"Let me call Nindrandigro and have him bring
you chilled wine; lie down and rest until dinner."
"No, no; I want brandy." He went to a cellaret and got out a decanter
and goblet, pouring himself a drink. "How soon will dinner be ready?"
The brown girl squeezed a little golden globe that hung on a chain
around her neck; a tiny voice, inside it, repeated: "Eighteen
twenty-three ten, eighteen twenty-three eleven, eighteen twenty-three
twelve--"
"In half an hour. It's still in the robo-chef," she told him.
He downed half the goblet-full, set it down, and went to a painting, a
brutal scarlet and apple-green abstraction, that hung on the wall.
Swinging it aside and revealing the safe behind it, he used his
identity-sigil, took out a wad of Paratemporal Exchange Bank notes and
gave them to the girl.
"Here, Zinganna; take these, and take Nindrandigro and Calilla out for
the evening. Go where you can all have a good time, and don't come
back till after midnight. There will be some business transacted here,
and I want them out of this. Get them out of here as soon as you can;
I'll see to the dinner myself.
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