ship, work less interesting to them, he was sure: but he began to think in the
long term, a fleeting mode of thought that flickered through his reasonings and
went out again. There was the loft—
They had never done anything about the loft, he and Ross and Mitri: no need of
the space—Lucy was full of empty space; and walking there—they just avoided it.
Put it on extreme powersave.
The cold kept curious crew out. When he was alone on the ship he had never gone
past the galley. It was dead up there… until the Reillys started opening doors
and violating seals. Opening up areas of himself in the process, like a surgery.
He gathered his courage about it, the hour being morning: a man was in trouble
who went to bed with panic and got up with it untransformed. He tried to look at
it from other sides, think around the situation if not through it.
A little time, that was what he needed, to break the Reillys in and get himself
used to them.
But the comp—
(Ross… they wouldn’t have given out that money for no reason. No one’s that
rich, that they can spill half a million because a few of their people take a
fancy to sign off—half a million for a parting-present…)
(People don’t throw money away like that. People aren’t like that.)
(Ross… I know what they want. I loved her, Ross, and I didn’t see; I was
afraid—Pell would have taken the ship—and what could I do? But they think I’ve
sold her; and maybe I have. What do I do, Ross?)
The warm water of the shower hit his body, relaxed the muscles: he turned up the
cold on purpose, shocked himself awake. But when he had gotten out he had a case
of the shivers, uncommonly violent… too little food, he reasoned; schedule
upset. He reckoned on getting some of the concentrates: that was a way of eating
without tasting it, getting some carbohydrates into his body and getting the
shakes out.
They had to make jump tomorrow maindawn. He had to get himself strung back
together. Mallory was not going to take excuses out there. Mallory wanted
schedules and schedules she got
He dressed, shaved, dried his hair and went out into the corridor, back to the
bridge.
Curran was sitting against a counter—Neill and Deirdre with him. “I’m for
breakfast,” Sandor said. “I think we could leave her all right, just—”
“Want to talk to you,” Curran said. “Captain.”
He drew a deep breath, standing next to the scan console-leaned against it, too
tired for this, but he nodded. “What?”
“We want to ask you for the keys. There’s a question of safety.
“We’ve all talked about it. We really have quite a bit of concern about it.”
“I’ve discussed that problem. With Allison. I think we agree on it”
“No. You don’t agree. And we’re asking you.”
“I’ll take up the matter with her.”
“Are you sure there’s no chance of our reasoning with you?”
“I told you.”
“I think you’d better think again.”
“There are laws, Mr. Reilly. And they’re on my side in this.” He started away
from the counter, to break it off. The others moved, cutting off his retreat—his
eye picked Deirdre, the one he could go over—but there was no running. He turned
about and looked at Curran. “You want to settle this the hard way? Let’s clear
the fragile area and talk about it.”
“Why don’t we?” Curran got off his counteredge and waved them all back, a
retreat into the lounge area among the couches, but Sandor went for the
corridor, toward the cabins, a slow retreat that drew all of them in that
direction.
Allison was in her cabin. He was sure of that, the way he measured his own frame
and Curran’s and knew who was going to win this one, especially if Curran got
help. He reached for the door switch, and Curran caught him up and knocked his
hand aside.
He landed one, a knee to the groin and a solid smash to the neck that knocked
Curran double—a knee to the face, and Curran hit the wall as he spun about to