down
to stowage, put up the scrub-gear exactly the way she'd found it, coiled and put
up all the clip-lines, exactly so, and got her duffle out of the stowage locker
where Bernstein had told her it was. Then she hiked up-ring, with a major thirst
for that promised beer by now, and telling herself all the while that pretty-boy
wasn't going to be waiting, or if he was, it was going to be some damn bit of
trouble, maybe a damn lot of trouble: on Africa you got hazed and it got rough,
it got to be real rough, and if that was the way it was going to be, then smart
and cool was the only way you lived through it.
She walked into the dark crew-quarters, where a vid was playing. Lot of noise
that direction. She looked around in the dim light trying to figure what bunk
might really be vacant on this shift, and where people might just be sharing-up.
Pick the wrong one and you could get hell; and she wasn't entirely convinced she
was going to get through the first night without getting jumped by somebody in
one sense or the other. Some sum-bitch in the lot had to have a sense of humor,
and maybe half a dozen of them. Maybe the whole damn lot. Her stomach was upset.
Memories again. Twenty years on Africa and she'd gotten seniority enough so she
could hand it out instead of taking it. It wasn't the case here.
Somebody came down the aisle to intercept her, a single dark-haired somebody who
said: "Want that beer?"
"Yeah," she said, once her heart had settled. She still didn't trust it
entirely, but it was a scary kind of night and she was fuzzy-tired enough to
hope she was being alarmist, that it was a civ ship even if it was a spook, and
the whole thing was just a good-looking younger man who for some fool reason
thought skinny, sweaty and almost forty was attractive. Or who was just
appointed to find out what she was and report on her to the rest of the crew.
So she snubbed the safety-tie of her duffle to a temp-ring by the door, and they
went out to crew rec, up by the galley: he logged himself a double tag on the
keyboard there on the counter, drew a couple beers from the tap, and handed her
one.
"How d'you earn extras?" she asked.
"You get fifteen cred a week, shipboard," he said. "Use 'em on beer, use 'em on
food, save 'em for liberty, they don't care."
"Thanks, then," she said, figuring to buy him one on her tab, if she liked him,
which looked likely, except she still couldn't figure him. He put his hand on
her back. She twitched it off, because it was bad business if any mofs walked
through here and caught you hands-on. She stood there like a kid with her first
boy-interest and drank her beer while he drank his.
"You're Engineering," she commented, for an opener.
He nodded.
"Guess you know that's my assignment."
Another nod.
Spooky man, she thought. Talks about as much as everybody else on this ship.
So she tried again, on something you couldn't answer without talking.,"How
long've you been on this ship?"
"Three years."
"You mind to say where from?"
"Hire-on. General. What about you?"
Not a question she wanted, that one. She shrugged. "Same thing. Last hire was
Ernestine."
"Kato," he said.
She nodded. But she didn't want to talk down that line either.
"Bernstein easy to-work for?" she asked.
"He's all right."
"Fitch?"
"Bastard."
"Guessed that," she said, and saw him toss off the rest of his beer.
"Come on," he said.
Nervous man. Real nervous. Steps were echoing in the corridor, somebody walking
in from down-ring. "I dunno," she said, annoyed, a little anxious herself with
that sudden hurry-up he wanted. "Minute. I'm still drinking."
"Come on."
"Hell. You can wait a damn minute!"
The steps got closer. It was Muller—who gave them both a frown, a halfway
pleasant nod to her, and a second frown at her company while he logged himself a
beer.
"'Evening, NG," Muller said.
She took another look at the man she was with.
"'Evening," her company said, not friendly, and laid a
to stowage, put up the scrub-gear exactly the way she'd found it, coiled and put
up all the clip-lines, exactly so, and got her duffle out of the stowage locker
where Bernstein had told her it was. Then she hiked up-ring, with a major thirst
for that promised beer by now, and telling herself all the while that pretty-boy
wasn't going to be waiting, or if he was, it was going to be some damn bit of
trouble, maybe a damn lot of trouble: on Africa you got hazed and it got rough,
it got to be real rough, and if that was the way it was going to be, then smart
and cool was the only way you lived through it.
She walked into the dark crew-quarters, where a vid was playing. Lot of noise
that direction. She looked around in the dim light trying to figure what bunk
might really be vacant on this shift, and where people might just be sharing-up.
Pick the wrong one and you could get hell; and she wasn't entirely convinced she
was going to get through the first night without getting jumped by somebody in
one sense or the other. Some sum-bitch in the lot had to have a sense of humor,
and maybe half a dozen of them. Maybe the whole damn lot. Her stomach was upset.
Memories again. Twenty years on Africa and she'd gotten seniority enough so she
could hand it out instead of taking it. It wasn't the case here.
Somebody came down the aisle to intercept her, a single dark-haired somebody who
said: "Want that beer?"
"Yeah," she said, once her heart had settled. She still didn't trust it
entirely, but it was a scary kind of night and she was fuzzy-tired enough to
hope she was being alarmist, that it was a civ ship even if it was a spook, and
the whole thing was just a good-looking younger man who for some fool reason
thought skinny, sweaty and almost forty was attractive. Or who was just
appointed to find out what she was and report on her to the rest of the crew.
So she snubbed the safety-tie of her duffle to a temp-ring by the door, and they
went out to crew rec, up by the galley: he logged himself a double tag on the
keyboard there on the counter, drew a couple beers from the tap, and handed her
one.
"How d'you earn extras?" she asked.
"You get fifteen cred a week, shipboard," he said. "Use 'em on beer, use 'em on
food, save 'em for liberty, they don't care."
"Thanks, then," she said, figuring to buy him one on her tab, if she liked him,
which looked likely, except she still couldn't figure him. He put his hand on
her back. She twitched it off, because it was bad business if any mofs walked
through here and caught you hands-on. She stood there like a kid with her first
boy-interest and drank her beer while he drank his.
"You're Engineering," she commented, for an opener.
He nodded.
"Guess you know that's my assignment."
Another nod.
Spooky man, she thought. Talks about as much as everybody else on this ship.
So she tried again, on something you couldn't answer without talking.,"How
long've you been on this ship?"
"Three years."
"You mind to say where from?"
"Hire-on. General. What about you?"
Not a question she wanted, that one. She shrugged. "Same thing. Last hire was
Ernestine."
"Kato," he said.
She nodded. But she didn't want to talk down that line either.
"Bernstein easy to-work for?" she asked.
"He's all right."
"Fitch?"
"Bastard."
"Guessed that," she said, and saw him toss off the rest of his beer.
"Come on," he said.
Nervous man. Real nervous. Steps were echoing in the corridor, somebody walking
in from down-ring. "I dunno," she said, annoyed, a little anxious herself with
that sudden hurry-up he wanted. "Minute. I'm still drinking."
"Come on."
"Hell. You can wait a damn minute!"
The steps got closer. It was Muller—who gave them both a frown, a halfway
pleasant nod to her, and a second frown at her company while he logged himself a
beer.
"'Evening, NG," Muller said.
She took another look at the man she was with.
"'Evening," her company said, not friendly, and laid a
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