making cocoa, as you should be able to smell," Tara retorted.

"It's made," the young woman entering the room said, going straight to Sue and handing her the steaming mug.

Sue traded her whiskey glass for it, wrapping her hands around the mug to warm them and taking a deep breath of the chocolatey steam, while her hosts gave Angus the story.

When they were done, he looked at her curiously, with a half-grin. "Your name's a familiar one, lass."

Sue returned his smile. He knew who she was, but he didn't seem inclined to spread his knowledge, if she chose not to reveal herself; he got points for discretion. "It's a common enough name, sir. I don't believe we've met before."

"No; I'd remember if we had. It's an honor now, though, and I'd be pleased if you'd call me Angus."

"The honor is mine, Angus." Sue smiled at him again, briefly. "Perhaps, under more formal circumstances, things would be different. At the moment, though, I'm just an unlucky pilot."

"And so you are, lass." Angus nodded once, then turned to their hosts. "Well, now, this is supposed to be a party. Tara, may I have the next dance?"

"Indeed you may!" Tara—Sue guessed her to be Donal's wife—called across the room. "Geordie, some music!"

Sue felt herself relaxing as warmth crept back into her, and she automatically evaluated her surroundings. They were nothing like what she was used to: a small living room, festively decorated but obviously not rich—more homey, she thought, than anything else. Bookshelves lined one wall almost completely, their ranks broken only by two small windows and a holoset—on, but being ignored; she couldn't tell what the program was. A five- or six-person table held food and drinks; it looked too heavy to move easily, so this was probably the dining room, as well. Wall decorations were mostly stitchery, though a crucifix held a place of honor above the mantel.

Not a rich place, no. And the party talk around her, gathered in fragments from the twenty or so who crowded the room, didn't contradict that impression. This seemed to be a subsistence-farming culture . . . here on Terra? Well, it was possible; talk of farm animals, equipment, and markets, and canning, yes. Nothing of politics, or the Empire, or the nobility, as was so common in the circles she was used to, but the warmth and friendship here had value of their own. These people might not have much money, but they couldn't be called poor.

Sue found herself pleased by that. It was people like these, after all, who were the Empire's substance, its reason for being. It was good to be reminded of that, from time to time. Imperial nobles and officers had the trappings of rank, yes, but the underlying purpose of that rank was to insure that Imperial citizens like these could live freely and without fear. And she was one of those officers … Sue smiled to herself, and kept listening as carefully as Bridget kept her chocolate cup full and hot.

The MacGregor farm, she found, wasn't a particularly prosperous one even by this island's standards. Donal's tractor was unreliable at best, Geordie couldn't seem to find a sponsor who'd get him even as far as being tested for the Military Academy—well. It had been a long time since she'd had an opportunity to indulge herself.

About an hour after she'd been helped inside, Sue stood and attracted Tara's attention. "Mrs. MacGregor, may I use your phone now?"

"Of course, lass. Back this way."

"Thank you." Sue looked around, gestured to Geordie and Donal. "Would you come, too?"

The two men exchanged glances, then Donal shrugged and smiled. "If you wish, lass."

The MacGregors did have a phone in the kitchen, Sue found, but it was clear that they seldom used it; Tara had to move half a dozen jars of canned tomatoes before she could take the phone out of the cabinet. And it was basic: small 20-cm screen, push buttons instead of voice activation—probably black and white, too, Sue thought as she activated it.

No, it was