She took in his civilian dress, typed it automatically, and came to an erroneous conclusion. She said, "Captain? You mean that with everyone else I know drawing down ranks from Lieutenant Colonel to Brigadier General, you can't make anything better than Captain?"
Joe winced. He said carefully, "I came up from the ranks, Miss. Captain is quite an achievement, believe me."
"Up from the ranks!" She took in his clothes again. "You mean you're a Middle? You neither talk nor look like a Middle, captain." She used the caste rating as though it was not quite a derogatory term.
Not that she meant to be deliberately insulting, Joe knew, wearily. How well he knew. It was simply born in her. As once a well-educated aristocracy had, not necessarily unkindly, named their status inferiors niggers; or other aristocrats, in another area of the country, had named theirs greasers. Yes, how well he knew.
He said very evenly, "Mid-Middle now, Miss. However, I was born in the Lower castes."
An eyebrow went up. "Zen! You must have put in many an hour studying. You talk like an Upper, captain." She dropped all interest in him and turned to resume her journey.
"Just a moment," Joe said. "You can't go in there, Miss—"
Her eyebrows went up again. "The name is Haer," she said. "Why can't I go in here, captain?"
Now it came to him why he had thought he recognized her. She had basic features similar to those of that overbred poppycock, Balt Haer.
"Sorry," Joe said. "I suppose under the circumstances, you can. I was about to tell you that they're recruiting with lads running around half clothed. Medical inspections, that sort of thing."