The Warlock`s Companion

Chapter 10

The lander jarred with a thud and a clash. Rod waited, excitement beginning to well up under his sadness at leaving home. The wall-patch next to the hatch glowed green. Rod opened it and stepped through into his new life.

The welcoming committee was a stocky man in a uniform too tight around the waist and a three-day beard on his jowls. "A rich boy!" he groaned. "With a private robot—preserve us! And shall I roll out a red carpet for you, me lord?"

"Not a lord," Rod said automatically.

"Well, ya know that much, at least," the man grunted. "But ya need a bit more, swabbie. When ya walked through that hatch, ya became the lowest of the low, boy. And close it behind ya!"

Rod turned, sure that he had. Yes, the hatch was dogged.

The jowly man pushed past him to check, and gave a reluctant growl. "Well, it's good enough."

Rod knew it was a lot better than "good enough." People who grow up on asteroids become very used to hatches—by the time they're eight. But all he said was, "Thank you, sir."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Ya got that part right, too." He looked distinctly unhappy about it. "Well, 'sir' it is, to anyone ya see. I'm Albie Weiser, Second Officer of the good ship Murray Rain, and you have the lowest rating aboard. Anything you see, you 'sir,' because there's no one aboard who's lower than you—and ya salute a senior officer!"

Rod snapped to what he hoped was "attention" and touched his forehead.

"No, no!" Weiser seemed relieved as he reached out to boost Rod's arm and crank his wrist. "Elbow up, so your arm's parallel to the deck, and turn yer hand out t' face me!"

Rod clenched his jaw to keep from saying "ouch."

"Right enough, then," the officer growled. "Now, come on and see this berth y've signed on for." He pushed off against a wall and glided down the passageway, glancing back just once—to make sure his new charge was following, Rod supposed. He looked very disappointed, and Rod's spirits sank. Was he really doing that badly? He swallowed hard and plucked up his courage, resolving to become the best recruit Weiser had ever seen.

Fess followed, drifting silently in null-G. A bit less naive than Rod, he realized that Weiser had been hoping the young man would prove horribly clumsy in free-fall. Apparently the second officer hadn't realized that growing up on an asteroid, however large and however well provided with artificial gravity in dwelling areas, would still afford a young man a great number of low-G situations, and free-fall sports.

He was also aware that being faultless, when people were actively seeking faults to belittle you for, could prove dangerous.

They filed down a metal passageway, over the foot-high sill of a hatch, down a clanging ladder, and down a darker passageway. Rod's spirits sank with the altitude.

Then the hallway opened out into a large chamber filled with vague lumpen shapes, walls divided into metal boxes. Pipes festooned the ceilings, and the floor humped up into ridges here and there.

Weiser turned and pointed to a rectangular outline in the corner, about eighteen inches wide and three feet high. "There's yer locker. And there—" He pointed to a larger rectangle inscribed on the wall, "—is yer berth."

Rod stared at it in dismay, and the mate sneered, "What did ya expect for an engine wiper on a freighter—a stateroom with a private bath?"

"Oh, no, no! It's just that, uh, I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Stow your duffel, swabbie, and report to the engineer!" He looked at Fess with disgust and grunted, "Private robots, yet! Where're ya going to store that, laddie?" He gave Fess a slap.

"Hey, careful! He's an antique!"

"Oh, is he, now? And maybe I should dust yer china fer ya, too!" The mate swatted at Fess, and the robot stepped aside easily—a twentieth of a second was a quick punch for a human, but a long time for a computer. "Stand still when I'm swinging at ya!" the mate roared, and slammed another punch at the robot.

"Sir," Fess said as he dodged, "I have done nothing to merit your…"

"Hold on, now! That's my robot!" Rod leaped in, grabbing at the mate's arm. Weiser turned to aim a punch at him, and Fess darted forward to interpose himself between Rod and the mate's fist. Then he tried to dodge Weiser's kick, protesting, "I have done…" and went stiff as a board. The mate's kick caught him in the hip joint and sent him crashing against the wall.

Rod saw red. "You bastard! You made him have a seizure! And then when he was defenseless, you…" He couldn't finish; he leaped at the mate, swinging…

Swinging completely around in a circle and crashing into the wall. As he slid toward the bottom, a calloused hand grabbed him by the jumpsuit and yanked him upright. The jowly face loomed over him, mouth curved in a grin and vindictive satisfaction in the eyes. "The first thing ya must learn, swabbie, is to never talk back to a senior officer!" The calloused hand shot out, clenching into a shotput fist, and crashed into Rod's jaw.

Rod was only dizzy for a few seconds; then he was struggling up to his hands and knees and lurching over to grope at the base of Fess's skull for the circuit breaker. He pushed, and the robot sat up slowly. "Whatddd… didddd AAAeee…"

"You were defeated in a gallant attempt to save me," Rod rasped. "Sorry I got you into this."

"Thhhuh ffaullltt iz awwl…"

"All Weiser's," Rod grunted. "That bastard was doing everything he could to pick a fight. Help me up, will you?"

Slowly, the robot climbed to its feet, then reached down. A hard hand grasped Rod's arm, helping him up. "How… how long were we out?"

"I have been unnn-ckon-shus form… no morrrre than… threeee minutes."

Rod gave his head a shake, blinked, and managed to see that Weiser wasn't there. "He didn't have to do that…"

"He would have con-tin-ued to be off-offensive until he managed to… pro-voke you into attac-king, mas-ter. He was seeking to… e-sta-blish his au-tho-ri-ty."

Rod's mouth tightened. "Are you telling me I shouldn't have reacted, no matter what he did?"

"Short of attack with lethal intentions, no. I certainly was not damaged; I am considerably more durable than that."

Rod remembered childhood tales about accidents when Fess had been building the castle. "All right, so I shouldn't have worried."

"But I am delighted by your wish to defend one you regard as a friend, boss—it shows that my moral teachings have taken firm hold. Nonetheless, please remember that it is I who am supposed to be loyal to you, not the reverse."

''Point noted,'' Rod grumbled. "People don't help robots.''

"Of course, my own loyalty is reinforced by such firm evidence of your own."

"But you would have suffered a major breakdown if I'd been really hurt. Yeah, yeah, I know."

"Well… I did note that you seemed to have forgotten your boxing, boss."

"I don't know what that guy was using, but it sure wasn't boxing." Rod pushed his jaw back into place and blinked at the pain. "Whew! And you'd better not call me 'boss' around here; I'm beginning to see that it could bother my fellow crewmen."

"How shall I address you, then?"

"How about 'Rod'?" Rod said sourly.

"If you insist," Fess sighed.

"I do. After all, I've learned my first lesson—that the universe is a nasty place. Let's see if I can't make my way in it anyway, shall we?"

"One human is not the universe, Rod."

"So I've got a negative attitude. I can hardly wait to meet my chief."

"According to Mr. Weiser's instructions, you must 'stow your duffel' first."

"Oh, yeah." Rod frowned, turning to the little locker. "How do I get it open, do you suppose?" He started running his fingers along the outline, pressing as he went. The left edge gave under pressure, so Rod pushed harder. The panel rotated outward, revealing small shelves on its other side, and a compartment three feet deep.

Rod stared, appalled. "There's no way you'll ever fit in there!"

"I can if it is necessary, Rod."

"Yeah, well, let's try and get by without it first, shall we?" Rod tossed his bag in and pushed the panel shut. "You just stand in the corner here and do your best to turn into a statue. Okay?"

"Certainly, Rod." Fess stepped into the corner and became just what Rod had ordered—a modernistic sculpture of a human being.

"You gonna be okay if the ship changes direction?"

"The floor is an iron alloy, Rod, and I have electromagnets in my feet. We found them quite useful, during Maxima's construction phase. And I notice ringbolts within reach, if the change in velocity is really strong."

"Well, okay, then…"

"Report for duty, please, Rod."

"Oh, all right. Now, let me see—where's my boss?"

Rod wandered away into the cubistic environment of the engine room. Fess boosted the gain on his microphones, to make sure he would be able to hear Rod if he was needed.

The light was dim but adequate, and all from ahead. Rod followed it, around shapes that he assumed had something to do with powering the engines. Then he began to hear the cursing. That made it easier—he simply followed the sound.

Whoever it was had a really remarkable vocabulary. Rod made mental notes of the more exotic terms, planning to ask for their definitions, after he got to know their author a little better. He rounded a large metal housing and saw somebody in a dirty, baggy coverall, hair tied back in a club, laboring over a machine with a wrench.

What was he supposed to do? Obviously, the guy thought he was alone. Rod swallowed, screwed his courage to the molly-bolt, and stepped forward, stiffening to attention and saluting. "Recruit Rod d'Armand reporting for duty, sir!"

His new boss whirled, almost dropping the wrench, saw him, then relaxed. "Hellfire, boy, don't do that! I thought I was alone down here." The engineer laid the wrench aside and stood, face coming into the brighter light of an overheard —and Rod caught his breath. The hair wasn't really clubbed, it was caught in a net, and the face under the grease smudges was oval and smooth, with delicate features. "You're the new swabbie, right?" The voice was a lovely alto, the eyes were large, green, and long-lashed, and Rod was in love.

"Uh-h-h-h—yes, ma'am. I'm your new engine-wiper. Where's the engine I'm supposed to wipe?"

"Over there." The engineer pointed to a bulging wall in the dimness at the end of the room. "Doesn't need any wiping, though. If it does, we're all in trouble. We just call you that 'cause it came down to us from ocean ships." She turned back, peering up at him. "Don't know anything about engines, huh?"

"Uh, no, ma'am. I want to learn, though!"

She groaned. "Defend me from the eager student! Why can't they send me someone who knows what he's doing?" She held up a hand to forestall the answer. "I know, I know—if she's learned that much, she's working on a better ship than this. Well, swabbie, I'm Gracie Muldoon."

"Rod d'Armand, ma'a—sir!"

"Better." Muldoon nodded. "And don't you forget it, swabbie."

"No, sir. Can I help?"

"Let's see." Muldoon pointed to the huge wheel she'd been working on, half-bared by an opened housing. It rippled with blades that looked uncomfortably like knives. "That's the backup turbine—and the threads on the last bolt are stripped, courtesy of the dirtside mechanic who overhauled it before I was hired; I'd never allow anyone to work on my engines without my watching."

Rod noticed the possessive attitude, though he doubted she owned the ship. He also noticed the correct grammar. Also the way her head tilted, and how fine her eyebrows were, though they didn't seem to be plucked… he hauled his mind back to the rotor. "How come it was the last bolt?"

" 'Cause when I found out it was stuck, I took off the other ones first."

"Oh." Rod felt his face heat up. "And when you try to turn the nut, the whole wheel spins?"

Muldoon nodded, watching him. "Not spins, really—it's pretty massive. But it doesn't stay put, either." She pointed to the wrench. "Give it a try."

Rod picked up the wrench and heaved at the nut. Sure enough, the wheel moved, but the nut didn't rotate. He nodded. "Any way to brace the wheel?"

"Yes, now that you're here." She knelt beside him, and his head filled with her aroma—female with a trace of perspiration. "Hand me the wrench, and take the Stillson… No, the big one."

Rod picked up the four-foot monkey wrench that lay beside her.

"Now, this is the brake lever." Muldoon hauled down on a stick to her right. "Watch the hub."

Rod saw a huge double cam rotate, pushing the edges of the hub out.

"But watch what happens when I lock it down." Muldoon made something click, and the stick stayed put—but the cam immediately snapped back ninety degrees, and the inner cylinder shrank.

"Another goodie, courtesy of that dirtside grease monkey who never should have come down out of the trees," Muldoon explained, "and that's why I was cursing."

Rod nodded, frowning at the huge nut in the center of the cam. "And I hold this still?"

"Yeah, after I put the brake on again." Muldoon released the stick, then pushed it down once more. Rod waited till the cam had stopped turning, then locked his wrench on and held fast. "What's the nut for?" he grunted.

"Taking the cam off—so push clockwise." Muldoon picked up her wrench, fitted it on the bolt, and heaved. The nut groaned, then began to move. Rod leaned all his mass on the wrench and pushed. Nonetheless, he felt himself beginning to move, and let go with one hand to grab the edge of the housing.

"Smart," Muldoon grated, and her wrench began to move more easily. Then it was going around and around quickly and smoothly, and the nut clattered off onto the floor.

"Success!" Muldoon crowed. "You can let up now, swabbie."

Rod let go of the housing and laid the wrench carefully aside. He was surprised to find he was panting.

"Good work." Muldoon stood up and came around to face the rotor. "Step back, now—these blades are sharp." Carefully, she lifted the rotor off its axle.

Rod scurried back out of the way, watching, amazed that a woman smaller than himself could handle a rotor bigger than herself.

She carried the wheel over to a workbench, mounted it on a hub, and locked it steady. "Just one blade to replace. Know how to cut threads, swabbie?"

"Uh—yes, sir."

"Good. Do." Muldoon tossed her head at a huge rack of tools on the wall. "Take your time and do it right."

"Yes, sir." Rod got busy.

He was done before she was, but not by much. She took off her mask, racked the welder, and said, "Now. Let's see if you can put it all back together."

Rod swallowed and came over to unlock the rotor and take it off the mount. "Yes, sir."

Muldoon leaned back against the workbench, arms folded, watching while he worked. Occasionally, she made an approving noise. When he had all the pieces back in place, he turned to her and said, "Ready for inspection, before I lock them in, sir."

"Good idea. Glad I didn't have to recommend it." Muldoon came over and examined the fastenings. She nodded slowly. "Nice job—and a nice surprise. I thought you said you didn't know anything about engines."

"I don't. But I did learn a little basic mechanics."

"Why, rich boy?"

Rod sighed. "Everybody sort of assumed I'd go into the family business, when I grew up—so my father insisted I learn how to do everything needed in the robot factory."

Muldoon frowned. "I thought you technocrats had robots do everything from sweeping up to machining and growing circuits."

Rod shrugged. "Robots do the actual labor, sure. But people have to make sure they do it right."

Muldoon nodded slowly. "Smart again. Your old man has a good head on his shoulders."

Rod felt a flush of purely illogical pleasure, and pride in his father. For the first time, he was glad Dad had put him through all that boring training.

Then something clicked, and he began to wonder if maybe Dad hadn't figured the boredom might give Rod an extra reason to want to leave Maxima.

An unworthy thought, surely. Pater had only been trying to train Rod to be a responsible citizen, and a worthy member of the House d'Armand.

Surely.

As he finished tightening the housing bolts, Rod asked, "What's this turbine do?"

Muldoon grinned. "It kicks in if anything goes wrong with the main turbine."

"Sorry. Let me try again, sir—what's the main turbine for?"

"It runs the generator."

"Oh." Rod frowned. "Wouldn't it be more efficient to run a converter directly off the fusion plant?"

"Very good," she noted. "But you don't know anything about engines, huh?"

"I don't. That's electronics!"

"There is still a subtle difference," Muldoon admitted. "Well, it would be more efficient, yes—and we do use it when we go to FTL. But it's an extra drain on the plant, and we go sublight most of the time—we're a local freighter, running between Saturn and Mars. When we're sublight, we use water for reaction mass, and we're heating the water to steam and blasting it out anyway—so it might as well turn the turbine on its way. Effectively, we get our electricity for the cost of the turbine, and the company amortizes that over ten years."

"Oh." Rod nodded. "So the best way isn't always the best way, huh?"

"Well, not optimum, anyway." Muldoon smiled. "Come on—I'll give you the four-bit tour."

She turned away, beckoning, moving like a mermaid as she glided through the air. Rod decided he'd follow that wriggle anywhere.

Muldoon pointed to a massive door in a dull metal wall. "Lead, a meter thick. Behind it is the fusion plant."

Rod asked, "Why the lead? The plasma bottle is a better radiation shield than any metal could be."

She looked up at him, surprised, and nodded. "But if the bottle fails, there could be a brief burst of very hard radiation."

Rod gave a snort of derision.

"I know, I know—but tell that to the rest of the crew. And my hindbrain, for that matter—my prefrontal lobes may believe in science, but my cerebellum is superstitious." She put a hand over her tummy. "I still have hopes of having children."

Rod was suddenly acutely aware of his own vulnerability; before radiation, we're all naked. In fact, we're downright transparent.

"I think you can figure out where the main turbine is, and the generator." Muldoon pointed to a large red toolbox on the floor. "That's the emergency kit. Small fire extinguisher, Geiger counter…" (her mouth twitched) "… basic hand tools, first-aid box, quick-patches in case we're holed, spot-welder, and steel patches. There's a box of quick-patches inset next to every hatch, and one in the middle of the longest wall in each room." She looked up at him. "You savvy?"

Rod nodded. "Maxima's only an asteroid, sir. We're very used to patches."

"Good. This ship has a good deflector field, mind you, and the signal officer—that's Weiser, the Second—"

"I met him," Rod grunted.

Muldoon flashed him a quick look, but went on. "We both spend a lot of time making sure the field generator and its connections stay sound. And the ship is double-hulled, with foam filling, ready to expand—but this is the asteroid belt, and some of the junk has a lot of punch. We still get holed once or twice each trip."

Rod grinned. "Ever taken a close look at the Maxima tugs, sir?"

Muldoon shook her head. "I don't usually get to a viewscreen while we're matching orbits with you."

"They have a lot of patches on them. All colors, too—and some pretty outrageous patterns."

Muldoon wondered, "Why colors?"

Rod shrugged. "Why not? If you're going to have to have patches anyway, they might as well be decorative."

Muldoon cracked a smile. "When you look at it that way, I suppose it makes sense. On with the tour."

She moved back toward Rod's bunk, and slapped the wall of rectangles. "Here's the accumulators, and… What the hell is that?" She stood rigid, staring at the corner.

"Oh, that's just Fess." Rod felt very sheepish. "He's my robot."

"You have your own robot?"

"Well, uh, I'd be lost without him, you know." Rod swallowed. "He's an heirloom, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't." Muldoon was still staring.

Rod gulped. "Sorry about the surprise. I should have told you, sir."

"Yeah, you sure should have." Muldoon shook her head. "But I'll try to get used to it."

Rod almost went limp with relief. "Thanks. I mean, a lot, sir. Fess, come over here and say hello to my new boss."

The sculpture moved, turned its head, and drifted over to them with fluid grace. "Hello, madam. I am the old family robot." He held out his hand.

Muldoon accepted it gingerly, studying the joints and the structure. "Delighted. Solenoids, huh?"

"In the hands, yes, for better feedback in applying pressure. Most of my other joints are servomotors, though."

Muldoon nodded. "Good design. You'll have to take orders from me, too, you know."

Fess hesitated, and Rod said quickly, "Anything she says, Fess. Subject to your programmed restraints, of course."

"Oh, don't worry! I won't tell him to kill anyone."

"Certainly, Rod." Fess bowed to Muldoon. "It will be a pleasure to serve you, mem-sahib."

Muldoon actually blushed, but all she said was, "Does he always talk like that? The titles, I mean?"

"I'm afraid so," Rod sighed. "That's an heirloom, too. I cured him of it when he talks to me, but I forgot to tell him to hold off with other people."

"Don't bother." Muldoon grinned. "I kinda like it."

She turned away, heading back toward the workbench. Rod ventured. "You seem to know a bit about robots, sir."

Muldoon shrugged. "A machine's a machine. If it moves and has bolts, I can talk to it."

"Yeah, that's what I was wondering about. A robot's part mechanics, but it's mostly computer."

"And can I write a program?" Muldoon gave him a condescending smile. "An engineer these days has to know all the parts of a system, swabbie—including each type of subsystem. To be a specialist, you have to be a generalist."

Rod stood still, looking off into space. "You know, that's a very good way of putting it.''

Muldoon said, "My first professor in college told us that. It stuck with me all the way through."

Rod focused on her again. "That's where you learned your engineering, then?"

Muldoon snorted. "The ideas and facts, or what to do with the wrench and the keyboard?"

"Both."

"I learned the book-knowledge in college, swabbie—but I learned how to do the job right here."

"You've got a bachelor's?"

"Only the degree."

"But if you've got those kind of qualifications, what're you doing aboard a little freighter like this?"

"Don't knock the Murray Rain," Muldoon snapped, "she's a good ship! And we all have to start someplace. I had your job, five years ago. Now I'm chief."

Which hadn't meant anything, Rod noted, until he had signed on. "But you could have moved on to a bigger ship."

A strange expression crossed Muldoon's face. "It's good enough here."

Rod glanced at her eyes, glanced away, and kept silent. For the first time, he began to understand what it meant to be adult, but insecure.

A chime rang; Muldoon looked up. "Chow time. Excuse me a second." She ducked into a closet and closed the door.

Rod suppressed a sudden urge to call out to Fess. If he'd been near the robot, he would have had a quick discussion of the day's events—but he couldn't bring himself to do it by yelling. Also, he'd been awake twenty hours now, and was beginning to feel it.

The door opened, and Muldoon came out wearing an officer's uniform with the same rank insignia as Weiser's. Rod goggled; the jacket was cut loose, but not loosely enough. Neither were the trousers. Also, the net was gone, and her hair floated in a cloud around her face.

She smiled at his surprise. "Well, thank you. Don't think it's a habit, though—we only dress up for dinner on this ship."

Rod glanced down at his own clothes, and his greasy hands.

"Don't worry, you're excepted until you're issued your uniform. You can wash up on the way." Muldoon set her cap on and tucked the strap under her chin. "Come on, meet your mates."

"Mates" had an unpleasant sound, suddenly. "Doesn't somebody have to stand watch?"

"The computer will, bucko. You wouldn't know what to look for yet, anyway." She turned away, and Rod couldn't help but follow—in uniform, her glide was even more a magnet.

As he passed Fess, the robot murmured, "Remember, Rod—swabbies should be seen, and not heard."

"Oh, don't worry, I won't make you ashamed of me," Rod grumbled. Just the same, he found himself making a mental note not to talk.

Apparently, he was the only one who didn't. Now he knew why they called it a "mess." He did think of adding his two cents' worth now and then, but every time he opened his mouth, Weiser caught his eye and, for some reason, Rod found himself shutting up.

They were gathered around the table. Rod started to sit, but a tall man with captain's bars cleared his throat, and Rod realized that the others were still standing. He pulled himself back up, surprised that he wasn't going to have to act proletarian to fit in, then remembered to salute. The captain returned it, then looked around at the others. "I hope you're all making our new crewman feel welcome." It was a remark certain to make Rod uncomfortable.

"Oh, yes, Captain! I've given him the full tour of the engine room, and checked his background." Muldoon was standing straight, shoulders back, eyes bright (maybe a little feverish), smiling. She seemed more reticent, somehow; the brassy lady projected shyness.

"Good, good. Well, let's see he meets everyone else, then. I'm Captain Donough." He was broad-shouldered, lean, handsome, and well-groomed. "The gentleman on my right is First Officer Jonas Whelk."

The first officer smiled and returned Rod's salute. He was skinny, balding, and sharp-featured.

"And I believe you've met Mr. Weiser, our second officer."

Rod saluted. Weiser returned it, narrow-eyed.

"Ah, you might ask to be excused, Albie," Donough murmured, and gave him the eye while he ran a finger over his own cheek.

Weiser's face darkened, but he muttered, "Asking the Captain's pardon."

"Of course."

Weiser left.

Rod wondered what all that had been about—but Donough was going on. "And this is Third Officer Noah McCracken."

Rod saluted. "A pleasure, sir."

McCracken returned it. His profile showed what free-fall could do for the figure—he was round as a ball from hip to shoulder, with another globe on top. No sagging; he was a perfect sphere. Rod wondered if he dared leave the ship on anything larger than Luna.

Weiser rejoined them, looking sullen but clean-shaven. Rod's eyes widened; then he remembered his manners and looked away, just before Weiser gave him a murderous glare.

"Gentlemen and lady," the captain said, "this is Spaceman Rodney d'Armand."

Weiser's eye lit with a wicked gleam, hearing Rod's full name. But the young man didn't care; just hearing the title from the captain's lips made his heart sing. He was a spaceman!

"However, as the junior member," Donough went on, "it falls to you to serve at table. Everyone else, please be seated."

Rod thought of mentioning something about his job description, then remembered how far it was to the nearest spaceport. Besides, Weiser had caught his eye again. And Muldoon was sitting down. Rod moved to hold her chair, but McCracken beat him to it. Not that it made any real difference—the seats were securely tracked, anyway. The other crewmen slid forward to lock themselves in place, and Donough said, "Stand by the autochef, Mr. d'Armand."

Rod looked around, identified the food synthesizer, and pushed himself over to it. He found himself really respecting Donough; any man who could keep his crew dressing for dinner, and even making some attempt at good manners, was pretty good. He was also pretty smart—it was a prime ingredient in maintaining morale.

It sure seemed to work on Muldoon.

"We'll begin with minestrone—key in I-C, please. And a plain salad, B-V. Dressings?"

"French," said Whelk.

"Russian," Weiser answered.

"Clavian," McCracken stated.

"None," Muldoon said.

"And I'll have Roquefort. Now, let's see the day's menu." He picked it up, pretending not to have it memorized. The others followed suit, except McCracken. Donough caught his eye, and the Third picked up the printout with a sigh.

The 'chef rang; Rod pulled cups out and started setting them in front of people.

"Thank you, Mr. d'Armand. Be seated, please."

Rod went to his chair, then stopped. He looked up and found the captain's eye on him, amused. "You might want to punch up one for yourself."

"Yes, sir!" Rod went back for another minestrone, brought it to his chair, and sat.

Donough picked up his cup, sipped through the spout, and set it down as he said. "I thought we did rather well at Maxima."

"Yes, sir," Whelk agreed. "Made a nice profit on the textiles from Terra."

"And the wines." McCracken smiled. "I never cease to be amazed that people will pay so much for fermented grape juice, when any decent autochef can synthesize it just as well."

"It's the status," Weiser grunted.

"And the link to the homeworld." Donough held his cup up, gazing off into space. "I remember when I was midshipman, on the Mars run…"

Whelk coughed politely into his fist and said, "Standing orders, sir."

Donough looked up, startled, then smiled with self-deprecation. "Yes, I have told that one a few times before, haven't I? Thank you, Mr. Whelk."

Muldoon glared daggers at Whelk, who carefully avoided her glance.

The captain pushed his almost-empty soup cup away, and everyone followed suit. Rod immediately rose and circled the table, clearing the cups, then went to the autochef and started serving again. The salads were just as easy as the soup had been, but he did have to try to remember which dressing went with whom. He didn't have much trouble with Muldoon, strangely.

Donough speared a tomato through the clinging film and lifted it through the surface tension as he said, "We should do well on Ceres. Not with the components from Maxima, of course."

"No, sir," Whelk agreed. "Coals to Newcastle, and all that."

"Very. But the people on Ganymede will pay through the nose for them, and Ceres should be a good market for the second-grade textiles." He looked up at a sudden thought. "We don't have any furs left, do we?"

"Two, I'm afraid, sir," Whelk answered. "The demand on Maxima wasn't quite what we thought it would be."

"Mm." Donough went after a cucumber slice. "Well, we certainly won't be able to unload them on Ceres."

Rod could scarcely believe his ears. All his life, "Ceres" had been synonymous with luxury and decadence—but here these men were saying that nobody on the big rock could afford anything nearly as good as the Maximans could!

And they couldn't be wrong. This was their living—and they were still alive.

When the salad dishes were cleared away, Donough said, "I think I'll have the ragout tonight—that's J-O. And I'll have a burgundy with it—A-A."

Rod pressed the pressure pads with the labels named, and waited. The others ordered, and he entered their dishes, then almost immediately started removing and serving. For a moment, he was tempted to mention that he had a robot who was really very good at this sort of thing, but he noticed Weiser's eye on him and changed his mind.

Finally they were all served, and Rod could punch in his own order and sit. They dug in, and he had to admit the first two courses had done the trick—he really wasn't all that hungry any more.

"I'm a bit worried about the political situation on Ganymede," Whelk noted.

Donough smiled. "We've known they aren't really a democracy for a long time, Number One."

"Yes, but this new president the Council has just, um, 'elected'…"

Weiser shrugged. "A dictator is a dictator. How's that going to affect trade?"

"Not at all," McCracken said, with finality. "I remember when we stopped at Triton, when I was a lad—little bit of a thing, scarcely two hundred pounds…"

The others all looked pained, but Donough leaned forward, all polite interest.

"They'd just elected a new Doge, and he was making loud noises about the 'Terran menace,' and glorifying home culture. But we landed with a load of Paris originals, champagne, Beluga caviar, and Cleveland cheeseburgers, and his agents bought two-thirds of the cargo. Then the locals climbed all over each other bidding for what was left. And all the while, he was spouting about the dangers of thinking anybody could make anything better than the Tritons could." He looked around with a hard smile that slowly slipped as he noticed his mates paying attention to their dinners. "I've told that one before, haven't I?"

"It was still fascinating," Donough said quickly, "and quite apt to the situation at hand. Now, Mr. d'Armand—if you would serve the sweet?"

Rod cleared, with a glance at the Second. He was startled; Weiser still looked ravenous. Rod wondered how he could have gone through such big portions and still be hungry.

Then he saw that the man was looking at Muldoon.

Alarm and anger flared in him, at the thought of that pig daring to even look at so ethereal a lady—but hard on the heels of it came a surge of sympathy; Rod knew just how the poor guy must feel, having to see the look on her face whenever she glanced at the captain.

Which made Rod terribly confused. He chucked his load in the recycler and went to punch in desert. Just serve the meal, swabbie—just serve.

"I push on the lower edge, right?"

"If the top edge is the outside, and if it operates as the locker does—yes."

"Okay, we'll try." Rod pushed in on the bottom line of the big rectangle on the wall, and the bed glided smoothly out and down. A stack of sheets and blankets lay in the middle; one end of the mattress bulged into a pillow. "Hmph! Well, here goes self-reliance." Rod picked up a sheet.

"I beg your pardon," Fess murmured, taking the sheet from him and shaking it out.

"Fess, no! If my shipmates catch you at it, they'll never let me hear the end of it!"

Fess paused in mid-shake. "Considering the evidence of Mr. Weiser's attitude…"

"Right." Rod took the sheet back, handed Fess the rest of the stack, and started tucking. "I cannot believe Muldoon! She is a real beauty, and she doesn't seem to know it!"

Fess glanced back toward the engines.

"Oh, I'm not worried about her hearing—she has a cabin, and the door's closed."

"True—and she is beautiful," Fess admitted. "Still, she has not learned the graces of a true lady."

"Well, I never learned to be comfortable with 'em." Rod stopped in mid-movement. "Fess, when I saw her today, I felt a surge all through me."

"I was watching, Rod."

"And when it passed, I was still kind of light-headed, and the only thing I could think was, 'So this is what it's like to be in love!' "

"Yes," the robot murmured. "Yes."

"Did it show?"

"Only if you knew what to look for."

"Which she probably does." Rod's mouth tightened with chagrin. "Just as well she knows it, I suppose."

"A lady is always complimented, Rod."

"Yeah, I suppose so." Rod stood back, arms akimbo, proudly contemplating his handiwork. "There! I can make my own bed!"

"You have done well, Rod." Fess omitted saying anything about hospital corners, or smoothness.

Rod pulled out his duffel bag, took out pajamas, and glanced around him. "If I can be sure that door stays shut…"

Fess boosted his audio gain, then reported, "She is breathing evenly and deeply, Rod."

"Asleep." Rod stripped quickly. "It still behooves me to move fast. Why the heck don't they give us at least a privacy curtain?"

"Possibly, Rod, because the designers assumed the whole crew would be of the same sex."

"Quaint." Rod yanked the pajamas on, rolled into the bunk, and pulled the blankets up. "Of course, I suppose I should want her to surprise me in the buff."

"It would perhaps be premature, at this stage of your relationship."

"I'll take your word for it. I have to—I don't quite know how to act."

"Yes. You have never had such vivid feelings toward another person, have you?"

"But… Why?" Rod breathed. "When all my life, I've been surrounded by delicate ladies of high breeding, with all the graces and all the advantages—why!"

"Perhaps because Muldoon is of above-average intelligence.''

"Well—maybe. But I don't remember anybody back home who had such a lovely face, either. Except Lucretia, and she's so neurotic it's a wonder she doesn't fall apart."

"I must say I'm delighted by your perception, Rod. Many men would fail to see Muldoon's beauty unless she used cosmetics in such a way as to make it overly obvious."

Rod's eyes flew open, staring into the darkness. He lay back, speculations running through his mind.

After an interval of silence, Fess murmured, "Good night, Rod."

"Hm? Oh. Yeah. Good night, Fess."

The ship shuddered, and Rod said, "Can I get up now?"

"Not yet," Muldoon called back.

"Shouldn't I have an acceleration couch?

"That's what your bunk is. So's mine. Everything has to do double duty, on a freighter."

So that was why she was staying in her room.

"Docking completed," Donough's voice said over the intercom. "Twenty-four-hour liberty commences now! Have fun in Ceres City, crew!"

They heard a cheer in the background, before the captain let the mike close.

Rod released his webbing and was sitting up before it had finished snapping back. He hopped down, pushed his bed up and into the wall, and headed for the passageway. Then he stopped, realizing that his footsteps didn't have an echo. He turned around and saw Muldoon with computerboard in hand, checking the bank of meters on the wall. "Aren't you coming?"

Muldoon shook her head. "Always something to do, here."

"But it doesn't have to be done, does it?"

"Have to or not, I'm doing it."

"But why?" Rod frowned, coming toward her. "You can't…"

And Muldoon burst into tears.

Rod froze, staring.

"Out!" Muldoon snapped. "Let me take care of my engines in peace! Now, get out!''' Rod got.

"But why didn't she want company?" Rod muttered.

"There are nuances in human relationships that are indecipherable without knowing the complex of ties involved," Fess answered, sotto voce.

"Which means we don't know enough to guess."

"A sufficiently accurate interpretation. And, if you'll pardon the comment, Rod…"

"It's none of my damn business." Rod lay back, waiting for the acceleration to pass. "But Fess, I love her."

"That does not give you the right to meddle in her affairs."

"I suppose," Rod sighed.

"But Rod, you have been worrying this problem for twenty-six hours now—and I am certain you scarcely noticed the sights of Ceres City."

Rod shrugged. "Ceres, I've seen before. Muldoon, I haven't."

The acceleration eased off, and the intercom announced, "Departure completed. We have set course for Ganymede. Duty stations."

Rod sat up, stood, and turned to push his bunk back into the wall. "Well, let's hope she's—"

A sudden raucous hooting echoed through the ship. Rod froze, recognizing the "loss of atmosphere" signal. "We're holed!"

If Fess said anything, it was to empty air. Maximan reflexes had taken over, and Rod was on his way to the emergency toolkit.

He yanked it up—it took quite a pull; the bottom was magnetized—and glanced up at the screen above it. An outline of the ship glowed there, with a red dot blinking in the forward hold. He turned toward the doorway, swinging the toolbox up as he sprang. Behind him, he heard Muldoon calling, but for once, it didn't seem important.

He shot down the passageway, ricocheted off the sides of the dog-leg, and hurtled past the entry hatch. Behind him, way behind, somebody was yelling, "Out of the way, swabbie!" But that didn't matter. He braced himself, wrenched at the grip on the hatch, and leaped into the forward hold, hitting the lights as he came.

It felt as though his face was trying to swell. He saw the puncture, an ugly, ragged hole with sharp edges pointing toward him, a good centimeter in diameter. He dove toward it, ripping the emergency box open and yanking out a temporary patch, then swinging the box down against the hull. The magnetic bottom clanked, hard, and Rod held onto it as he swung his feet up, went into a crouch by the hole, and slapped the patch on. He pushed against the box as he smoothed the edges, then swung his legs back to grasp the sides of the toolbox as he pulled an insulated glove on, then took out a steel patch and the spotwelder. Feet pounded up behind him, and Weiser's voice yelled, "What the hell do ya think y're doing? Out of the way, ya spoiled brat, before I push you through that hole!"

Rod gritted his teeth and ignored the man. He stuck the positive contact onto the wall, then held the steel patch over the temp. He pounded its center flat with the hammer end of the welder, then tilted the tip to the edge and pressed the button. Lightning spat from it, and the alloy edge of the patch flowed.

He traced the rectangle around the edges of the patch, then sat back on his heels and heaved a sigh. Now he could let the shakes hit.

And look up at Weiser.

He braced himself; he knew he had disobeyed a direct order.

But the Second was studying the patch, and, slowly, nodding.

Rod felt limpness hovering. "I'm sorry, sir. I…"

"Did what you should." Weiser still nodded. "Good job of welding, too. I should say, 'Sorry'; I didn't see you'd already put the temp patch on." He turned around to scowl down at Muldoon, who was coming up, panting. "Y' taught him fast."

Muldoon shook her head. "Not that, I didn't."

Weiser turned back to Rod. "Where'd ya learn, rich boy?"

Rod managed a thin smile. "I grew up on an asteroid, sir. Our buildings may not look like pressure domes, but that's what they are—and we're raised with puncture drills. I've known how to set a patch since I was ten."

" 'D ja ever really do it before?"

"Once. That was the only time I ever got there first."

Weiser nodded slowly. "Guess even an aristocrat can earn his keep. Well, the fuss is over. Back to stations, everyone."

Rod still served at mess that night, but Weiser didn't glare at him once. Rod's heart sang—he was proving himself!

And the topic of conversation had changed. The officers had some bragging to do.

"What were you trying to do in that restaurant, McCracken—eat the whole menu?"

"No, just everything on it."

Muldoon smiled thinly.

McCracken went on, "Too bad about the keg in the Fall Inn."

"What about it?" Weiser frowned. "I didn't see nothing wrong."

"Then why were you trying to outdo it?"

A laugh rounded the table; even Muldoon joined, and Weiser grinned. "Talk about me having the high old time! Whelk was out with his wife again."

"Which one this time?"

Muldoon's smile faltered.

"The Ceres one." The first officer smiled at Rod. "Entirely legal, Mr. d'Armand—on both Mars and Ceres. Not on Terra, of course—but I don't go there very often."

"Not unless he wants to wear his law suit," Weiser jibed.

"However, our gallant Captain must take his share of ribbing," Whelk said, with a sly wink at Donough. "That was a beautiful brunette we saw you with at Pastiche's, sir."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Whelk." Donough inclined his head, and Muldoon's smile disappeared.

"Brunette?" Weiser frowned. "She was a redhead!"

"No, that was the one at Malloy's," McCracken corrected him. "Cute as a button."

"In a pig's eye!"

"No, the one at The Pig's Eye was blonde."

"Hey, I was at Pastiche's, and she was a redhead!"

"Oh?" said Whelk. "When were you there?"

"Twenty-one hundred."

"Oh, the early shift. Well, I saw him there when we dropped in for a morning snack, about 0400. She was a brunette by then."

Muldoon had to look down at her plate. Rod felt a lump in his throat, and searched wildly for a way to change the topic—but all he could think of was Fess saying, "Swabbies should be seen and not heard."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Donough smiled around at them, amused. "I'm afraid you have caught me out. Margot is my second cousin; she was waiting for me as…"

The hoots of laughter drowned out the end of the sentence.

"And I'll bet the blonde was your Aunt Greta!"

"No, she's the sister of a friend who asked me to take her to dinner, poor thing. She's very shy, never goes out…"

Weiser howled, then smothered it to a chuckle, glanced at Muldoon, and went silent.

"As to the other two," Donough said with dignity, "you'll have to assume prior acquaintance; there as no other way I could have arranged to meet them, ahead of time."

"No way at all," Whelk said, deadpan. "It's too bad you didn't have time to fully enjoy the company of any one of them."

McCracken tried to swallow a snicker.

"Social obligations must come before personal pleasure," Donough sighed.

"Yes, but personal pleasure should be considered." Whelk turned serious, and also turned to Muldoon. "You really must take shore leave now and then, Engineer. It's vital to your emotional well-being."

"Yes, Muldoon!" McCracken turned a genial smile on her. "Why don't you come along next time?"

"Yeah, Gracie!" Weiser said, with genuine concern. "You gotta quit moulderin' in that engine room! Get out an' live a little! You need it!"

"No," Muldoon said, very quietly, "I don't think so."

She was still very quiet as she led the way back to the engine room. Rod felt awkward as he followed behind her, knowing damn well that she wanted to be alone, but not seeing any polite way to excuse himself. He kept feeling as though he should make conversation, but knew it would do more harm than good.

As they came through the door, Muldoon muttered something about paperwork and sat down at her terminal. Rod drifted around the engine room, not knowing where else he could go, but not wanting to be in her way. She was punching at the pads as though they were mortal enemies. The silence stretched tighter and tighter, till Rod could almost hear it thrum.

Finally, he couldn't take it any more. "Uh, sir, I could take the watch, if you needed to do…"

Then he couldn't hear himself anymore, because she was sobbing.

Rod was terrified. Oh, he'd dealt with tears before, but these sounded real. His instincts moved him to her as surely as his glands, but he didn't know what he could do.

Finally, he gave in and dropped to one knee beside her. "It'll be all right," he murmured. "It all comes out okay in the end! It's not really that bad!"

"Oh, shut up!" she stormed. "You don't even know what you're talking about!"

Rod recoiled, stricken.

Muldoon saw, and broke up all over again. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be a beast when you were only trying to help. But it is that bad! He goes out and sees every pretty girl he can cram into twelve hours, because he knows he won't see one again for a month! And every day, he's sitting right across from me, seeing me every time he looks up! But I'm not pretty!"

"You are!" Rod protested.

"Oh, be quiet, you idiot! I'm as plain as they come! I'm ugly!"

"You are beautiful!" Rod stormed. "Underneath those smudges is the most delicate, entrancing face I've ever seen! Your figure takes my breath away! Your features are the kind men kill each other for! Your eyes are pools that a man could lose himself in!"

She stared at him, her sobs slackening. "Do… do you really think so?" She hiccupped.

"I swear it!"

"Well… You're a rich boy, you must have seen the best…"

"Best, my fandango! You're so far beyond them that you can look back at the galaxy!"

"But… but they've got those lovely dresses… and they're graceful, and refined, and…"

"They're as graceful as penguins on land! You move like a fairy princess!"

"You've only seen me in free fall…"

"Give me a chance to see you in gravity," he begged. "Go on shore leave. Believe me—the Maximan girls don't have an ounce of your beauty!"

"But… in the pictures on the screen…"

"What pictures? Oh—You mean those little clips they put in on the 3DT romances? Those're actresses, not real Maximans. Oh, sure, now and then you'll see a few shots of a real ball—but the camera's so far away that you can't really see the faces and figures at all."

"But they're aristocrats!"

"Yeah, and they look like it, too. All they have that you don't have is pretty dresses and makeup—and you can buy both of those."

"But I wouldn't know what to do with powder and rouge if I had it!"

Rod took a deep breath. "Trust me. I do."

He had studied the use of face paint through many an inordinately dull banquet—since he'd had to look at his table companions, he'd had to find something to keep his mind busy, so he'd started figuring out how they'd managed whatever effect they'd achieved. Then he'd had a few makeup workshops in the Maxima Amateur Theater Society, and he'd had a chance to study the process at close range, while the female Thespians labored with brush and liner.

"Yes, you must use a foundation! I know your complexion is perfect—I'd think you'd never exposed it to sunlight!"

"I didn't." Muldoon glared up at him. "I grew up in L-5. But I did have acne."

"Then you had one hell of a doctor. But skin is skin, and you're going to be a canvas!"

"Oh, all right," Muldoon griped, and sponged it smooth. Then she picked up a stick.

"No," Rod said, "not the pencil. Use the brush; shadow lines aren't really drawn with a ruler.''

"But the pencil's so much easier!" Muldoon complained.

"Do you want ease, or results? Remember, it has to shade—chiaroscuro, just as in a painting. That's what you're going to be, when you get done—a work of art. Dust that color back in from the cheekbones."

"But I can't move with these things on!"

"Then you'll never be graceful in gravity. Those magnets should give you just about the same pull as one G—I had Fess design them. Remember, now, one foot at a time, and short steps."

"I'll never get anywhere, that way!"

"Where you're trying to get, isn't measured in meters. You can move fast if you take lots of quick steps. Okay, try it… Good! You've got the feet right. Now, keep your back straight, and your shoulders back a little."

"But that makes my—you know. Like I'm trying to show off."

"What's the matter—are you ashamed of them? No? Then walk as though you're proud—that's right! Now, tilt your chin up just a little…"

Rod's head swiveled from side to side.

"Give it up," Muldoon advised. "You can't see everything at once."

"I can try, can't I? Wow! So this is Ganymede!"

"Yeah, one big shopping mall, except for the spaceport. You name it, you can buy it."

"Oh, come on! There have to be some laws!"

"Don't tell the natives—they'll think you're swearing."

"Oh, wow-wow-wow-WOW!"

"Blink or your eyes will dry out," Muldoon grated. "We're here to look at dresses, not the lack of them!"

Rod pulled his eyes away with an almost-audible snap. "That is definitely not the right style for you!"

Muldoon scowled up at him. "How do you know what a woman should wear?"

"Sir, when it comes to beauty, I'm not just a consumer, I'm an addict! All I have to do is dress you like my dreams."

"I thought you said that wasn't the right style for me."

"Oh, doing your hair?" Rod popped in around the open cabin door. "Remember, now, you have to rat it before…"

"Shove off, swabbie," Muldoon muttered around a mouthful of hairpins. "This is something I do know."

"You do?" Rod couldn't help goggling. "Where'd you learn?"

"Before school, every day for thirteen years."

"Then wh—" Rod just barely managed to swallow the rest of it.

"Because when I got to college, I decided there was no reason to put up with the pain, and swore I'd never do it again. Will you get out of here?"

"But what about your oath?"

"I'm going to start using it in about three seconds. Now shove off!"

"Shopping!" Weiser chortled. "The little guy's going shopping! Hey, if ya see something frilly, take it in and have it filled, will ya?"

"Let him alone, Weiser," McCracken grumped. "At least he's getting Gracie to step out a little."

"Yeah. Nice move there, mister." Weiser throttled it down to a grin. "How come you know all about dresses, buddy boy?"

"Mr. Weiser," Rod said, in his loftiest manner, "I have always enjoyed studying dresses closely—after there's something in them."

"Oh, yeah? Did you learn anything?"

"A lot, about truth in packaging." Rod turned around at the sound of high heels. "Ready, sir?"

"You betcha, swabbie!" Muldoon floated up in a velvet dress, hair falling in gentle waves, makeup flawless, and a twinkle in her eye. "Let's go see Titan!" She hooked her hand through his elbow and charged out to do battle with the cash register.

Weiser's head pivoted on his shoulders as he watched her go by. He studied their retreating forms, mostly hers. "Y' know, that kid just might be smarter than he looks."

"Yeah, and maybe he's so smart that he's dumb." McCracken frowned at him. "I worry too much, Albie."

"D'Armand's Finishing School," Weiser chuckled. "It'll finish you, if you don't stop snickering."

"I'm not snickering, I'm chuckling."

"Well, stow it, whatever it is—here she comes." They tipped their hats as Muldoon breezed by. "Hi, Gracie!"

"Good to see you, Grace!"

" 'Grace' is the word," Weiser murmured, watching her retreating back. "Maybe the kid knows what he's doing."

"Maybe he does," McCracken agreed. "Pull your eyes back into your head, Albie."

"Ceres again," McCracken sighed. "Whelk goes off to his wife, the captain goes off with a crowd, and I go off to dinner."

"Whatever we're doing, let's go." Weiser had the fidgets. "Do we have to wait for the captain?"

"More a matter of him waiting for you." Whelk came up. "I understand he wants to give us all a sermon."

"For liberty?"

Donough came up with a smile. " 'Ten-shun! Now, men, I know this is going to be something of a strain, but I understand we're giving the good ship Murray Rain a bad reputation."

"Bad rep?" Weiser squalled. "We've been angels! Well… compared to…" His voice trailed off.

Donough nodded. "Just what I had in mind, Mr. Weiser. Who ever heard of a sedate sailor, sea or space? Now, I do want dignity at all times—but see if you can't be a little wilder about it, eh? All right, now, out we… What are you staring at?"

All three officers were gazing past his shoulders with eyes like saucers. "Captain… Gracie…"

Donough turned to look, and looked again.

She came toward them with small quick steps, one hand on the bulkhead to keep her down to the deck, eyes bright, an eager smile, and a dress that clung to every contour.

Donough gasped as though he'd been hit, or at least smitten.

Weiser was the first to recover. "Hey, Gracie, I know this great little place…"

McCracken bowled past him. "Grace, would you consider dinner at the most fantastic restaurant…"

Whelk just looked unhappy; he had a wife waiting.

"Ten-hut!"

They all pulled a brace. The captain saw Gracie at attention, and took a deep breath himself. "Gentlemen," he said quietly, "for once, I'm going to pull rank. Ms. Muldoon, may I have the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight?"

"Oh, yes, Captain!" Muldoon fairly glowed as she took his arm and stepped out under the stars, gazes locked with Donough's. Weiser stood in the hatchway staring after them, muttering, "She's in love with him. I knew it, yeah—so why's it hit hard, now?"

"Maybe because he never realized she was a woman before," Rod said.

Weiser turned to him, narrow-eyed. "Speak when you're spoken to, Mister! If she gets a heartbreak, it's you I'll come looking for!"

And, for a moment, Rod didn't think Weiser was going to wait. He braced for combat, resolved not to lose his head this time. All he could say was, "She needed it."

"Yeah." There was no definite sign, but he could see Weiser cooling down. "I oughta hate you for it—but I can't. 'Cause I love her." He studied Rod for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You, too, huh, kid?"

Rod swallowed and nodded.

Then Weiser's arm shot out—to slap him across the shoulders and turn him toward the hatchway. "Come on, swabbie—let's go get drunk."

And they did. Totally.

He woke to the sound of singing, croaked piteously, and tried to bury his head under the pillow, but it was fastened down.

"Oh, Rod, it was so wonderful!"

Rod rolled up enough to crack one bloodshot eye open. The ultimate vision of female loveliness sat down on his bed, and he was in no condition to do anything about it.

"The whole night, Rod! He spent the whole night, just with me! No taking me back to the ship and going off!"

"I'm s' happy," Rod moaned.

"First it was dinner, then it was dancing! Then we went to the first night club, and a gypsy came over and played a violin—just for us!"

Rod wanted to ask her to speak more softly, but he didn't have the heart.

"Then another club, and another, and I was hoping he wouldn't proposition me, 'cause I didn't know if I would've been able to resist—but he didn't."

Thank heaven for small mercies. Personally, Rod wished the ship would stop rolling.

Then he remembered it was a spaceship, and the waves were only in his stomach.

"No other women! No blondes! No brunettes! Just me!" Muldoon glided up into a pirouette. Rod caught his breath.

"We got drunk, but not terribly—we didn't need to. We had breakfast at Pastiche's and strolled back along the Boulevard Glazé, and I never realized before how beautiful the asteroids can be, like stars in a waltz! And he stopped in front of the church, Ceres' only church, and asked me to marry him!"

Rod stared, too horrified to make a sound.

"Of course I said yes. I didn't have to think about it—I already have, so many times! I said yes, and he took me inside and caught us a minister, and he helped us catch each other, and we stopped by a jeweler's on the way back to the ship, and here it is!"

She thrust a small glacier under Rod's nose. He goggled, staring at the iceberg and the slim gold band next to it, and felt his stomach sink, then lurch. But he managed to whisper anyway, "All best wishes."

"Oh, thank you, you darling! And I owe it all to you!" Muldoon seized his face, gave him a quick, warm, but thorough kiss, and said, "I'll never forget you for this." She bowed her head, suddenly looking terribly shy, and breathed, "Gotta go now. My husband is waiting."

Then she was gone, in a swirl of taffeta.

Rod moaned and rolled over on his bunk, hanging his head over the bucket beside it. "Fess—what have I done?"

"You have made a good woman very happy, Rod."

"But it wasn't supposed to work out this way!"

"How was it supposed to operate, then?"

"Oh… I dunno… But somehow, she was supposed to realize that I was the one who really loved her, and wind up with me!"

"You will have her eternal gratitude, Rod. You will have a friend for life."

"A friend is not quite what I had in mind…"