“Have a drink,” Inskipp said, dropping into Angela’s chair and pulling out a hip flask. “Ersatz terran brandy, not this local brand of plastic solvent.” He offered me a cupful.
“Drop dead, you. …” I followed with some of the choicer selections from my interstellar vocabulary, and tried to knock the cup out of his hand. He fooled me by raising it and drinking it himself, not in the least annoyed.
“Is that any kind of language to use on your superior officer in the Special Corps?” He asked and refilled the cup. “It’s a good thing we’re a relaxed organization without too many rules. Still—there are limits.” He held out the cup again and this time I grabbed it and drained it.
“Why did you do it?” I asked, still wracked by conflicting emotions.
“Because you didn’t, that’s why. The operation is over, you are a success. Before you were merely on probation, but now you are a full agent.”
He grubbed in one pocket and pulled out a little gold star made of paper. After licking it carefully and solemnly he reached out and stuck it to the front of my shirt.
“I hereby appoint you a Full Agent of the Special Corps,” he intoned, “by authority of the power vested in me.”
Cursing, I reached to pick the damn thing off—and laughed instead. It was absurd. It was also a fine commentary on the honors that went with the job.
“I thought I was no longer a member of the crew,” I told him.