“It’s a very beautiful ceremony,” Cidra said softly, knowing many non-Harmonics used it to lend solemnity and ritual to the nuptials.

“It’s supposed to be a lucky way to start marriage, and I guess it’s worked so far for us. I’m still married to the man, although he can be a pain in the rump on occasion.”

“Luck? There’s no luck involved in a High Ritual ceremony! It’s a matter of philosophy and focusing, not luck.”

Desma grinned. “Another matter of adaptation. Wolves use the ceremony because they think it’s lucky, among other things.”

“That’s a terrible misunderstanding of the underlying philosophy of the ceremony,” Cidra protested.

“Ummm.” But Desma was no longer paying any attention to her companion. She was gazing with narrowed eyes at a man who was levering himself away from the bar and starting toward the table occupied by the two women. “Speaking of unharmonious principles,” Desma murmured, “did Severance ever tell you he once had a partner?”

“You mean his brother?”

“No. A man named Racer.”

Cidra frowned thoughtfully and turned to glance at the man in a khaki ship suit who was weaving his way through the crowd. “Severance mentioned something about a partnership that was dissolved some time back. He didn’t talk much about it or about the other man.”

“Hardly surprising. The two of them hate each other’s guts.” Desma leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do me a favor. If Severance ever asks what you did or who you met this evening, don’t mention Racer.”

Cidra wrinkled her brow. “You want me to lie to him?”

“You will if you’re at all interested in maintaining any semblance of harmony in the universe.” Desma broke off with a superficial smile as the man halted beside the table. “Hello, Racer. I didn’t know you were in port.”

“Life,” said Cord Racer, looking down at Cidra, “is just one renegade’s surprise after another.”

Severance stepped out onto the tough membrane that served as pavement on the streets of Try Again. Behind him the door panel of the building mat had once housed the offices of ExcellEx snapped shut to the accompanying hiss of the antibug deflector screens. Severance wished that the local ExcellEx rep were a bug. He’d like to see him sizzled by the screen’s electronic impulses. Damn Quench, and damn the whole fast-moving ExcellEx corporation.

Severance kept to the side of the street although it wasn’t difficult to dodge the few runners and sleds that were zipping from one end of town to the other. Try Again was not big enough to warrant a lot of vehicular traffic. Most people walked from one point to the other.

Above him the night sky proudly displayed Renaissance’s twin moons, Borgia and Medici. A record of the words had survived the colony ship’s crash two hundred years ago, but the references had been lost. Some research indicated that they were linked to the term Renaissance, and so the names had been attached to its moons. There was a constant hum from the jungle on the other side of the triaton walls. As he walked toward Desma’s house Severance batted absently at one or two night-flying insects that somehow escaped a deflector screen. His mind was occupied with the task of telling Cidra that plans had changed.

She wasn’t going to be thrilled. She had been counting on at least five days here at Try Again. Time enough to consult local archives and the tall tales of exploration men. She was going to be upset when he informed her that they were leaving the day after tomorrow.

Well, he couldn’t help the inconvenience, Severance told himself. Cidra was the one who had insisted on a crew contract. She would just have to learn to accommodate herself to the unpredictable schedules of a mail ship.

He turned a corner, heading down the street that was lined with the majority of Try Again’s company stores and taverns. The distant hum of the jungle was a familiar sound, and he tuned it out. After a year as a bonus man he had developed fairly good instincts for Renaissance. A man either learned when to get nervous or he died learning. Companies didn’t pay huge bonus credit for ordinary manual labor. Bonus credit was paid for risks, and risks on Renaissance were usually in the life-and-death category.

“Hey, Severance.” A man emerging from a nearby tavern hailed him. “You the one who just hit port with a Harmonic in tow?”

Severance halted. “Hello, Craft. As usual you’re up to date. A man would think you’re telepathic yourself, the way you always seem to know the latest gossip. How did you know about Cidra?”

Craft chuckled, unoffended. He’d known Teague Severance a long time. “No magic this time. Saw her with Desma Kady ‘bout an hour ago. They’re in the Bloodsucker.” He nodded up the street.

Severance swore in disgust. “Desma took her there?”

“It’s not like we got a whole lot of choice when it comes to night spots in this town,” Craft reminded him. His faded, friendly eyes assessed Severance in the poor light. “Nothing to get upset about. Looked to me like they were both having a good time.”

“You wouldn’t think someone raised in Clementia would have developed a fascination for dives like the Bloodsucker, would you? The lady’s taste seems to be degenerating.” Severance sighed and moved off purposefully. “See you, Craft.”

“Sure.” The older man nodded, but Severance was no longer looking at him. He was heading toward the Bloodsucker. Craft chuckled again to himself and decided that he could use another drink after all. He went back into the tavern from which he had just emerged. Bound to be some folks inside who’d want to hear about Severance and the little Harmonic. And Cord Racer’s presence added a nice extra fillip, too bad he hadn’t had a chance to mention Racer to Severance. No matter. They’d find each other soon enough, and word had it that Racer had already found the little Harmonic.

Desma watched Racer settle into conversation with Cidra. There wasn’t much she could do to stop it, short of making a scene and hauling the younger woman out of the tavern. A woman born in Clementia, Harmonic or otherwise, would be thoroughly humiliated at being the object of the kind of attention that would garner.

Objectively speaking, there was nothing wrong with Racer. He was reasonably well mannered, especially compared to the majority of Try Again’s population. He was good-looking in an open, breezy kind of way. Red-haired with blue-green eyes and a disarming sprinkling of freckles across his nose, Racer was tall and physically well proportioned. He wore the snug-fitting khaki ship suit and boots with a certain swagger that was not offensive. Women tended to find it endearing, in fact. About the same age as his former partner, Cord Racer was also doing very well for himself as a mail pilot. And he was better educated than the average pilot. Desma had already sensed that for Cidra, intelligence and a good education were vastly more alluring than physical attractiveness in a man. The result of her Harmonic upbringing, Desma supposed.