The Crystal Variation by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page B

along—eyes moving, checking high points, low, possible places of concealment. “Who’s likely to be wanting to talk with you in a serious way? I can think of some couple who might want to have a cozy chat with me, but nothing that can’t wait.”
    There shouldn’t, he thought, be anyone wanting to talk to him in any serious way, excepting the absent Muran.
    They’d set up the rendezvous carefully, that being how they did things. And they’d arranged for a back up, just in case the primary went bad. He’d checked the back up, and needed to do so again—now, in fact. All things considered.
    He glanced at the woman beside him and found her watching him, green eyes—amused?
    Not easy to scan at all, was Pilot Cantra. And it came to him that he’d better make sure of her, if he could.
    “I’m after a bit of noise and maybe something else to drink,” he said. “You?”
    Slim eyebrows arched over those pretty green eyes, and he thought she might turn him down. But—
    “Sounds good,” she said easily.
    “I know a place just a couple steps over there.” He cocked his head to the left, and she moved a slim, ringless hand in the pilot’s sign for lead on .

Nine
    NINE
    On the ground
    Faldaiza Port
    PILOT JELA’S “PLACE,” a bar-and-drinkery calling itself Pilot’s Choice, was considerably more than a couple steps, situated as it was in the shadow of the port tower. Giving the pilot his due, it wasn’t a pit, nor showing any ‘jack spaces on offer. What it was, was full of pilots, loud voices, and something that might’ve been music—in fact, was music.
    There was pair of bouncer-types checking ID at the door, which was a good thing by her way of thinking, ‘cause it meant the local lowlifes weren’t allowed in—just them with proper Port clearance or genuine pilot-class credentials.
    Cantra showed her ship’s key, and was gratified to see the hand motion from the sharp-eyed man requesting just a bit more . . . and so she flashed the flat-pic with numbers and such on it. He didn’t bother to run-scan on it, though the machine was live—just gave her a half-salute and waved her into the dense noise and rowdy dance-and-brew scent.
    Apparently, Jela was in the same boat as far as looking legit on visual, which was a shame, ‘cause all she saw was him slipping his card into a semi-public pocket, the woman on that side signing out with a respectful, “Thank you, Pilot!”—and still not a polite way to find out exactly what he was a pilot of. But some information you just didn’t ask if it didn’t come voluntary.
    They pushed on, just like they were together. The crowd motion stopped them for a moment, ‘til she could point out to Jela the direction of the bar from her greater height, which information he acknowledged with equanimity.
    Now they were further in, she could see a couple almost-nakeds on a raised platform on the opposite side of the room from the bar, dancing, they might’ve been. Looked interesting, whatever.
    She let Jela break trail, which wasn’t any problem at all for those shoulders, and directly joined him at the bar proper, one foot on the rail, waiting for the notice of the bartender.
    “There’s a man here I need to talk to,” Jela said to her, his voice pitched to carry under the general hubbub. “It’s probable he’ll have news, maybe make some sense of our friend’s concern, if you’d want to wait?”
    She gave him a smile. “I’ll wait,” she murmured, for his ears only. “Why not?”
    “Good. Back soon.” He was gone, moving quick and light through the crowd and she watched him go, considering the wide shoulders and the slim hips with a sort of absent-minded admiration. Not her usual sort, Pilot Jela, but a well-made man, regardless.
    “What’ll it be, Pilot?” The bartender’s prosaic question brought her back to the now and here.
    “Ale,” she said, knowing better than to ask for wine in a pilot’s bar this far in to the shipyards.
    “Coming up,”