"Your role in life. So womanly. Men need civilizing, and you're just the one to do it."
"I'm obviously not very good at it."
At that moment the IF sergeant who was their flight steward came into the main cabin and told them it was time to go.
Because they docked at the center of the station, there was no gravity. They floated al
ong, gripping handrails as the steward flipped their bags so they sailed through the airlock just under them. They were caught by a couple of orderlies who had obviously done this a hundred times, and were not the least bit impressed by having the Hegemon himself come to MinCol.
Though in all probability nobody knew who they were. They were traveling under false papers, of course, but Graff had undoubtedly let someone in the station know who they really were.
Probably not the orderlies, though.
Not until they were down one spoke of the wheel to a level where there was a definite floor to walk on did they meet anyone of real status in the station. A man in the grey suit that served MinCol as a uniform waited at the foot of the elevator, his hand outstretched. "Mr. and Mrs. Raymond," he said. "I'm Underminister Dimak. And this must be your son, Dick."
Peter smiled wanly at the faint humor in the pseudonym Graff had arbitrarily assigned to him.
"Please tell me that you know who we really are so we don't have to keep up this charade," said Peter.
"I know," said Dimak softly, "but nobody else on this station does, and I'd like to keep it that way for now."
"Graff isn't here?"
"The Minister of Colonization is returning from his inspection of the outfitting of the newest colony ship. We're two weeks away from first leg on that one, and starting next week you won't believe the traffic that'll come through here, sixteen shuttles a day, and that's just for the colonists. The freighters go directly to the dry dock."
"Is there," said Father innocently, "a wet dock?"
Dimak grinned. "Nautical terminology dies hard."
Dimak led them along a corridor to a down tube. They slid down the pole after him. The gravity wasn't so intense yet as to make this a problem, even for Peter's parents, who were, after all, in their forties. He helped them step out of the shaft into a lower--and therefore "heavier"--corridor.
There were old-fashioned directional stripes along the walls. "Your palm prints have already been keyed," said Dimak. "Just touch here, and it will lead you to your room."
"This is left over from the old days, isn't it?" said Father. "Though I don't imagine you were here when this was still--"
"But I was here," said Dimak. "I was mother to groups of new kids. Not your son, I'm afraid. But an acquaintance of yours, I believe."
Peter did not want to put himself in the pathetic position of naming off Battle School graduates he knew. Mother had no such qualms.
"Petra?" she said. "Suriyawong?"
Dimak leaned in close, so his voice would not have to be pitched loud enough that it might be overheard. "Bean," he said.
"He must have been a remarkable boy," said Mother.
"Looked like a three-year-old when he got here," said Dimak. "Nobody could believe he was old enough for this place."
"He doesn't look like that now," said Peter dryly.
"No, I...I know about his condition. It's not public knowledge, but Colonel Graff--the minister, I mean--he knows that I still care what happens to--well, to all my kids, of course--but this one was...I imagine your son's first trainer felt much the same way about him."
"I hope so," said Mother.
The sentimentality was getting so sweet Peter wanted to brush his teeth. He palmed the pad by the entrance and three strips lit up. "Green green brown," said Dimak. "But soon you won't be needing this. It's not as if there's miles of open country here to get lost in. The stripe system always assumes that you want to go back to your room, except when you touch the pad just outside the door of your room, and then it thinks you want to go to the bathroom--none inside the rooms, I'm afraid, it wasn't built that way. But if you want to go to the mess hall, just slap the pad twice and it'll know."
He showed them to their quarters, which consisted of a single long room with bunks in rows along both sides of a narrow aisle. "I'm afraid you'll have company for the week we're loading up the ship, but nobody'll be here very long, and then you'll have the place to yourself for three more weeks."
"You're doing a launch a month?" said Peter. "How, exactly, are you funding a pace like that?"