“Damn,” said Shan again, yanking off the goggled helmet and dropping it to the floor. He locked the board and jumped out.

Perched on the fence directly opposite was a young gallant: fine white shirt and soft dark trousers; a pilot’s leather jacket thrown negligently across the fence at his side. He held a glass of wine in his hand.

Shan stretched his long legs, grinning in welcome.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he said in Terran. “How long have you been here?”

“I saw your run,” Val Con replied in the same tongue. “Wine?”

“Thanks.” Shan said and sighed. “I didn’t know you were a racing enthusiast.”

“I heard there was something new,” Val Con said. “A pilot likes to keep abreast…”

“Always nice to learn, “agreed Shan. “And an education can be had in the oddest places. Staying at the spaceport, are you, Val Con?”

The younger man lifted an eyebrow. “Do I pry into your affairs?”

“Well, now, that’s what’s odd. Normally you don’t. But here I am, where I have taken care not to announce myself, out of respect for our more proper relations; and now here you are—”

“For which I should be thanked,” Val Con interrupted. “Aunt Kareen is quite upset. She was on the brink of sending Pat Rin to fetch you home, and was persuaded to allow me to come instead. My aunt,” he added earnestly, “thinks you an outrageous rantipole.”

Shan snorted. “I’d rather be a rantipole than a pompous ass."

“Yes,” soothed Val Con, “I know you would.”

“Cultivating an edge, brother?”

“It is also to be recalled,” said Val Con dampingly, “that we are but cousins.”

“Dear me!” Shan cried. “I apprehend that Kareen was in the throes of a Mood!”