From there, one proceeded easily to: Everybody knows the Empire was won and is maintained by naked power, the central government is corrupt and the frontier is brutal and the last organization with high morale, the Navy, lives for war and oppression and anti-intellectualism. So get yours, have fun, ease your conscience with a bit of discreet scoffing, and never, never make a fool of yourself by taking the Empire seriously.

Could be I’ll change that, Hauksberg thought.

Alicia interrupted him. “We might at least have gone to a decent party! But no, you have to drag us to the Crown Prince’s. Are you hoping he’ll share one of his prettyboys?”

Hauksberg tried to ease matters with a grin. “Come, come, m’love, you do me an injustice. You know I still hunt women. Preferably beautiful women, such as you.”

“Or Persis d’Io.” She sagged back. “Never mind,” she said tiredly. “I just don’t like orgies. Especially vulgar ones.”

“Nor I, much.” He patted her hand. “But you’ll manage. Among the many things I admire about you is your ability to carry off any situation with aplomb.”

True enough, he thought. For a moment, regarding those perfect features under the diademed hair, he felt regret. So his marriage had been political; why couldn’t they nonetheless have worked out a comradeship? Even love—No, he was confusing his love for ancient literature with flesh-and-blood reality. He was not Pelléas nor she Mélisande. She was clever, gracious, and reasonably honest with him; she had given him an heir; more had never been implied in the contract. For his part, he had given her position and nearly unlimited money. As for more of his time … how could he? Somebody had to be the repairman, when the universe was falling to pieces. Most women understood.

To entropy with it. Alicia’s looks came from an expensive biosculp job. He had seen too many slight variations on that fashionable face.