in the mare’s nest that was his desk top, he’d retrieved a pair of calipers. Shirttail in hand, he was measuring the thickness of the excess flesh on his belly.
“Hills, what did you think of the medical today?”
“Nine percent body fat,” he announced with satisfaction, and carefully wrote in the numbers on a physical training graph he’d colored with felt-tipped pens. “Bet you can’t top that, Anna. You’re a woman more or less, right? Maybe eighteen percent? Women can be up to twenty-eight percent before they’re considered fat. Men pork out at seventeen. You got it easy.”
Unzipping his pants, he tucked the shirt in and gave his flat belly an affectionate pat before putting his gunbelt back on. “Not bad for an old man.”
“Seems like there’ve been an awful lot of carry-outs at Cliff this summer,” Anna persisted. “What’s usual for June?”
“It happens,” Hills admitted vaguely. “Lots of senior citizens up here.”
“Today we carried out a third-grader.”
“Asthma.” Hills fished a tool catalogue off the top of the pile.
Anna gave up and went back to staring at the 10-343, trying to screw her courage to the sticking place and make that first typo.
“Frieda,” Hills called over the partition to the front desk. “Call Maintenance and see if they’ve got any old ratchet sets they can spare. I’ve got to get some for the vehicles.”
“Your credit’s no good with Maintenance,” Frieda returned. “So tight he squeaks,” she muttered.
“I heard that,” Hills said. “Maybe I’ll order some. Got any DI-ones?” He named the purchase order form.
“Sure you will,” came the murmur. Then: “All out.” There was no forthcoming offer to run over to Administration and get them. Frieda’s territory as the chief ranger’s secretary and dispatcher was carefully defined. It didn’t include running errands for the lesser rangers.
“I’ll get them,” Anna offered, glad of an excuse to postpone writing the report a bit longer. “I need to talk to Patsy anyway.”
She poked along the twenty feet of path between the buildings, stopping to watch a tarantula make its majestic way across the asphalt. After the tarantulas she’d met in the backcountry of Guadalupe Mountains National Park in Texas, these northern creatures were decidedly nonthreatening . Beside their teacup-sized Trans Pecos cousins they seemed almost cute. Still, Anna didn’t get too close. No one had yet dispelled to her satisfaction the myth that they could jump long distances.
“Don’t you just love them?”
Anna looked up from her bug to find Al Stinson, hands on knees, studying the tarantula with a look akin to true love. Off duty, Stinson dressed in classic archaeologist style: khaki shorts and a white oxford shirt. Gray hair poked out around her lined face. Chapped knuckles and clipped nails made her hands as ageless and practical-looking as any working man’s. “Just beautiful,” Stinson said of the spider.
“Maybe to a lady tarantula,” Anna hedged.
“This is a female. Lookie.” The interpreter reached down and touched the creature gently on one of its legs. “See? No hair. I don’t know about European girls, but ours don’t have leg hair. Only the males.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” Stinson laid her hand flat on the asphalt and the tarantula tested it gingerly with a hairless foreleg. Something was evidently amiss. The creature backed away and took another route.
“Too bad,” Stinson said. She straightened and rested her hands on prominent pelvic bones. “It feels neat when they walk on you. Little elfin feet.”
“It’d take four elves to make that many tracks,” Anna returned, not envying Al the experience.
Stinson sniffed the air with a round, slightly squashed nose. “God! I love it.”
Politely, Anna sniffed too. Mixed with the smell of bus exhaust and hot tar was a delicate perfume, warmed off the tiny yellow blooms of a bush near the walk. “The
“Hills, what did you think of the medical today?”
“Nine percent body fat,” he announced with satisfaction, and carefully wrote in the numbers on a physical training graph he’d colored with felt-tipped pens. “Bet you can’t top that, Anna. You’re a woman more or less, right? Maybe eighteen percent? Women can be up to twenty-eight percent before they’re considered fat. Men pork out at seventeen. You got it easy.”
Unzipping his pants, he tucked the shirt in and gave his flat belly an affectionate pat before putting his gunbelt back on. “Not bad for an old man.”
“Seems like there’ve been an awful lot of carry-outs at Cliff this summer,” Anna persisted. “What’s usual for June?”
“It happens,” Hills admitted vaguely. “Lots of senior citizens up here.”
“Today we carried out a third-grader.”
“Asthma.” Hills fished a tool catalogue off the top of the pile.
Anna gave up and went back to staring at the 10-343, trying to screw her courage to the sticking place and make that first typo.
“Frieda,” Hills called over the partition to the front desk. “Call Maintenance and see if they’ve got any old ratchet sets they can spare. I’ve got to get some for the vehicles.”
“Your credit’s no good with Maintenance,” Frieda returned. “So tight he squeaks,” she muttered.
“I heard that,” Hills said. “Maybe I’ll order some. Got any DI-ones?” He named the purchase order form.
“Sure you will,” came the murmur. Then: “All out.” There was no forthcoming offer to run over to Administration and get them. Frieda’s territory as the chief ranger’s secretary and dispatcher was carefully defined. It didn’t include running errands for the lesser rangers.
“I’ll get them,” Anna offered, glad of an excuse to postpone writing the report a bit longer. “I need to talk to Patsy anyway.”
She poked along the twenty feet of path between the buildings, stopping to watch a tarantula make its majestic way across the asphalt. After the tarantulas she’d met in the backcountry of Guadalupe Mountains National Park in Texas, these northern creatures were decidedly nonthreatening . Beside their teacup-sized Trans Pecos cousins they seemed almost cute. Still, Anna didn’t get too close. No one had yet dispelled to her satisfaction the myth that they could jump long distances.
“Don’t you just love them?”
Anna looked up from her bug to find Al Stinson, hands on knees, studying the tarantula with a look akin to true love. Off duty, Stinson dressed in classic archaeologist style: khaki shorts and a white oxford shirt. Gray hair poked out around her lined face. Chapped knuckles and clipped nails made her hands as ageless and practical-looking as any working man’s. “Just beautiful,” Stinson said of the spider.
“Maybe to a lady tarantula,” Anna hedged.
“This is a female. Lookie.” The interpreter reached down and touched the creature gently on one of its legs. “See? No hair. I don’t know about European girls, but ours don’t have leg hair. Only the males.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” Stinson laid her hand flat on the asphalt and the tarantula tested it gingerly with a hairless foreleg. Something was evidently amiss. The creature backed away and took another route.
“Too bad,” Stinson said. She straightened and rested her hands on prominent pelvic bones. “It feels neat when they walk on you. Little elfin feet.”
“It’d take four elves to make that many tracks,” Anna returned, not envying Al the experience.
Stinson sniffed the air with a round, slightly squashed nose. “God! I love it.”
Politely, Anna sniffed too. Mixed with the smell of bus exhaust and hot tar was a delicate perfume, warmed off the tiny yellow blooms of a bush near the walk. “The
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