Charles Sheffield - With the Knight Male

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With the Knight Male (apologies to Rudyard

Kipling)

Charles Sheffield

I received the final payment this morning. To: Burmeister and Carver, Attorneys. Payable by: Joustin'

Time.

Logically, Waldo should have signed the transfer slip. He deserves the money, far more than I do. But

given his contusions, fractures, lacerations, and multiple body casts, he is in no position to sign anything.

In fact, all the negotiations, arguments, offers, and counteroffers to Joustin' Time had perforce to come

from me. But if Waldo learns anything from his experience—doubtful, given his history—my extra effort

on his behalf will be well worthwhile.

I ought to have been suspicious at the outset, when Waldo drifted into my office from his next-door one,

preened, and said, "Got us a client."

"That's nice. Who is he?"

"She. It's a lady, Helga Svensen."

I ought to have stopped it right there. Every man is entitled to his little weakness, but Waldo's track

record with women clients has been, to put it mildly, unfortunate.

On the other hand, although the love of money is widely acknowledged to be the root of all evil, the lack

of money isn't too good either. The legal firm of Burmeister and Carver—Waldo and me—was at the

time utterly broke.

I said, "What does this Helga Svensen want us to do?"

"Nothing difficult. Seems she's a major player in the pre-Renaissance tournaments that have been so big

recently. There's a royal games next week at the Paladindrome on Vesta, and she wants our help with

her performance contract. She also asked me to check out one of the accessories. Wants to know if it

can be shipped legally interplanet before she commits to anything."

I nodded. World-to-world tariff laws were a nightmare—or, seen from another point of view, a boon for

hungry attorneys.

"What is it this time?" I said. "Bows, swords, tankards? Antique suits of armor? Jousting equipment?"

"None of them." Waldo helped himself to a handful of chocolate malt balls sitting in a jar on my desk.

"Mainly, she's interested—mm—in the—mm—blagon."

"The flagons?"

"Naw." He had spoken with his mouth full, and was forced to pause and swallow before he could say,

"The dragon. Apparently it's a different model from what they've been using before. I'm going to meet

Helga Svensen over at Chimera Labs tomorrow morning and we're going to check it out together. Want

to come?"

I did not. The mindless rush of the biolabs to create, through fancy DNA splicing, everything from

centaurs to basilisks to gryphons has never made sense to me. On the other hand, there is such a thing as

due diligence. If we were going to object to—or press for—import/export restrictions on a dragon, I

needed to take a look at one.

"What time?" I said.

"Nine o'clock. Nine o'clock sharp."

"I'll be there."

* * *

But I wasn't. An unpleasant conversation with our landlord concerning past-due office rental delayed me

and I did not reach the offices of Chimera Labs until nine-thirty. The aged derelict on duty at the desk

wore a uniform as wrinkled and faded as he was. He cast one bleary-eyed look at me as I came in and

said, "Mister Carver? You're expected. First room on the left. The brute's in there."

"The dragon?"

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Charles Sheffield - With the Knight Male

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