It was obviously an ethically intolerable situation, which Marcin would denounce and relinquish. Only he would not. He needed Surendra. He wanted to publish what he wrote and to send it to the men who could understand it, the punk bitches of Grakk Auron; he craved their acceptance, their rejection, their endless nattering on.

So they had bargained, he and Surendra, bargained like two greased savages in a lake. For it was clear to Marcin, or at least so he told himself, that there was no way to get what he wanted without compromising his principles.

In truth, he was becoming part of the problem. The entire reserach hierarchy, which he despised, was predicated on a bunch of selfish, deceitful men claiming that they did what they did for the greater good, or because it was the least evil of all the alternatives, or some other flimsy justification.

Deep down, he knew this, and his anger and self-revulsion came out as caustic hostility every time someone dared to criticize him. If he had been a better person, he would have apologized and undone what he knew to be wrong, but something inside him was unwilling to face the fact that he had erred, strayed from the path mapped by his great-aunt Phyllis.

Instead, he retired to his chamber, nerves on edge, and distracted himself with thoughts of the girl from the cotillion with the loud, drunken Tiddlywinkers and the delegation from Decepticon VI. What had her name been? He had been too preoccupied with bragging about his publications to have retained it. Did he even ask?

He had not. Her name is Pertelope.