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the few early research returns. Why do you do it? What do you want? More
money? More time off? Or more knowledge about . . . anything in particular. .
."
She set down the goblet and frowned, then worried her lower lip.
"Think about it. We'll come back to that. Time to pick out your dinner."
"As your guest, Commander, I'll defer to your taste. I'm not terribly
fond of red meat. Other than that, anything is fine. Whatever you think best."
The commander looked at the silent waiter, whom Lyr had not heard
approach this time either, then cocked his head to the side momentarily, as if
trying to remember something.
"The lady will have the flamed spicetails, the bourdin cheeses, the
house salad, and the d'crem. I will have the scampig, the cheeses, the salad,
and lechoclat."
The waiter vanished.
"You eat here often?"
"When I'm in New Augusta. Not all that often. Car�one of the founders
proposed the membership, I suspect. Took it. It's helpful."
"Helpful? That's an odd way of describing it."
He shrugged, then picked up his glass for another sip.
She emulated his example, but set the goblet down as the waiter
reappeared with the two salads.
She glanced up from the salad to find him studying her face.
"Lyr? If you could do something entirely different, what would it be?
Where would you go? What are your dreams?"
The laugh bubbled up in her throat even as she tried to swallow the
remaining drops of squierre in her mouth.
"Phhhwwwww . . . uuouugh . . . ucoughhh . . ."
He stood, but she waved him away, dabbed her chin with the cloth napkin,
coughed twice more to clear her throat. Finally she managed to swallow.
"Dreams yet, Commander. Please . . ."
This time she held up her hand before he could interrupt.
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Dreams? Commander, you must be joking."
"No joke." He laughed once, the hard bark that chilled her, that
reminded her that for all his directness, the directness that bordered on
uncouthness, he would be a dangerous adversary. For anyone.
"I'm sorry," she added in a softer voice. "But the question was
unexpected. You really don't know, do you?"
"Unexpected? Why?"
Lyr frowned. Should she tell him? Subtlety wasn't likely to work, one
way or another.
She sighed. "It's like this. You said once that there were more than a
hundred foundations with greater possible endowments than OER. It's more like
fifty�"
"That's now. Because of your efforts."
��and they have one thing in common. That's a lack of initiative. My job
isn't good. It's the best in my field. That's why I'll stay unless you force
me out. You handed me something that no one ever expects, much less at my age,
and said, in effect, and despite all the mystery; go and do your best. And you
didn't second-guess every investment and every fund transfer. So I've done my
best."
"Very well," added the commander.
She stopped and worried her lip. "So you see why I have to laugh at your
asking about dreams. I'm worried about your forcing me to leave a dream, and
you're asking me about a dream beyond a dream. You don't want me to leave, do
you?"
"No. Your work is just beginning, now." His voice softened on the last
word.
She saw his eyes lose their intensity momentarily as he repeated quietly
one of her phrases.
"A dream beyond a dream..." Then his eyes were back on her, boring into
her. "Humor me. Give me a dream beyond a dream."
Lyr looked away, damning herself for revealing too much, feeling like
she had worn nothing to the table.
"Do you have dreams beyond your dreams?" she countered quietly.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I dream of rolling hills covered with grass, and
streams, sparkling from mountain rocks." He looked up. "Land . . . so . . .
poor . . . where I grew up . . . no green grass." He looked away and took the
last gulp of his fizz. "What about your dream, Lyr?"
She did not answer, but took a sip, a small sip, of the squierre,
ignoring the salad before her, and stared at the white of the linen on the
table as she let the warmth trickle down her throat.
"If I couldn't do this . . . I'd have to get away. Some place like Vers
D'Mont . . . with mountains but culture. I haven't been there, not even on my
salary, but you asked me to dream. People, but with privacy. I-" She stopped,
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watching him nod as she spoke.
"A small cottage?"
"A chalet, on a hill, not a sharp peak, but one where you could see the
high mountains, and the valley below, with a lake. A chalet that had balconies
on all sides."
The commander continued to nod as if her fancy were as possible as
sitting across the table.
"But that's impossible!" she burst out, then lowered her voice. "Why
encourage an impossible dream?"
"No dream is impossible. Wasn't encouraging, but inquiring."
"But why?"
"Dreams are important." He said nothing to amplify that, but took a last
bite of his salad, then sat back as the waiter placed the scampig before him.
Lyr nodded at the man to take her unfinished salad.
"What are they?" She studied the question-marklike objects on the
porcelain plate.
"Spicetails. Seafood delicacy. My second favorite dish, but should I
tell you that?"
She smiled in response to the commander's gentle selfdeprecation.
"I'll try them anyway."
The longer the meal went on, the more confused she became as to the
commander's motivations. His attitude was not apology, exactly, nor seduction,
nor exactly interest, though he continued to ask gentle questions.
"Do you have other interests . . . hobbies . . . besides numbers? . . .
Would you travel widely? . . . Your family? Were you close? . . . Whom of the
public figures do you admire the most?"
Those questions she could not avoid, she answered, gently and as briefly
as possible, not forgetting to enjoy the dinner.
The cost of the meal had to have been astronomical. The setting, the
cutlery, which was worked sterling silver, the antique porcelain, the linen,
the use of well-trained help�they all pointed to an establishment for the
extraordinarily affluent.
And yet, the man across from her, while born a leader, had obviously not
been born to wealth. For all his Service training and accomplishments, he was
only a commander.
Or was he?
Even when she had left the Aurelian Club, headed back to her own more
than comfortable apartment, the hundredth floor of the Hegemony Towers, she
could not decide.
He was more than a Service commander, she knew. But what?
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