This extra delay the President had announced meant that he had left home four hours too early, time in which he might have been able to heal the boy’s tear-bruised eyes. On top of that, there were the reports of the ion wind failing, fading away to the level of spatial background activity, while he stood uselessly on an ornate terrace and played nursemaid to a child who might be as neurosis-ridden as his mother. Garamond tried to smile as the Vice-President withdrew, but he had a feeling he had not made a convincing job of it.

“Well, Harald,” he said, turning to the silver-and-pearl boy, “you want to ride a flickerwing, do you?”

Harald examined him coolly. “Starflight employees of less than Board status usually address me as Master Lindstrom.”

Garamond raised his eyebrows. “I’ll tell you something about space-flying, Harald. Up there the most minor technician is more important than all your Admincom executives put together. Do you understand that, Harald? Harry?” I’m more of a child than he is, he thought in amazement.

Unexpectedly, Harald smiled. “I’m not interested in space-flying.”

“But I thought…”

“I told them that because they wanted to hear it, but I don’t have to pretend with you, do I?”

“No, you don’t have to pretend with me, son. What are we going to do for the next two hours, though?”

“I’d like to run,” Harald said with a sudden eagerness which — in Garamond’s mind — restored him to full membership of the brotherhood of small boys.

“You want to run?” Garamond managed a genuine smile. “That’s a modest ambition.”

“I’m not allowed to run or climb in case I hurt myself. My mother has forbidden it, and everybody else around here is so afraid of her that they hardly let me blink, but…” Harald looked up at Garamond, triumphantly ingenuous, “…you’re a flickerwing commander.”