Harte sighed and leaned back in his chair, grimacing slightly as he stretched his right hand out. It popped and snapped in a satisfying way, but his joints had just started to swell earlier that year, and he didn't much like the way his body was starting to betray him. "After all I've done for you," he muttered, glancing down at his gut, "You could at least return a bit of respect back my way..." He rapped his navel with a knuckle, and frowned when a fast ripple spread across his flesh. "Well, I guess that's the way it works."

He glanced at the letter again, reading over it briefly. His handwriting was swift, sharp, and efficient, filling barely half the page. It left him lots of room to give his professional signature - a drawing trick he'd worked out for writing commendations for the recruits he knew would one day frame their certificates the same way Harte did. The thought of signing commendations made him melancholic, but the feeling passed as he heard one of his girls let out a shrill laugh from the other room.

Looking around his office, at all the medals and memorabilia from his decades of service, he couldn't suppress a feeling of pride. But that chapter in his life was over now. "Professor Stephanus," he said to himself, tasting the words. After a moment he shook his head. "Too serious. I'll be Games-Keeper Stephanus. When a man reaches this age, he should be able to make his life into a career of games."

From the door, he heard the knock of a small knuckle, and his wife called, her voice warm and happy, "Dinner is almost ready, love. Stop talking to yourself and come on out."

He smiled again, broadly, as he folded the letter and dropped it in an envelope, dripping a perfect disk of wax on, which he sealed with his Seventen Officer's Insignia. "I've decided I'll do as you said, dear. I just wrote the letter."

"That's fine," she said, dismissive in the kindest way, "But dinner is almost ready, so go get the girls cleaned up..."

He stood, stretching his back and loosening his shoulders. "I'll get the little scamps to the bath even if I have to drop them in by their ankles," he said merrily, as he walked toward the door. He only stopped for an instant, to steal one more glance at his ceremonial saber where it hung on the wall. It was well-oiled and clean, but barely sharp enough to cut lard. A retired blade fitting a retired Sergeant.