Two hours into the night, and Brooks realized there were not enough Sunsets on Venus to make it tolerable.

He’d stopped after two; even with an enhanced liver and kidneys the alcohol could only get filtered so quickly, and the last thing he needed was to get drunk and tell the Glorians or Gohhians his full thoughts on them. Wars had probably been started over less.

He’d seen Klezul Hoshe, the writer of Ussa and Usser several times, but the being was always surrounded by such a crowd of people waiting to speak that he’d drifted away.

The crowd did not seem to be growing thinner, however, and with growing irritation at the people who did not even know how to queue properly, he filtered into the group, moving towards the being.

But the wealthy seemed to have no grasp of letting others in, which he felt was probably a metaphor for reality. Deciding he’d wait a little longer, he moved out of the group again.

Few people here wanted to speak with him, it seemed; upon seeing his uniform, face, or probably both, most people turned their backs on him.

Still, he was certainly making the point by being here, and keeping a calm smile on his face the whole time he knew would annoy those who were watching him.

“Captain Brooks,” he heard a deep voice say.

Turning slightly, he saw Romon Xatier standing near him. He was wearing a well-tailored black suit, his undershirt the same shade and his tie a dark red that barely stood out against it.

“Mr. Xatier,” he said. “I did not think you were present – I had not noticed you.”

“I arrived late,” Xatier replied. “Only fools wish to be at these events a moment longer than necessary.” His lips went into a slight smile. “But who could pass up the opportunity to speak to as famous an artist as Klezul Hoshe?”

Brooks could agree with that. “He’s had quite the crowd around him all evening. But in his culture the later he speaks to someone the more honor they do him. It implies they’ve been waiting.”

“Even if they simply show up late,” Xatier continued. “You should see events on Ngoash. They never even start until three hours after their designated time.”

“Ah, have you been there?” Brooks asked, finding that unexpected.

“Unlike many of my contemporaries, I have been all over the known galaxy,” Xatier told him. “I saw enough of it to last me two lifetimes.”

“And yet you came back here – I am surprised. Gohhi may be a hub of known space, but it’s hardly a garden spot.”

“Unless you have money,” Xatier said, smiling slightly again. “And then it is true freedom – an eden in hell.”

“Wealth is just a prison of its own,” Brooks commented. “You’re as trapped as anyone else in such a system – you just get more creature comforts.”

“Spoken like someone who knows nothing of wealth,” Xatier replied. “But you are certainly consistent in your views, Captain. I hear that you spoke quite frankly to Trevod Waites-Kosson, and I admit a certain admiration has grown in me as a result.”

Brooks wondered how word of that had spread – certainly Trevod would not have spoken too frankly about their conversation.

“My thanks,” Brooks said, feeling the polite words were necessary. “I am afraid I know too little about you to offer a sincere compliment.”

“Oh? Dr. Y has said nothing?” Romon asked.

“He is legally bound not to,” Brooks replied. “And he is an honorable being.”

“Honor or programming? I am as yet undecided which,” Romon replied.

“If you think Y is just a complex calculator, you’re just denying the evidence,” Brooks said. “He’s more alive than most people I meet.”

“He certainly is a complex being. But whether he truly experiences reality as we do is something I am difficult to convince of. Does he feel? Does he have faults? Or is it simply all very quirky, intelligent stimulus response?”

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Brooks shifted, facing the man fully. “I’m not sure what you’d like as evidence, really. A receipt saying he felt angry or sad, printed out from his torso? The Sapient Union accepts his species as being truly alive in a meaningful sense. Even if you are not in agreement with all of our principles, that has to carry some weight.”

“If only it did,” Romon replied. His eyes travelled past Brooks then. “But perhaps we can get another opinion. Tell me, Captian, have you met Doctor Nadian Farland?”

Brooks was surprised to hear the name of the famous archaeologist, turning again to see the man as he approached.

Farland’s face was weathered, his bright blue eyes set in a rough, handsome face.

The man was famous throughout known space; the Dr. Farland who had found the ruins of lost civilization on Tenoch VII, rescued lost relics from rapacious hoarders in border space – and a thousand other tales too tall to believe.

Yet, here in the flesh, Brooks found himself believing that the man could have pulled them off.

“Captain-Mayor Brooks,” Farland said, regarding him in such a commonplace way that Brooks found it refreshing.

Brooks offered a hand, getting a firm grip in return.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Captain,” Farland said.

“And I about you,” Brooks replied. “Though stories, in any case, often have only a grain of truth to them – good or not.”

The man nodded, and glanced to Xatier. “Romon,” he said. He sounded sour.

“We meet again, old friend,” Romon said with a sneer. “Only this time there is no bad blood between us, I hope?”

At Brooks’s quizzical look, Farland elaborated. “Romon Xatier was the intended recipient of a great deal of antiques that had gone missing from a dig site on Xiphos. I helped make sure they ended up in a museum instead of his private collection.”

“I was as surprised as anyone to learn they were stolen, of course,” Romon replied, his mocking smile making clear the lie. “And I am most grateful to Dr. Farland for setting the matter straight.”

Brooks nodded, but then Romon continued.

“Captain, you’ve been to Xiphos before, haven’t you?”

Brooks froze for a moment as he realized the trap.

He turned again fully to Romon. “That’s right,” he said.

“And what was the work you were in at that time? I believe you were a . . . freelance purveyor of goods, yes?”

Brooks could feel the glare and shock from Dr. Farland on the back of his head.

“You don’t need to sugarcoat it,” Brooks said calmly. “I was a smuggler there, long before I joined the Union Voidfleet. I made two runs to the planet as first officer of an expedition to find lost artifacts to sell on the black market.”

He turned to look at Farland. “We have an unfortunate connection then. Though I’m glad I never encountered you or anyone else – I wouldn’t have wanted to fight for thieving from a dead civilization.”

Brooks felt a strange calmness within as the trap closed. Perhaps Romon had thought to upset him, and he had certainly managed to make Farland angry; the accusing glare from the man said more than words.

“I didn’t figure the Union would hire grave robbers,” Farland said. “I guess I rated them too highly.”

“They didn’t ask and I didn’t tell. But I am not going to beg for forgiveness, anyway. The civilization there are all dead – there was no one to suffer the indignity of having their culture stolen from their hands.”

“Do you think robbing those tombs is justified by the fact that they’re gone?” Farland demanded.

“I think that I, and the others with me, needed the money, and that was one of the few options we had that didn’t involve hurting anyone living,” Brooks replied.

“Fattening your pockets, huh? Well, hell of a thing to be proud of.”

Brooks finally felt his anger rise. “You say that as if people only ever need money for the wrong reasons. That was not our situation at all – it’s not the situation of most people out here. We needed money to simply live, and thanks to the greed of people like Mr. Xatier here, honest work did not provide that. So when it comes to a choice between my people starving or robbing the dead – I would make that choice again without hesitation.”

He saw the fist coming, but did nothing to avoid it. Farland’s punch hit his jaw like a freight train, and Brooks saw stars, stumbling. Gasps and a single cry came from the crowd as people saw the attack, but Brooks did not fall. Standing back upright, he met the man’s eyes.

“I’ll give you that one, Doctor,” Brooks said calmly. “But if you try another then you’ll have to earn it.”

A woman came hurrying up. She was beautiful, notably younger than any of the three, and she put a hand on Farland. “Nade, what’s going on?” she asked.

Farland was still glaring at Brooks, and Brooks kept his gaze locked with the man, feeling that his anger had evaporated.

He was not proud of everything in his past, but he could not change it, either. And he’d had good reasons for what he did.

“It’s nothing,” Farland said, turning away. He let the young woman lead him off, her fussing while he said something that made her smile – though concern remained in her eyes.

“This evening has gotten more interesting than I anticipated,” Romon said, smirking still.

Brooks looked at him like the vermin he was. Movement past him caught his eye, however, and he looked past Romon to see the Qlerning playwright, Klezul Hoshe, approaching.

Qlerning expressions were often very hard for a human to read, but the concern of the alien seemed quite obvious.

“Are you all right, Captain-Mayor Brooks?” the being asked. “I saw Dr. Farland assault you . . .”

“Just a minor disagreement,” Brooks said with a smile. “Nothing to concern yourself about. But I am pleased to get a chance to speak with you, Master Playwright.”

The Qlerning bowed humbly. “As I am to speak with one of your reputation.” The being leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “These Gohhians are insufferable . . . walk with me, we can do each other a favor.”

Brooks grinned, for the first time the night not feeling an outcast. “I’d be glad to.”