killed the bastard you could end up taking a long cold
walk. The bastard, of course, knew it.
"Name's Ramey," the bastard said.
"Yeah. Fine."
"Friendly."
"Yeah. Real. You want to stand out of my light?"
The bastard moved around behind her. "View ain't bad."
"Thanks."
"A little skinny."
"Go to hell."
"Now, I was going to offer you a beer."
She looked around at the pair of feet, looked up at a not-at-all bad face.
Younger than herself, ragged black hair, not-at-all bad rest of him. What in
hell! she thought, squinted to unfuzz her tired eyes, and recollected Bernstein
talking about an all-right type on her shift, name of Musa.
So she got painfully to her feet, trailing clip-lines, wiped her hands on her
legs and gave him a good look-over. "Beer, I could stand, but the way I'm going,
doesn't look likely tonight."
"I can wait." He leaned his hand up against the wall, up real close. She had
this defense-twitch, a gut-deep he-could-use-a-knee twitch, but it wasn't the
way he was going, shift of his body that put her up against the wall—Oh, good
God, she thought with a little wilting sigh and an urge to put her knee up,
hard. She was disgusted, annoyed he was going to be a son of a bitch, and stood
there a breath or two thinking really hard about doing something about it,
except that being In with somebody was safer than trying to lone-it, except,
point two, that he was too good-looking for a move like this and he was probably
trying to have a laugh at her expense. So she leaned up against him, soapy hands
and sweat and all and still felt little jolts where his hands touched, damn
difficult to ignore.
He got warm real fast. Breathing a little heavy. So it wasn't all a set-up: he
was really interested. And he asked: "You want that beer tonight?"
"Anything come with it?"
"Yeah," he said. "No one's in the shop stowage right now."
Mmmn. There was the set-up. Nice little trap to catch her breaking a dozen regs
and start off real fine, that was. She made a little move of her hip. "Nice, but
I don't see my beer. You let me get finished. Hear?"
She figured that would cool it down, whoever put him up to this was going to be
disappointed. But the man was downright having trouble with that no-go, hell if
he wasn't. It was enough to make a woman feel a little better-looking than she
knew she was—or feel like she was hallucinating.
Man's weird, she thought when he backed off and muttered something about getting
her the beer, about meeting her in crew-quarters. Man's real weird.
Another Ritterman, that's what I got. Don't tell me that face can't get a
come-ahead any time he wants it.
She wiped her neck when he walked off. Hell if she wasn't a lot warmer herself
than she had been.
Hell if she wasn't thinking about him and that beer all the way down the
corridor, right through the mofs' section, all the pretty little
officer-quarters, so much that she ran right up on Fitch himself—bright, shiny
pair of boots standing there for-a full second before she looked up.
"Yessir," she said, and started to get up, but he waved a permission and stood
there scowling.
And Fitch walked off without finding anything to bitch about. Which from Fitch,
she reckoned, was some kind of compliment.
Damn prig, she thought. Mainday, middle of his morning. Her watch-officer was
that Orsini the skuts had been cussing, she'd heard enough so far to figure
that. She hadn't seen Orsini. Didn't expect to see him out supervising a
deck-scrub. Didn't expect him to come 'round and introduce himself. Fitch seemed
to be definitely, worrisomely curious about her.
She leaned into it and scrubbed that burn-deck all the way to the bridge again,
swearing that it was a basic law, officers had dustier feet than the skuts who
knew they were going to have to scrub it up.
But she lived to get to the white line on the other side of the bridge, after
which she got up on her feet again, straightened her aching back and walked
walk. The bastard, of course, knew it.
"Name's Ramey," the bastard said.
"Yeah. Fine."
"Friendly."
"Yeah. Real. You want to stand out of my light?"
The bastard moved around behind her. "View ain't bad."
"Thanks."
"A little skinny."
"Go to hell."
"Now, I was going to offer you a beer."
She looked around at the pair of feet, looked up at a not-at-all bad face.
Younger than herself, ragged black hair, not-at-all bad rest of him. What in
hell! she thought, squinted to unfuzz her tired eyes, and recollected Bernstein
talking about an all-right type on her shift, name of Musa.
So she got painfully to her feet, trailing clip-lines, wiped her hands on her
legs and gave him a good look-over. "Beer, I could stand, but the way I'm going,
doesn't look likely tonight."
"I can wait." He leaned his hand up against the wall, up real close. She had
this defense-twitch, a gut-deep he-could-use-a-knee twitch, but it wasn't the
way he was going, shift of his body that put her up against the wall—Oh, good
God, she thought with a little wilting sigh and an urge to put her knee up,
hard. She was disgusted, annoyed he was going to be a son of a bitch, and stood
there a breath or two thinking really hard about doing something about it,
except that being In with somebody was safer than trying to lone-it, except,
point two, that he was too good-looking for a move like this and he was probably
trying to have a laugh at her expense. So she leaned up against him, soapy hands
and sweat and all and still felt little jolts where his hands touched, damn
difficult to ignore.
He got warm real fast. Breathing a little heavy. So it wasn't all a set-up: he
was really interested. And he asked: "You want that beer tonight?"
"Anything come with it?"
"Yeah," he said. "No one's in the shop stowage right now."
Mmmn. There was the set-up. Nice little trap to catch her breaking a dozen regs
and start off real fine, that was. She made a little move of her hip. "Nice, but
I don't see my beer. You let me get finished. Hear?"
She figured that would cool it down, whoever put him up to this was going to be
disappointed. But the man was downright having trouble with that no-go, hell if
he wasn't. It was enough to make a woman feel a little better-looking than she
knew she was—or feel like she was hallucinating.
Man's weird, she thought when he backed off and muttered something about getting
her the beer, about meeting her in crew-quarters. Man's real weird.
Another Ritterman, that's what I got. Don't tell me that face can't get a
come-ahead any time he wants it.
She wiped her neck when he walked off. Hell if she wasn't a lot warmer herself
than she had been.
Hell if she wasn't thinking about him and that beer all the way down the
corridor, right through the mofs' section, all the pretty little
officer-quarters, so much that she ran right up on Fitch himself—bright, shiny
pair of boots standing there for-a full second before she looked up.
"Yessir," she said, and started to get up, but he waved a permission and stood
there scowling.
And Fitch walked off without finding anything to bitch about. Which from Fitch,
she reckoned, was some kind of compliment.
Damn prig, she thought. Mainday, middle of his morning. Her watch-officer was
that Orsini the skuts had been cussing, she'd heard enough so far to figure
that. She hadn't seen Orsini. Didn't expect to see him out supervising a
deck-scrub. Didn't expect him to come 'round and introduce himself. Fitch seemed
to be definitely, worrisomely curious about her.
She leaned into it and scrubbed that burn-deck all the way to the bridge again,
swearing that it was a basic law, officers had dustier feet than the skuts who
knew they were going to have to scrub it up.
But she lived to get to the white line on the other side of the bridge, after
which she got up on her feet again, straightened her aching back and walked
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