But Jem was different. He was always willing to wait and let things unfold themselves. He was cautious and solemn beyond his years. He'd make Susanne the best possible husband, and an excellent president for the League.
"It's just as well we've got a little time," Jem was saying. "I was wondering how much you knew about Anse Messerschmidt."
Kimmensen frowned. "Messerschmidt? Nothing. And everything. His kind're all cut out of the same pattern."
Jem frowned with him. "I've seen him once or twice. He's about my age, and we've bumped into each other at friends' houses. He's one of those swaggering fellows, always ready to start an argument."
"He'll start one too many, one day."
"I hope so."
Kimmensen grunted, and they relapsed into silence. Nevertheless, he felt a peculiar uneasiness. When he heard the other plane settling down outside his house, he gripped his glass tighter. He locked his eyes on the figure of Susanne walking quickly up to the living room wall, and the lean shadow behind her. Then the panel opened, and Susanne and her escort stepped out of the night and into the living room. Kimmensen took a sudden breath. He knew Susanne, and he knew that whatever she did was somehow always the worst possible thing. A deep, pain-ridden shadow crossed his face.
Susanne turned her face to look up at the man standing as quietly as one of Death's outriders beside her.
"Hello, Father," she said calmly. "Hello, Jem. I'd like you both to meet Anse Messerschmidt."