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"Three days . . ." Alberto smiled—and his face was transformed abruptly from that of a sulky baby to that of a contented child. It was, Grimes realized, no more than a deliberate turning of charm—but, he admitted to himself, it was effective. "Three days . . . That will give me ample time to settle down, Captain, before I start work. And I know, as well as you do, that overly heavy acceleration can be tiring."

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Alberto? A drink, perhaps?"

"Thank you, Captain. A dry sherry, if I may . . ."

Grimes grinned apologetically. "I'm afraid that these Couriers haven't much of a cellar. I can offer you gin, scotch, brandy . . ."

"A gin and lime, then."

The Lieutenant busied himself at his little bar, mixed the drinks, gave Alberto his glass, raised his own in salute. "Here's to crime!"

Alberto smiled again. "Why do you say that, Captain?"

"It's just one of those toasts that's going the rounds in the Service. Not so long ago it was, 'Down the hatch!' Before that it was, 'Here's mud in yer eye' . . ."

"I see." Alberto sipped appreciatively. "Good gin, this."

"Not bad. We get it from Van Diemen's Planet." There was a brief silence. Then, "Will you be long on Doncaster, Mr. Alberto? I rather gained the impression that we're supposed to wait there until you've finished your . . . business."

"It shouldn't take long."

"Diplomatic?"

"You could call it that." Again the smile—but why should those white teeth look so carnivorous? Imagination, thought Grimes.

"Another drink?"

"Why, yes. I like to relax when I can."

"Yours is demanding work?"

"And so is yours, Captain."

The brassy music of a bugle drifted into the cabin through the intercom.

"Mess call," said Grimes.

"You do things in style, Captain."

Grimes shrugged. "We have a tape for all the calls in general use. As for the tucker . . ." He shrugged again. "We don't run to a cook in a ship of this class. Sparks—Mr. Slovotny—prepares the meals in space. As a chef he's a good radio officer . . ."

"Do you think he'd mind if I took over?" asked Alberto. "After all, I'm the only idler aboard this vessel."

"We'll think about it," said Grimes.

"You know what I think, Captain . . ." said Beadle.

"I'm not a telepath, Number One," said Grimes. "Tell me."

The two men were sitting at ease in the Courier's control room. Each of them was conscious of a certain tightness in the waistband of his uniform shorts. Grimes was suppressing a tendency to burp gently. Alberto, once he had been given a free hand in the galley, had speedily changed shipboard eating from a necessity to a pleasure. (He insisted that somebody else always do the washing up, but this was a small price to pay.) This evening, for example, the officers had dined on saltim-bocca, accompanied by a rehydrated rough red that the amateur chef had contrived, somehow, to make taste like real wine. Nonetheless he had apologized—actually apologized!—for the meal. "I should have used prosciutto, not any old ham. And fresh sage leaves, not dried sage . . ."

"I think" said Beadle, "that the standard of the High Commissioner's entertaining has been lousy. Alberto must be a cordon bleu chef, sent out to Doncaster to play merry hell in the High Commissioner's kitchen."

"Could be," said Grimes. He belched gently. "Could be. But I can't see our lords and masters laying on a ship, even a lowly Serpent Class Courier, for a cook, no matter how talented. There must be cooks on Doncaster just as good."

"There's one helluva difference between a chef and a cook."

"All right. There must be chefs on Doncaster."

"But Alberto is good. You admit that."

"Of course I admit it. But one can be good in quite a few fields and still retain one's amateur status. As a matter of fact, Alberto told me that he was a mathematician . . . "

"A mathematician?" Beadle was scornfully incredulous. "You know how the Blond Beast loves to show off his toys to anybody who'll evince the slightest interest. Well, Alberto was up in the control room during his watch; you'll recall