At last we get Anton Sr into the frame. He’s twenty-nine, I think, at this point. A high-caste Mexican married to a demi-human, mixed race imperial princess. With an ambassadorship. And, as we discover in this shorter segment, still, after five years, getting used to married life.

Hell, at five years my wife and I nearly got divorced. It was my fault. A twice-divorced colleague sat me down and explained: “Clayton. You’re a man and an engineer. If someone tells you a problem, you immediately want to fix it. Women are NOT like that. They talk to talk. Just pretend you’re listening and all will be well.”

And here we are, thirty-one years later. Thanks, Bill!

Section 4 will start us down the political spillway: Japs, Rus, imperials. And a very odd occurrence when they fly over the Arabia Marshes. I wonder if the plot might be showing up?

Enjoy my content? Buy me a beer!

Eating their poached fish, with every other bite going to his son in his lap, the older Anton looked across the table at his wife.  A wife he often found difficult to understand.

“Dinner is wonderful, Saras,” he said, raising his glass of white wine.  She returned the gesture, her glass with water, and a smile.

“We’ve missed you very much, Anton.” A more sly smile.  “In many ways.”

“Has your mother been a good girl?” he suddenly asked his son, who was reaching for his juice.

“I think so, Father,” he said, obviously confused.

“So,” back to her, “no spanking for you!”

“Well, dang.”

They both laughed as their son carried on with dinner.

Later, spanking and other activities over, they relaxed in bed in each other’s arms, content.

“I hear,” she murmured, “the Russians wanted to know more about what to expect of your activities here.”

“It is statements like that which needle me, sometimes, dearest,” he grumbled back.

“I am what I am.  You knew when you married me and have learned much about us since then,” she said, playing with the hairs on his chest to keep him calm.  “Our son, your heir, is human.  Alicia will be like me.  Our other six children…”

“How is it,” he demanded, “that number keeps rising!”

“Because you do, my Lord and Master,” she laughed, moving her hand lower.

Finishing his cigarette while she took the omelet from the pan, Anton Senior sipped at water and looked at the sunrise.  The air scrubber for a habit he refused to give up had been expensive.

“Work today?” Saras asked.

“Meeting the Jap Consul for lunch at the square,” Anton said, waving vaguely outside.  “Probably two or three hours.”

“Everyone getting ready to draw lines?” she wondered.

“As the most outsider of outsiders,” he smile and pulled his wife into his lap as she set the plate down, “it is as if they see me as a sounding board for what might come next.”

“Which means,” she said with a blink, touching the Void, “they honor you as a neutral party.  That could be very important.  To all of us.”

“Us?” He reached around her to get the fork.  “You’re an imperial princess.  I think I know where your loyalties are.”

She pushed out of his lap and gave his shoulder a not-so friendly punch.

“I am your wife and my children’s mother!  That was not remotely funny, Anton.”

“Argooing already?” their son asked, wandering out of his room and rubbing his eyes.

They glanced at one another.

“A misunderstanding,” his father said at once.  “You know I love your mother.”

“Hugry,” was the little one’s response.