enough calories to power a small city. Occasionally he'd let himself go enough to shake his head and mutter something suspiciously like goyisher kopf, but nobody chose to acknowledge that. Safer? Not really; the big man wasn't in the service to take offense at a few words and end up cashiered for fighting. But he didn't find it necessary to advertise that fact, and I didn't see any need to point it out to the Navy folks.
Hardesty finished slicing, and stacked enough beef on my plate to feed two Akiva Bar-Els.
I wielded my silverware deftly enough to make Mother proud, and nibbled at a forkful. "I say, Hardesty, that's most generous of you. Allow me to return the favor." I picked up the platter of lyonnaise potatoes that Hardesty had been glancing at—apparently he liked lyonnaise potatoes, but was exercising admirable restraint. I stopped myself. "No, no, I'm dreadfully sorry. My apologies," I said, helping myself to a heap.
Sitting next to me, Ensign Rodriguez' plate contained only a politeness helping, which he'd barely touched. "Oh, I see you've finished yours. Ensign. Please," I said, plopping some onto his plate.
I took a mouthful and washed it down with a long drink of water. "When one leads such a . . . sedentary life, it must be difficult to keep in shape." I eyed Rodriguez' waistline, which, to be fair, sported only a tiny potbelly. "Very difficult."
Physical fitness is another bone of contention between Service and Navy personnel, as though we need one. Now, the Navy folks do try to stay in reasonable physical condition—TLGA, transient low-gee aesthenia, is a chronic danger—but they don't have to stay in top shape the way Service people do. Nor are they encouraged to display the kind of arrogant cockiness that comes with CS khakis.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Captain Arnheim repressing a grin, and then giving out the tiniest of sighs. I've always found Navy ship commanders to be a different sort than regular officers and files. I guess it's that they have to exercise a bit of independent judgment, be able to think for themselves. That's the way ship command had worked for millennia; by the time you can send home for orders, you'd better have made the right decision anyway.
Although I do have to wonder how four stripes can turn a humorless automaton like Lieutenant Commander Bender into someone like Captain Arnheim. What do they do to them? Drugs? Electric shock? Tell them they don't have to play drop-the-soap anymore? I guess that makes ship commanders sort of kindred spirits to CS men, although I'm sure they'd deny it and I'd definitely rather not be quoted as admitting that.
But I think it's true. "Precedent is no excuse for failure" is something I would have expected Captain Arnheim to understand.
In any case, it was easy to figure why none of the officers at my table was choosing to take overt offense at my occasional veiled insults: they were under orders to avoid incidents, and you don't take offense at what a dead man says. The assumption they were making was that the Dutchman and I, once we hit the new system, were going to button ourselves into our scout and go out and get blown away by the locals, which would allow Magellan to Gate back and pick up the rest of the Fleet—in effect, using the Dutchman and me as a tripwire.
I sipped more of the water, wondering if Janine had known that that was the plan, or if Vitelli had kept her in the dark. Perhaps even the light bit of flirting was intended to distract me from thinking things through; you don't want the Judas goat chewing through the rope.
No complaints, mind; the universe is a nasty place.
My head said there wasn't anything to worry about, not more than usual. The Dutchman wasn't worried; his consumption of booze was up—which, by the way, is the difference between a heavy drinker like Norfeldt and an alcoholic like my Aunt Gertel.
There had to be some sort of fix in, but what? There was always one possibility: there wasn't
Hardesty finished slicing, and stacked enough beef on my plate to feed two Akiva Bar-Els.
I wielded my silverware deftly enough to make Mother proud, and nibbled at a forkful. "I say, Hardesty, that's most generous of you. Allow me to return the favor." I picked up the platter of lyonnaise potatoes that Hardesty had been glancing at—apparently he liked lyonnaise potatoes, but was exercising admirable restraint. I stopped myself. "No, no, I'm dreadfully sorry. My apologies," I said, helping myself to a heap.
Sitting next to me, Ensign Rodriguez' plate contained only a politeness helping, which he'd barely touched. "Oh, I see you've finished yours. Ensign. Please," I said, plopping some onto his plate.
I took a mouthful and washed it down with a long drink of water. "When one leads such a . . . sedentary life, it must be difficult to keep in shape." I eyed Rodriguez' waistline, which, to be fair, sported only a tiny potbelly. "Very difficult."
Physical fitness is another bone of contention between Service and Navy personnel, as though we need one. Now, the Navy folks do try to stay in reasonable physical condition—TLGA, transient low-gee aesthenia, is a chronic danger—but they don't have to stay in top shape the way Service people do. Nor are they encouraged to display the kind of arrogant cockiness that comes with CS khakis.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Captain Arnheim repressing a grin, and then giving out the tiniest of sighs. I've always found Navy ship commanders to be a different sort than regular officers and files. I guess it's that they have to exercise a bit of independent judgment, be able to think for themselves. That's the way ship command had worked for millennia; by the time you can send home for orders, you'd better have made the right decision anyway.
Although I do have to wonder how four stripes can turn a humorless automaton like Lieutenant Commander Bender into someone like Captain Arnheim. What do they do to them? Drugs? Electric shock? Tell them they don't have to play drop-the-soap anymore? I guess that makes ship commanders sort of kindred spirits to CS men, although I'm sure they'd deny it and I'd definitely rather not be quoted as admitting that.
But I think it's true. "Precedent is no excuse for failure" is something I would have expected Captain Arnheim to understand.
In any case, it was easy to figure why none of the officers at my table was choosing to take overt offense at my occasional veiled insults: they were under orders to avoid incidents, and you don't take offense at what a dead man says. The assumption they were making was that the Dutchman and I, once we hit the new system, were going to button ourselves into our scout and go out and get blown away by the locals, which would allow Magellan to Gate back and pick up the rest of the Fleet—in effect, using the Dutchman and me as a tripwire.
I sipped more of the water, wondering if Janine had known that that was the plan, or if Vitelli had kept her in the dark. Perhaps even the light bit of flirting was intended to distract me from thinking things through; you don't want the Judas goat chewing through the rope.
No complaints, mind; the universe is a nasty place.
My head said there wasn't anything to worry about, not more than usual. The Dutchman wasn't worried; his consumption of booze was up—which, by the way, is the difference between a heavy drinker like Norfeldt and an alcoholic like my Aunt Gertel.
There had to be some sort of fix in, but what? There was always one possibility: there wasn't
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