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"Illustrious and most fortunate scion of a fortunate
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family," Dupaynil said, "it is my unlucky fate to be at the mercy of
admirals."
This amused the Commissioner who laughed immoderately.
"Sso! It is a matter of luck, you would have me think? Unlucky in rank,
unlucky in the admiral who sent you? But you do not believe in luck, so your
people say. You believe in ... What is that obscenity?
Probabilities? Statistics?"
The old saying about "lies, damn lies, and statistics" popped into Dupaynil's
mind, but it seemed the wrong moment. Instead, he said "Of others I cannot
speak, but / believe in luck. I would not have arrived without it"
He did, indeed, believe in luck. At least at the moment. For without his
unwise tapping of Sassinak's com shack, he would not have had the chance to
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find the evidence he had found. Now, if he could just get through with this
and back to FedCentral in time for Tanegli's trial . . . That would be luck
indeed!
Apparently even temporary sincerity was convincing. The Seti Commissioner gave
him a toothy grin.
"Well. A partial convert. You know what we say about your statistics, don't
you? There are lies, damn lies, and ..."
And I'm glad I didn't use that joke, Dupaynil thought to himself, since I
don't believe this guy thinks that it is one.
"I will save your eyes the trouble of examining our faultless, but copious,
records regarding trade with the
Flower of Luck in Disguise. If you were unlucky in your admiral, you shall be
lucky in my support. Your clear unwillingness to struggle with this unlucky
task shall be rewarded. I refuse permission to examine our records, not
because we have anything to conceal, but because this is the Season of
Unrepentance, when no such examination is lawful. You are fortunate in my
approval for I will give you such refusal as will satisfy the most unlucky
admiral."
Again, a massive tail-slap, combined with a querulous squealing grunt, and the
servitor scuttled in with a
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rolling cart with a bright green box atop. The Commissioner prodded it and it
extruded a sheet of translucent lime green, covered with Seti script. Then
another, and another.
"This is for the human ambassador, and this for your admiral, and this, o
luckiest of humans, is your authorization to take passage in a human-safe
compartment aboard the Grand Luck to human space. To attend a meeting of the
Grand Council, in feet. You will have the great advantage of enjoying the
superiority of Seti technology first-hand, an unprecedented opportunity for
one of your ... ah ... luck."
It reached out, with the sheets and Dupaynil took them almost without
thinking, wondering how he was going to get out of this.
"My good fortune abounds," he began. "Nonetheless, it is impossible that I
should be honored with such a gift of luck. A mere human to take passage with
Seti? It is my destined chance to travel more humbly."
A truly wicked chuckle interrupted him. The Commissioner leaned closer, its
strong breath sickening.
"Little man," it said, "I think you will travel humbly enough to please
whatever god enjoys your crawl through the Tunnel of Cowardly Certainty. With
choice, always a chance. But with chance, no choice.
The orders are in your hand. Your prints prove your acceptance. You will
report to your ambassador, and then to the Grand Luck where great chances
await you."
Chapter Eleven
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Private Yacht Adagio
Ford woke to an argument overhead. It was not the first time he'd wakened, but
it was the first time he'd been this clear-headed. Prudence kept his eyelids
shut as he listened to the two women's voices.
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"It's for his own good," purred Madame Flaubert. "His spiritual state is
simply ghastly."
"He looks ghastly." Auntie Quesada rustled. He couldn't tell if it was her
dress or something she carried.
"The outward and visible sign of inward spiritual disgrace. Poison, if you
will. It must be purged, Quesada, or that evil influence will ruin us all."
A sniff, a sigh. Neither promised him much. He felt no pain, at the moment,
but he was sure that either woman could finish him off without his being able
to defend himself. And why? Even if they knew what he wanted, that should be
no threat to them. Auntie Quesada had even seemed to like him and he had been
enchanted by her.
He heard a click, followed by a faint hiss, then a pungent smell began to
creep up his nose. A faint yelp, rebuked, reminded him of Madame Flaubert's
pet. His
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nose tickled. He tried to ignore it and failed, convulsing in a huge sneeze.
"Bad spirits," intoned Madame Flaubert.
Now that his eyes were open to the dim light, he could see her fantastic
draperies in all their garishness;
purples, reds, oranges, a flowered fringed shawl wrapped around those red
tresses. Her half-closed eyes glittered at him as she pretended, and he was
sure it was pretense, to commune with whatever mediums communed with. He
didn't know. He was a rational, well-educated Fleet officer. He'd had nothing
to do
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with superstitions since his childhood, when he and a friend had convinced
themselves that a drop of each one's blood on a rock made it magic.
"May they fly away, the bad spirits, may they leave him safe and free ..."
Madame Flaubert went on in this vein for awhile longer as Ford wondered what
courtesy required. His aunt, as before, looked completely miserable, sitting
stiffly on the edge of her chair and staring at him. He wanted to reassure
her, but couldn't think how. He felt like a dirty wet rag someone had wiped up
a bar with. The pungent smoke of some sort of a floral incense blurred his
vision and made his eyes water.
Finally Madame Flaubert ran down and simply sat, head thrown back. After a
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long, dramatic pause, she sighed, rolled her head around as if to ease a stiff
neck and stood.
"Coming, Quesada?"
"No ... I think I'll sit with him a bit."
"You shouldn't. He needs to soak in the healing rays."
Madame Flaubert's face loomed over his. She had her lapdog in hand and it
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