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safely aboard the ship.
Restless now, he turned back along the street. He wanted no more drink just yet, but
he was hungry. So he looked for a good 9medium-grade eating house. Nothing too
specialized: he passed up a place that advertised "Highland Cuisine for the real
Highlander." On the other hand, "The You Never Lef! Earth Restaurant And
Boozerium" didn't take his fancy much, either; after all, what he'd tried of local stuff
wasn't half bad.
The building he stopped to look at was a rambling shanty, much added-to. Its sign
read "Ask For What You Want," and that seemed fair enough, so he went in. The
high-beamed roof, with no ceiling below, made the interior cooler than outdoors had
been. The decor was out of chaos by improvisation; Bran liked it.
Only about a third of the tables were occupied. Human instincts being what they
are, those were the ones around the| area's perimeter; the middle section sat empty.
For no reason| he could think of, Bran went to sit at the rooms center.
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Service was faster than he expected; a young woman, got up in an exotic fashion
quite new to him, brought water and a menu. He was too busy looking at her to
think of ordering a drink; as she walked away, he decided maybe that was just as
well.
On the Tri-V, back on Earth, he'd seen some weird getups,
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but nothing like this woman's. Her breasts seemed to be compressed flat to her
chest, but through two transparent plastic bubbles, oversized nipples showed. Her
hair stood straight out in all directions, in spikes about four centimeters long, each
sprayed or coated with more transparent plastic. Between her thighs, just below her
short skirt swung a metal bell, that chimed softly as she walked-in short, precise
steps, because two ankle bracelets were joined by a slim, gold-colored chain not
more than forty centimeters in length. Bran shook his head: strange.
The menu made little sense to him. When the woman returned he asked "What's
your own favorite meal here?" and ordered according to her answer, including a
small bottle of native wine. And when the food came, he found it surprisingly good.
No pickled overshoes, not even one.
He was having coffee, and one glass short of emptying the wine bottle, when
nearby movement caught his attention. He looked up and saw Deverel and Kenekke
about to pass his table. For a moment he paused, then stood and said, "Join me?
Though I'm nearly done here, now." The place had filled up quite a bit, so his offer
made sense any way you looked at it.
Kenekke looked to Deverel. The latter hesitated, then said, "Yes. Thanks, sir. I
guess we're hitting the crowded time."
They sat. The two new arrivals took Bran's recommendation on the wine. Each
studied a menu, then ordered items Bran had never heard of. "You're more
adventurous than I am," he said. Their expressions tightened. "The food here, I
mean." Both men nodded, and the conversation went from sparse to nonexistent.
Hell with it. Gently, Bran swirled the remaining wine in his glass. "I'm curious.
Would you be taking my advice?"
Kenekke said, "Which part, sir?" Before Bran could answer, the strangely got-up
woman brought the two dinners. Looking and scenting, Bran was rather glad he had
not ordered either of them. But the two ratings, digging in, seemed to enjoy them well
enough.
"I meant, are you being sensible enough to jump ship?" His only question, really,
so he drained his glass and stood, waiting. But Deverel's hand caught his wrist, and
the glass was full again.
"I don't think so, sir," the small man said. "If it's all the same with you. We've
dodged risk, Anse and I, since second year at the Slaughterhouse. I don't think we're
done yet, and this
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world doesn't tempt us much." Deverel's eyes narrowed. "Unless, of course, sir,
you're telling us to get off."
Again Tregare sat. He shook his head. "No such thing. Advice, was all; I think you
might be best off the Tamurlaine, for your own sakes."
"And if we don't agree?" Kenekke said it.
"Then I wish you luck." Bran stood, drank his glass dry, and set it firmly on the
table, upside down.
And said, before walking away, "Remember one thing. I still didn't see you."
He went to three different bars for one drink at each, found nothing much to
interest him in any way, and caught the shuttle car back to port. Upship in the galley,
two ratings were drunk.
So was Second Officer Farnsworth, Bran was told, but he'd been put to bed.
So who cared?
The next time Monteffial relieved Bran at watch-change, the First said, "Would you
fill in for the ramp guard a few minutes? He asked me, but I didn't want to be logged
in late." Tregare knew what the man meant: put a perfectly good reason into the
log, and captains and promotion boards read an excuse. ". . . on leave yesterday, ate
the wrong thing, I guess. He's been running a lot. So if-"
"Sure. And if there's much of his watch left, maybe I can find someone to handle the
rest of it." Then, not forgetting the formal stuff-because any rating on watch might
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be a Police dog-he saluted. "Relief acknowledged, First Officer." Monteffial said his
part of it, and Bran left Control.
Down at the main air lock, the ramp guard certainly looked miserable enough.
"Here, give me your order sheet," Bran said. "I'll hold your post down for awhile. No
hurry." The man started to leave. "Whoops, there-I'll need that gunbelt," so the
man unbuckled it, handed it over, and hobbled away. Bran hoped the fellow would
reach a latrine without mishap.
The guard station was quiet enough, with no one approaching either to leave the
ship or from below, to climb ramp and enter. Tregare took time to scan the order
sheet. Not much to keep track of. The leave roster wasn't included, so all he had to do
about personnel leaving or entering was check their passes and log their passage.
He'd buckled on the gunbelt without paying much heed to
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