Tamara O’Malley looked around the ballroom, wishing she didn’t have to be there. Her father, she thought, wasn’t deliberately being a pain; to him, this was mother’s milk. The stuff of life itself.

A grand ballroom; there was none finer anywhere. A clear area the size of a World Cup soccer pitch, under a dome filled with stars and planets, plus the occasional moon. Chandeliers provided light ... chandeliers that would have been the envy of any king or potentate of times gone past.

Tamara glanced down at her dress. Her father didn’t stint; to him, this was all important. That in both senses of the phrasing.

It was a pretty dress; it suited her well. Of course, it was a committee decision, where the only vote Tamara had was the final veto. Too much work and devotion had gone into making it; of course, she couldn’t say no to the finished product of all that effort. She knew they used it against her, but what could she do?

At one end of the huge room, a full orchestra played all sorts of music. It was whimsical, one would think, unless one knew that nothing happened at a function like this without it being planned, planned, and then planned over again. It was a good orchestra, none better on Earth. Which meant, none better, anywhere.

The main area was filled with hundreds, perhaps a thousand, dancing couples. It was a simple waltz, nothing complex. Not nearly as complicated as some of the dances that would come later, the dances aimed at the true aficionados of evenings like this. Tamara would be gone by then.

Until two years ago, Tamara had been presented, along with a dozen others, from the balcony, briefly, shortly after nine, a full hour after the ball started.

Then the evening came when a handsome young officer had appeared and offered Tamara his arm.

She had been furious, but there was no way she could take out her anger on the young man. He was, after all, following orders. How was the young man to know she despised him for doing what he was told? And despised herself for the same reason?

She had no choice in this. None, none at all. She’d tried when she was younger to avoid having to attend. That had resulted in more than a little unpleasantness from her father, right up to his invoking Tamara’s mother.

Around the ballroom’s periphery were hundreds of tables, three and four deep, close to the walls, where those not dancing could sit and talk. For all of that, few seats were filled this early -- most of the guests were talking in groups here and there spread through the vast space.

Tamara ran an eye over the crowd. There were more uniforms than usual, so something military as a theme. Still, there was a solid core of formal evening wear, including more than four of five of the women. A few feet away, her escort for the evening was talking with a half dozen uniformed contemporaries.

Tamara smiled to herself. Obviously, the word on Tamara was out. She would find a dark corner and stay there until the presentations, and then as soon afterwards as decently possible, she would ask to leave. The young officer would escort her out, and that was that for him. There was nothing for him to do after that. She never danced, she never strayed, and she always left early. What twenty-something gallant young officer would want to spend the evening with a “sulking” fourteen-year-old? None. Not since that first night. And even then, he’d not been terribly attentive after the first hour or so.

Something moved in the corner of her vision, and instinctively, Tamara looked.

Instinct, her father had told her, will keep you going far longer than you might think. Trust it. At first, few things her father had told her made sense; fewer still did Tamara feel the least desire to obey. Still, that seemed like common sense. Twice in her lifetime, girls she knew had been killed or kidnapped; there had been a half dozen other attempts. It didn’t bear thinking about. But you had to think about it, anyway.

It was a young man, not much older than her escort. Except he was wearing a tuxedo instead of a uniform.

Tamara’s brow furrowed. Well, others were wearing tuxedos, instead of morning coats, her father included. But this looked like a cheap rental. And his tie was tied wrong, and his cummerbund was upside down. Tamara giggled to herself. Wasn’t flying the flag upside down supposed to be a distress signal? Could this man be clever enough to do something that clever?

He looked ordinary. Even as Tamara watched, she saw him run a finger inside his collar, between his neck and the badly tied tie. It itched; she imagined it would. And if anything, he was in a darker spot than she was, obviously looking at the ongoing ball with considerable nervousness, no more desirous of being noticed than Tamara.

Tamara glanced at her oblivious escort, then around to the other man with her. He stood as he always did, solid as a rock, imposing and unspeaking. Hans Dieter Friedrich. She’d known him for years; since she could remember anything at all, in fact.

Tamara caught his eye, nodded in the direction she was going to go. Hans made no sign he’d seen her, but then, he wouldn’t have shown an expression if someone was cutting off his leg. Tamara walked ten steps and stood next to the young man with the cheap tuxedo. “You tied the tie wrong,” she told him.

He looked at her and blinked, obviously startled. “Not like the bloody booger came with bleedin’ instructions.” His voice was gravel, unlike the dulcet tones of so many here. His words were like that too. A mixture: an American accent and British idiom.

Tamara took an extra step and fetched a chair. At five foot one, she was vertically challenged in dealing with most adults; this one was taller than most. She stepped up, looked him in the eye. “Hold still,” she commanded.

Behind her, she sensed Hans do that and grinned to herself. Oh, how efficiently you have trained your men, father!

She undid the bow tie, tied it right, and then stepped down from her perch.

“Thanks, lass,” the man said, running his finger around his collar again. “Aye, much better.”

“I’m Tamara,” she told him. Should she mention the cummerbund?

“Ivan,” he replied. “Ivan Kruger.” He grinned at her. “Thanks again, lass.” He waved around the floor. “What’s a smart girl like you doing at a thing like this?”

She tipped her head slightly to one side. “Practice.”

He laughed and flipped a thumb upwards. “Ah yes, practice! Obviously, I’m in need of it.” His eyes went out to the dance floor. “Dear Lord, spare me more than this once!”

“I should be so lucky,” Tamara muttered.

He grinned. “You’ve done this before?”

Tamara nodded.

Ivan waved at the dance floor. “And that?”

“Not my favorite thing.”

The young man nodded. “Nor mine. However, my lady tells me if I do not dance at least once with someone I don’t know, she will supply me with two dozen partners. Not one of which, she avers, understands the word ‘no.’”

Tamara was taken a little aback; sure, at fourteen, you were nominally supposed to understand things like that, but she’d led a sheltered life.

Quite suddenly, she realized that the young man had no idea what he’d just said or who he’d said it to.