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projection table, took a deep breath of craft atmosphere.
    Here we go.
    There were no chairs in the chamber, but there was a small levitated serving cabinet that was parked next to a bulkhead corner, as Ricimer had directed. He expelled his breath slowly, then stepped over to the cabinet and opened it up. Inside were two ammonium hydroxide nebulizers, polymer bubbles that held what was normally a gas in a pressurized, semiliquid state. Ricimer took them out. A straw protruded from one side of each bubble and ended in a device similar to a perfume atomizer. The object was to squirt the contents directly onto the nostrils and suffuse the nasal membranes with what was, for a Guardian, a powerful stimulant, depending on the concentration, of course.
    This was the good stuff. It went by the name of Old Fifty-five.
    Ricimer set both nebulizers on the projection table and stood waiting.
    After a few momentias , Milt bustled in, giving the impression, as always, that he had hurried away from some very important task.
    “Thrive the Administration,” he said with a puffy, breathless emission.
    “Thrive the Administration.” Ricimer nodded toward the NH 4 nebulizers. “Shall we?”
    “Absolutely, Companion Arid.”
    Ricimer handed a nebulizer to the receptor and took one for himself. The nebulizer was cold in his hand. He squeezed out a ceremonial whiff. It wouldn’t do to get drunk before reading Craft Orders. Milt atomized a more substantial puff and sniffed it in with a slurping sound. He’s always had a noisy nose, Ricimer thought. Milt could afford to be indifferent about such stuff when mixing with those he considered underlings. In fact, most DDCM officers were notoriously bad-mannered by force of habit.
    “I’m glad you didn’t skimp on the important items,” Milt said. “This is a premier vessel, after all.”
    “Thank poor Storekeep Susten,” Ricimer replied. “The one whom we’re about to hand her head on a platter.”
    “Regulations are regulations. Can’t be helped.”
    “I suppose not. But first things first.” Ricimer set down his nebulizer, and, after another stiff whiff, Milt did the same.
    Craft Orders were encoded in Lamella, the computer brain of the Guardian of Night. “Lamella” was, in fact, the general name for all vessel-specific computers, as “Governess” was the name for the Administration general computer system common to all craft. It was an arrangement that was deliberately analogous to the Guardian’s dual nervous systems. Theoretically, each Governess system was an exact duplicate of the others, although there were often slight discrepancies and update mismatches. Each Lamella system was individualized for the vessel. Governess had the code key for the Craft Orders in Lamella. And Ricimer and Receptor Milt had to both be present to activate the order to pass that key on and open the instructions.
    As an added safeguard and layer of Administration control, the reading of Craft Orders also decoded the switching software on the drive mechanism and allowed the starcraft to engage the QEM and achieve superluminal speeds.
    This complicated procedure was the reason Receptor Crossgrain Milt was still living at this point.
    Ricimer lowered his customary close-minded shield and directly addressed Governess. This is Captain Sub-receptor Arid Ricimer. I hereby initiate activation of Craft Orders.
    “Greetings, Captain. Half-key activated,” Governess’s treacly voice replied. “Standing by for Receptor Milt.”
    But for the moment, Milt said nothing to the computer. He turned to Ricimer, leaned over the projection table in a beseeching posture. “Listen, Companion Arid,” he said. “I want you to know something before we go any further.”
    This was unexpected. And irritating. Ricimer was now entirely alert. What did the receptor have on his mind?
    “Yes, Receptor?”
    “Will you please call me by my name for once, Arid? We’ve known each other since we were in our