Tripley got up and joined him at the lectern.

Kim retrieved the container, unlatched it, and passed it to Hopkin. He opened it and brought out the model of the Hunter, circa 573. Its aluminum turrets and propulsion tubes gleamed in the lights. He held it up so everyone could see it. They got more applause. Then he read the inscription:

He handed it to Tripley, shook his hand, and sat down.

Tripley leaned into the mike. “It’s beautiful,” he said graciously. “My father would have been proud.” He added a few remarks suitable for the occasion, that Interstellar would continue to support scientific research, and that he was pleased to be able to make a positive contribution to a good cause. He thanked everyone for coming, delivered a few more generalities, and gave the lectern back to Magda amid sustained applause.

After the ceremony, he invited Hopkin and Kim into his office and showed them where he planned to put his newest award: beside the Regal, Admiral ben-Hadden’s flagship which had led Greenway’s fleet in the Pacifica War.

But he looked tired. It might have been a lassitude born of too many ceremonies that day, too many meetings with functionaries like Kim. She sensed that he was on automatic. It was hard not to conclude that, when he wasn’t on stage, a different personality took over. Nonetheless, she could see that the Hunter trophy was a hit. Kim hadn’t been certain he would recognize it.

The office was large for Sky Harbor, tastefully but not extravagantly furnished. Plaques and framed certificates and pictures of Tripley with various VIPs hung everywhere. A wall-length window looked out on the long planetary arc. Most of the visible land was white.

A portrait of a young girl playing with a dog stood prominently on his desk. His daughter, Choela, he explained. A virtual fire burned cheerfully in a grate. Bookshelves lined two walls. There were about eighty volumes, leather-bound antiques. And she saw, besides the Hunter and the Regal, three other starships.

“You did your homework,” he said, indicating the Hunter. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” she said. “Black.”

Hopkin passed.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said.

Tripley leaned toward a link, relayed her wish to someone on the other end. “It’ll fit very nicely with the fleet.” His features brightened and his eyes came alive. Whatever else he might be, she decided, he was an overgrown adolescent.

The Regal occupied a shelf of its own. A second model was encased on a table apparently designed specifically for the purpose. The two remaining ships were on opposite sides of the office, one on a side table near a chair, the other on a wall mount.

“They look realistic,” said Hopkin, strolling from one to another. Kim suspected he could not have been less interested but was using the decorations to cover his social disorientation.

“Thank you.”

The coffee arrived. Hopkin watched while his companions sampled the brew and commented on it. Then he continued, using a tone that signified he was now proceeding to serious matters. “You’ve an efficient operation here, Benton,” he said. “But I wonder if I might suggest something—?”

“Of course.”

“The engine designs—” Hopkin flashed disapproval. “You could do much better.”

“They’re standard,” said Tripley, puzzled.

Hopkin had an idea to improve energy output. Kim lost track of it early, during his description of intensification of the magnetic fields at the moment of hyperspace penetration. Her physics was too weak to follow the logic, but Tripley listened closely, jotted some of it down, interrupted occasionally with a technical question, and finally nodded his head. “Put it on paper,” he said. “Let me see a proposal.”

She noticed that he never asked about cost.

The basic problem with flight through hyperspace was that the upper limits of velocity seemed to be fixed at a real-space equivalent of 38.1 light-years per standard day. The Karis Limit. It was fast enough for travel among the Nine Worlds and their outlying regions, but there were other places researchers would like to go. Like the center of the galaxy, to which a round-trip would require four and a half years. Would Hopkin’s idea, she asked, push vehicles beyond the Karis Limit?

“No,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any way to do that. But we will be able to save a considerable amount of fuel, and thereby significantly increase range.”

She was eager to talk about Mount Hope. “It sounds,” she said, “like the kind of drive the Hunter could have used.”

Hopkin blinked, not sure of the reference. “Benton,” he said, “I hate to cut this short, but I really do have to be going.” He got up and smiled benevolently. “It was good to see you again, Kim.” He bent to kiss her cheek, shook hands with Tripley, and disappeared out the door.

“It would be helpful,” said Tripley, “if he could really do what he says.” His gaze drifted from his notes to the model Hunter. “I take it the choice of trophy design was yours?”

“We thought it seemed appropriate. Most famous of the Foundation’s vessels.”

A cheese tray showed up. Kim sampled a piece. “I was impressed that you knew about the models,” Tripley said.

“They provide a distinctive decor, Mr. Tripley. Do they represent actual vessels?”

“My name’s Ben, Doctor. May I call you Kim?”

“Of course, Ben,” she said.

His brow furrowed and his eyes caressed the Regal. It was long and sleek, its lines curving in unexpected directions, designed to resist enemy sensors. A beautiful ship. She wondered why warships, of whatever nature, were always so compelling. Was it their utilitarian nature, that they were designed for a single purpose? It suggested Eisenstadt’s misdirected definition of a beautiful woman, but it seemed applicable in this case.

“My grandfather served on it,” said Tripley.

“During the war?” asked Kim.

“He was ben-Hadden’s helmsman.” The pride in Tripley’s voice was evident. He sat back quietly to allow her a moment of appreciation.

The other models were quite striking.

One was saucer-shaped. “This is the Choela,” he said, glancing at the little girl with the dog. “It’s corporate. We have two of them in service, actually.”

And a liner. “The Buckman. Gave out years ago, I’m afraid. But it was Interstellar’s first contract. In my father’s time. Launched us, you might say.”

The final vehicle was a flared teardrop mounted on an elliptical platform. Kim saw no propulsion tubes. It looked somewhat like a turtle. “It belonged to my father,” he said. “It’s purely fictitious. As you can see.”

“No propulsion tubes,” she ventured.

He nodded. “It’s not a very thoughtful design, but it’s what got me interested in the business.”

“A boyhood toy?” asked Kim.

“Yes.”

“What is its name?”

He actually managed to look sheepish. “I called it the Valiant.”

“That sounds like a warship. It doesn’t look like one.” Toy warships usually came bristling with weapons.

“To a kid, everything’s a warship.”

Of the five models it was the most intricately detailed, with realistic antennas and sensor dishes and hatches. Its dark shell was tooled to catch the light. In the flickering glow cast by the fire it was sometimes black and sometimes purple. She touched it. Her fingertips tingled with the kind of sensation one gets from hewn marble. “I think Valiant is the right name,” she said.