"But—"

"We're not interested," I said firmly, cutting off another bite.

"Maybe we aren't," Bayta said, a little crossly. "But someone else is."

I knew better than to abruptly stop what I was doing and spin around. "Where?" I asked, putting the pili into my mouth.

Her eyes flicked over my shoulder, then returned to her own plate. "There are two of them: a man and a woman," she said. "The man's about your age, the woman about the same age as Mr. Smith."

"How's their meal going?"

"I think they're almost finished," she said. "But the man was definitely watching your conversation with Mr. Smith."

And watching was pretty much all he could do at that distance. The acoustics in Quadrail dining and bar cars were designed to make eavesdropping from more than about a meter away effectively impossible. "Let me know when they get ready to leave," I said.

I got three more bites of pili and had tried the accompanying cornleaf mash when Bayta murmured her warning. I looked down into my lap, pretending to adjust my napkin, and was gazing at the floor as they walked past.

Their shoes were the first items up for consideration. The woman's were very much upper class, while the man's were nice but nothing special. I let my eyes move upward as the two of them continued by, giving each article of clothing the same quick analysis, then checked out the backs of their heads and their hairstyles.

There was no doubt about it. The woman belonged here among the stratospheric wealthy of the galaxy. The man was just as definitely traveling first class on someone else's budget.

And then, as they reached the corridor, the man turned and looked at me.

It was a short, expressionless glance. But it was enough. "Well, well," I murmured as the two of them turned right toward the first-class car behind the dining car.