and the sneer on the sim’s face showed that the computer was aware of it: Lann had left. Valhal had no hostess at the moment, and the invasion would begin in a couple of days. Valhal needed a mistress again, and so did he.
The personal need was more urgent, and more easily satisfied. He ran through some possibilities in his mind.
“I want to call…Anything else?”
“The Air Traffic Control Board of the Western Common-wea—”
“Oh! Right. I wiped my torch. No damage on the ground, I hope?”
No, sir.”
“Good. Requisition the best replacement K47 you can find, and refer the Board to DataCen.” The Patrol system could be relied upon to entangle the civilians in a bottomless morass of red tape.
“And some other callers, sir.”
“Show me.”
The reply was a lightning-fast flicker of images, as the computer utilized the human brain’s ability to identify faces more efficiently than it could do anything else. In a couple of seconds, Vaun was informed of about two dozen people who had called in his absence. One face jumped right out at him—the diminutive redhead he had been stalking the previous night. Red hair and pale arms in firelight…A ripple of excitement raised his heartbeat and took up residence as a steady thrill in his groin. That little cutie had been weak-kneed with hero worship before he’d even smiled at her.
“Citizen Feirn! Return her call. Top priority.”
A call with Patrol priority on it would stop an earthquake. In a few seconds the sim faded from the tank, and the girl appeared in its place. She was using a civilian com, so that only her head and shoulders showed, but there she was, looking as he had guessed she would look in daylight, skin milky pale, her hair shiny curls of pure copper. Her eyes were bluer than the sky, and she had faint freckles like the stars of the galaxy.
Small but perfect.
Freckles could be natural or induced. Feirn’s might be both, for she had more than he had ever seen, a faint tan dusting all over her face. They were just as numerous on her bare shoulders, and down to the top of her halter. Now there was a challenge to the imagination! He adored freckles, and Feirn obviously did so also, or she would have had them removed. She wore no trace of makeup, not even to darken lashes so pale that they made her eyes seem curiously unfocused. Oh, scrumptious!
With an odd, very appealing nervousness she started to smile, and then gasped. “Admiral! You’re hurt!”
He had forgotten his bruises, but he could guess that he had two beautifully swollen eyes by now. “Nothing serious, just another alien invasion. I do it to keep in practice. Seeing you makes it all better.”
“Oh!” She hesitated, as if uncertain whether she was supposed to laugh, then settled on a childish snigger. “Defeated single-handed, of course?”
“Of course!” He thought her hero worship was less evident than it had been—but she had sought him out. “I’m very glad you called. If you hadn’t, then I would have called you.”
“I called on business.” She smiled hopefully, just as he registered that her surroundings were quite obviously a commercial office.
His fever dropped a couple of degrees. “What sort of business?”
“You mentioned that Q ship…”
“Yes?”
“I’m…Well, I do interviews. ‘Show-It-All,’ on Commonwealth Central, and I was hoping.…but your face…”
Interview? His duties for the Patrol sent him more than enough of that sort of public relations sewage—he had no desire to take on any more, even for this little flame goddess. He wanted her for fun, not business.
Yet, wait a minute! Maybe a pubcom interview was not such a bad idea. If the planet was going to be blown to gravel, then the people had a right to know, and Roker should not be allowed to bury his errors and incompetence under a heap of silence. Yes, Vaun must certainly arrange an interview—but he would offer it to one of the big name shows, any of whom would jump at
The personal need was more urgent, and more easily satisfied. He ran through some possibilities in his mind.
“I want to call…Anything else?”
“The Air Traffic Control Board of the Western Common-wea—”
“Oh! Right. I wiped my torch. No damage on the ground, I hope?”
No, sir.”
“Good. Requisition the best replacement K47 you can find, and refer the Board to DataCen.” The Patrol system could be relied upon to entangle the civilians in a bottomless morass of red tape.
“And some other callers, sir.”
“Show me.”
The reply was a lightning-fast flicker of images, as the computer utilized the human brain’s ability to identify faces more efficiently than it could do anything else. In a couple of seconds, Vaun was informed of about two dozen people who had called in his absence. One face jumped right out at him—the diminutive redhead he had been stalking the previous night. Red hair and pale arms in firelight…A ripple of excitement raised his heartbeat and took up residence as a steady thrill in his groin. That little cutie had been weak-kneed with hero worship before he’d even smiled at her.
“Citizen Feirn! Return her call. Top priority.”
A call with Patrol priority on it would stop an earthquake. In a few seconds the sim faded from the tank, and the girl appeared in its place. She was using a civilian com, so that only her head and shoulders showed, but there she was, looking as he had guessed she would look in daylight, skin milky pale, her hair shiny curls of pure copper. Her eyes were bluer than the sky, and she had faint freckles like the stars of the galaxy.
Small but perfect.
Freckles could be natural or induced. Feirn’s might be both, for she had more than he had ever seen, a faint tan dusting all over her face. They were just as numerous on her bare shoulders, and down to the top of her halter. Now there was a challenge to the imagination! He adored freckles, and Feirn obviously did so also, or she would have had them removed. She wore no trace of makeup, not even to darken lashes so pale that they made her eyes seem curiously unfocused. Oh, scrumptious!
With an odd, very appealing nervousness she started to smile, and then gasped. “Admiral! You’re hurt!”
He had forgotten his bruises, but he could guess that he had two beautifully swollen eyes by now. “Nothing serious, just another alien invasion. I do it to keep in practice. Seeing you makes it all better.”
“Oh!” She hesitated, as if uncertain whether she was supposed to laugh, then settled on a childish snigger. “Defeated single-handed, of course?”
“Of course!” He thought her hero worship was less evident than it had been—but she had sought him out. “I’m very glad you called. If you hadn’t, then I would have called you.”
“I called on business.” She smiled hopefully, just as he registered that her surroundings were quite obviously a commercial office.
His fever dropped a couple of degrees. “What sort of business?”
“You mentioned that Q ship…”
“Yes?”
“I’m…Well, I do interviews. ‘Show-It-All,’ on Commonwealth Central, and I was hoping.…but your face…”
Interview? His duties for the Patrol sent him more than enough of that sort of public relations sewage—he had no desire to take on any more, even for this little flame goddess. He wanted her for fun, not business.
Yet, wait a minute! Maybe a pubcom interview was not such a bad idea. If the planet was going to be blown to gravel, then the people had a right to know, and Roker should not be allowed to bury his errors and incompetence under a heap of silence. Yes, Vaun must certainly arrange an interview—but he would offer it to one of the big name shows, any of whom would jump at
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