The high admiral regarded his protector thoughtfully. This was Benjamin's fiftieth birthday, and his hair was streaked progressively more thickly with silver. Not that Matthews was any spring chicken himself. In fact, he was ten T-years older than Benjamin, and his own hair had turned completely white, although (he thought with a certain comfortable vanity) it had remained thankfully thick and luxuriant.

But thick or not, we're neither one of us getting any younger , he reflected.

It was a thought which had occured to him more frequently of late, especially when he ran into Manticoran officers half again his age who still looked younger than he did. Who were younger, physically speaking, at least. And more than a few Grayson officers fell into that same absurdly youthful-looking category, now that the first few generations to enter the service since Grayson's alliance with Manticore had made the prolong therapies generally available were into their late thirties or—like Benjamin's younger brother, Michael—already into their early forties.

It's only going to get worse, Wesley , he told himself with an inescapable edge of bittersweet envy. It's not their fault, of course. In fact, it's nobody's fault, but there are still a lot of things I'd like to be here to see .

He gave himself a mental shake and snorted silently. It wasn't exactly as if he were going to drop dead of old age tomorrow! With modern medicine, he ought to be good for at least another thirty T-years, and Benjamin could probably look forward to another half T-century.

Which had very little to do with the question the protector had just asked him.

"May I ask exactly which of our esteemed steadholders are likely to be raising the questions in question, Your Grace?"