparkling wine for everyone. "Cheers. As I was saying, what would it get Major Barton to attack regimental headquarters? Besides making everyone mad at him? It's not strictly in the Code, but the tradition is strong that you don't do that until you've warned the other chap."
"But we're about to—" Lysander caught himself. "Aren't we about to attack Barton's headquarters?"
"Certainly not," Svoboda said. "We don't make war on women and children. Barton's Bulldogs have their base near Dagon. We won't go near that. Why should we?"
"Wouldn't it help win this war?" Ursula asked.
"Not really," Svoboda said. "Oh, we'd get his computers, and a lot of his central stores, all right. As against that, we'd make this place a legitimate target. We'd have to detail more troops and equipment to defend our headquarters. Our troops in the field would have to worry about their families." The captain shrugged. "It's making war on civilians, and we just don't do that sort of thing. Not without good reason."
"It would be expensive, too," Ursula said.
Svoboda looked at her through drooping eyelids. "Aye. Should we not be concerned wi' expenses, lassie?"
"You'd do better to adopt a Latin accent," Lysander said.
"One mimics Captain Alana at considerable risk," Svoboda said. "The Mess President has ways of getting his own back."
"I suppose a mercenary regiment is in business to make money," Ursula said. "I guess I just never thought that through."
"Well, yes, we are," Svoboda said. "Which means we keep the costs down. That includes troops, of course. Good people are the most expensive item we have." His voice had a bantering tone, but there was an edge of menace in it as well.
"But your business is winning," Ursula said.
"Ursa—"
"Actually, she has a point," Svoboda said. "Our business is winning. But at what cost? Some games aren't worth the candle— Excuse me." Svoboda's computer console gave out several soft bleeps. Svoboda typed an acknowledgment, then frowned at the screen. "As I thought, we won't be moving the Mess—but it looks like we'll have to forego its pleasures, Mr. Prince. We're both wanted in conference." He gripped the edge of the table and stood carefully.
"When will you be back?" Ursula demanded.
Svoboda glanced at his watch. "Lysander may not be back at all this evening."
"But—"
"I'll try to get away for a minute," Lysander said.
"But—Mark—" Juanita protested.
"Ah. And Cornet Fuller is flying the colonel's helicopter. Not likely he'll have much time off for the next few days. I'll try to remind the colonel that your husband will need a few minutes before they take off—O Lor', we haven't found you a place to stay, either!"
"Would you like to stay with me?" Ursula asked. "There's plenty of room."
"Oh—well I wouldn't like—"
"No trouble at all," Ursula said. "His Highness has other interests—"
"Well, thank you."
The computer console beeped more insistently.
"That's all right, then?" Svoboda asked. "Good. I'd best be going. Juanita. Ursula. Pleased to have met you." He bowed slightly and limped toward the door.
Lysander stood. "I'll try to see they give your husband a moment." He looked to Ursula. "Where will you be?"
"Here for dinner, then your rooms," Ursula said. "And—be careful."
"I wish I could be calm like you," Juanita said. "But I'm scared. You do this much?"
Ursula laughed. "Send my man off to war? First time. You too?"
"Yes, we haven't been married long—actually, we was never married at all, not in a church. Mark's from Earth. Sent here as a rebel. I was born to convicts on a borshite plantation. You from Sparta too?"
Ursula chuckled. "No-oo, not quite. I was born with a contract too. Except I had the good fortune to be owned by the Hilton, and they sent me to a good school. As an investment." Ursula smiled musingly. "You're luckier than me. At least the man you're sending off will come back to you. Mine won't."
"I don't understand—"
"I was contracted to a hotel. As a hostess. A hotel where Lysander, Prince of Sparta happened to stay."
"Oh. But—I think he likes you," Juanita said.
"He likes me all right. And so what? I doubt that a future king has any large place in his future for a hotel girl."
"Oh. But that's awful. You like him—"
"Is it that easy to see?"
"Yes. Ursula—what will you do?"
"I'll get by." Ursula laughed suddenly. "After all, I've been ruined."
"Ruined?"
"A poem I ran across in the hotel library," Ursula said. "Written a hundred years ago on Earth by Thomas Hardy. I liked it enough to memorize it."
"Oh. My mother used to read poems to me. Do you really remember it? Tell me."
"Well—all right. Two girls from the country meet—
"Oh, 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?
"Oh, didn't you know I'd been ruined? said she.
—"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"
"Yes: That's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.
—"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou',
And 'thik oon' and 'theas oon' and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.
—"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.
—"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.
—"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"
"My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.
"That's—" Juanita turned away with tears in her eyes.
"Hey, no need to get upset," Ursula said. "Don't cry over me! I'll get by—"
"Not you," Juanita said. "I suppose I should be thinking about you, but—that poem is about me, too. What'd it say, 'raw country girl'? That's me! I'm supposed to be an officer's wife, and I don't know anything. I could dream, about—about marrying a foreman, or maybe a planter; I know plantation life, but what am I goin' to do here? I can do farming, and take in washing. I did some house work in the big house. I don't know anything else. You're educated—"
"And ruined," Ursula said. "Don't forget that."