Triton (Trouble on Triton) by Samuel R. Delany

barefoot as Tristan, in an antiseptically white jumpsuit, walked toward them. A red plastic V
    was pinned, with brass clips, to his chest.
    “Oh, hey, Phil ... ?” Bron turned. “This is Miriamne, the new assistant Audri brought me this morning. Philip’s my other boss, which sort of makes him your boss, too ... or did you two meet before already?”
    “We met,” Philip said. “As I told you before, if
    Bron treats you badly ... I’m repeating this now because I don’t like saying things behind people’s backs—you kick him—” Philip raised his foot and swung his toe lightly against Bron’s calf (Philip’s ankle was incredibly hairy)—“right here. Bron sprained his knee earlier this year—” which was true—“and I don’t believe he had it attended to properly. It should cause him a great deal of pain.”
    Bron laughed. “Philip is a real comic.” No, he did not like Philip at all.
    Miriamne said: “I overheard someone say those two kids over there were head of this whole operation a few months ago ... ?”
    “Yeah,” Philip said. “And it ran a whole lot smoother than it does now. Of course, that could just be all the pressure from the war.”
    Miriamne glanced at the group still gathered around the twins, shook her head with a little smile. “I wonder what they’ll be doing in ten years.”
    “I doubt they’ll even stay in business,” Philip said. “That kind never do. // they do, by the time they’re twenty-five, they’ll probably have started a family. Or a religion, if they don’t. Speaking of families, some of our kids are downstairs and waiting for me. Will you excuse me?” Philip walked away. To his back was pinned, by brass clips, a red plastic N.
    Frowning after him, Bron said: “Come on, I’ll get some lunch. You go find a booth.”
    There were booths all around the hall: for eating and reading, for eating and talking, for eating and silent meditation, private booths for anything you wanted—if she’d chosen one of these, Bron, with that little gesture of the hand, would have made his intentions clear right then. But she had chosen one for conversation.
    So, for the rest of the lunch-hour (he realized what he’d been doing two minutes before it was time to go back to work), he asked her about the Spike, the theater commune, some more about the Spike—not really, he pondered as they rode down the escalator to the Metalogics Department in the second subbasement, the way to get things off on the proper foot. Well, he had the rest of the day. The rest of the day continued in the same wise, till, when she asked could she leave ten minutes early because, after all, there wasn’t really anything to do today and she would make up the time once she got more into the actual work, and he said sure, and she mentioned she was walking back to her co-op, and Bron, remembering that after all he was trying to start an affair with her, asked if she minded his walking with her and, no, it wasn’t out of his way, he took a roundabout route through the u-1 frequently: she frowned and, a bit sullenly, agreed. Fifteen minutes later, when they turned off the Plaza of Light, down the deserted alley toward the underpass, he remembered again that he was trying to start an affair with her and put his hand on the gray shoulder of her cape: perhaps this was the time to openly signal his intentions—
    Miriamne said: “Look, I know it’s a lot of pressure on you, having to teach somebody to do a job they’re not trained for or even very interested in, but I also get the feeling, about every half an hour, when you can get your mind back in it, that you’re coming on to me.”
    “Me?” Bron leaned a little closer and smiled. “Now why ever should you think that?”
    “I’d better explain,” she said. “The co-op where I live is all women.”
    The Spike’s laugh returned to him, pulsing with his heartbeat which, for the second time, began to pound. “Oh, hey ...” He dropped his hand.