d himself to spending at least several weeks in
this system; he found himself grateful that the Count was making it as
pleasant as possible for them. "Thank you, my Lady. We'll be there;
should we wear blues or civvies?"

"Whichever you choose, Captain. It will be semi-formal."

* * * * *

Thompson wore blues, more for the illusory protection of the dress
uniform's high collar than for any other reason; the rest of his team
opted for civilian wear. He thought King looked particularly sharp in
the shimmer-cloth culotte outfit she'd had the fabricator make, and
almost as soon as their group entered the Grand Ballroom he saw that he
wasn't the only one. Several Kins, ranging from almost normal physique
to near-starvation gauntness, surrounded her and began an animated
conversation. Others started discussions with the rest of his team,
leaving Thompson himself momentarily alone.

That didn't last long, however. The Count joined him, accompanied by
half a dozen other Kins who she introduced as her Planetary Barons, her
Chief of System Security, and the Head Nurse of the Palace medcenter.
"And you've already seen Detective Chief Enna Kaufman," the Count
finished.

Thompson acknowledged the introductions with a certain amount of
discomfort. He wasn't used to associating with the nobility, and it
was unsettling for him to feel the restrained hunger they all radiated.
The two Security people were in the worst shape, and a moment's thought
told Thompson it made sense; their jobs were unlikely to bring them
into much contact with people willing to let them feed.

As they chatted about inconsequentials, Thompson had to keep himself
from staring at the Kins' mouths, or getting within touching range.
The Count had read him all too accurately; while one Kin was relatively
easy to resist, seven--two of whom were near starvation--made it an
entirely different case, even though they weren't doing anything but
stand there and converse. He was far too aware not only of their
hunger, but of his urge to satisfy it. How the hell was he going to
resist this kind of pressure even for however long the party lasted,
much less for weeks or maybe months? He sipped at a drink he'd taken
from a passing waiter's tray, wishing for some excuse to leave, but he
couldn't think of any. He couldn't even fall back on the Corps'
informal motto, because there was no dishonor involved.

"At least your teammates aren't