Free The Fortress in Orion by Mike Resnick

and yet she possessed not a wrinkle nor a single gray hair, and she moved with the grace of a woman not long out of her teens.
    Which is not to say that she didn’t rule her domain with an iron fist. There were other brothels around the galaxy, some on nearby worlds, but Madam Methuselah’s was unique for two of the services it offered: privacy and confidentiality. Not necessarily between bedmates, although that was private and confidential as well. But when people, often of different races, required absolute privacy in which to consummate their business, be it economic, military, or political, they knew that the madam would provide them a soundproof, windowless room that had no hidden microphones or holo cameras, and that there would be no record anywhere of their having been there.
    Her rules were strict, and her word was the only law in the only town on this world. Her assistants—she disliked the words “bouncers” and “enforcers”—were unobtrusive until a weapon was drawn or a prostitute was abused, and then their response was swift and deadly. A running total of recently deceased rule-breakers was kept on the wall over the magnificent polished bar as a reminder that civilized behavior was not only requested but insisted upon.
    Madam Methuselah herself was not beyond conducting some private business of her own—not sexual business, for it had been hundreds of years since anyone had seen her take a client to bed, but business of a different sort. Many a man or woman came to the brothel, sat down for a private conversation with the madam, and left a few minutes later with the information they had come for. She never sold such information but rather traded it, so that she always had new information to trade and hence new reasons for people to make the trip to McPherson’s World and perhaps spend a day or a night sampling the brothel’s more usual services while they were there.
    She was waiting for Pretorius when he entered.
    â€œHello, Nathan. They told me your ship had landed.” She smiled at him. “It’s been awhile. Are you here to fertilize any of my frail flowers?”
    â€œHave I ever?”
    â€œOne can always hope. Let’s have a drink in the bar, and then we’ll go to my quarters for a chat.”
    â€œLet’s skip the bar,” said Pretorius.
    â€œThat’s not like you, Nathan.”
    â€œI’ve got three furious women on my ship who only half-believe I’m here to talk. The sooner I get back there, the better.”
    â€œThree?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I think your eyes are bigger than your—”
    â€œDon’t say it,” he interrupted, and she laughed.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “Follow me.”
    She led him through the bar to the elegant entrance of an airlift.
    A moment later they had ascended to the expansive and beautifully furnished fourth floor, which constituted her living quarters and was filled with eight centuries of memorabilia.
    â€œComputer,” she said, “secure this level.” She turned to Pretorius. “Have a seat, Nathan.”
    â€œThanks,” he said, sitting in a chair that immediately changed its shape to conform to his body.
    â€œI heard you had some difficulty on your last assignment,” she said, lighting up a thin Altairian cigar.
    â€œThere are bits of me all the hell over the galaxy,” he acknowledged. “The last one was no different.”
    â€œAnd you’re on another one now?”
    He nodded.
    â€œCare to tell me about it?” she asked.
    â€œThis one you’ll have to keep to yourself.”
    She grimaced. “For how long?”
    â€œYou’ll know when.”
    She considered it for a moment, then nodded her consent.
    â€œI need two things,” he continued “First, I need to know exactly when Michkag is due to land on Petrus IV.”
    If the mention of Michkag’s name surprised