The slower pace was more than balanced by a complex, cumulative pattern of exchanges with one’s partner, thus: step forward, touch right hands, step back/step forward, touch right hands, then left, step back—and so on, until the tune turned on itself and one began to subtract a gesture at the exchange, and each dancer was at last back in their place, having regained all that had been given.

The music stopped the instant the second partner pair fell back into place. There was a moment of tension, as if the dancers awaited another phrase from the musicians—then laughter, and light applause. Their little square evaporated, Pat Rin moving with determination toward the refreshment table, Shan and Priscilla amiably keeping pace. He was sincerely thirsty now, and thinking in terms of a cool glass of juice.

“Do you find the party agreeable?” he asked Priscilla.

“Perfectly agreeable,” she said, with a seriousness that was belied by the glimmer of a smile in her eyes. “Ms. Audrey said that she meant to host the dance of the winter.”

“Which we thought would be no great challenge.” Shan continued. “There being so few dances held in the winter. Or the summer. Or the spring, come to belabor it.”

Pat Rin considered him. “If you find a lack, cousin, you might host a ball or two yourself.”

“Well, I might,” Shan allowed. “If it weren’t for the fact that the Delm has some foolish notion in his head about bringing Surebleak up to a midtier spaceport, with a timetable of roughly right now. Perhaps he’s spoken to you on the subject?”

“He has,” Pat Rin said, “and I must say that the Delm and I are as one on the matter.”

“Well, then, what choice have I—a mere master trader!—commanded as I am by both the Delm of Korval and the Boss of Surebleak? Duty, as always, must bow before pleasure, and so it is that tomorrow I regretfully shake the snow of Surebleak from my boots and betake myself to Terran Trade Commission headquarters, there to enlist their aid in the Delm’s necessity.