Rembrandt gave out a snort.
“Look at who’s talking,” she said. “You’d better get some sleep yourself, Captain, or Beeker’s going to sneak something into your food.”
“Beeker never thinks I get enough sleep.” Phule shrugged, dismissing the subject. “You get used to his grumbling after a while. So, anything either of you want to go over just now? Anything at all, not just Tullie’s report.”
“Not that I can think of, sir,” Armstrong said, giving his notes one last glance. “As near as I can tell, we’ve got everything covered.”
The commander nodded. “I know. And to be honest with you, that worries me a little.”
“How so?”
“Well, there’s an old saying in business,” Phule said with a rueful smile. “If you think you’ve got everything covered, it means there’s something you’re overlooking.”
“Cheerful thought,” Rembrandt observed wryly, then glanced at the commander with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “As a matter of fact, I have one question for you, sir-if you’re really throwing the floor open.”
“Shoot.”
Rembrandt sneaked a wink at her partner. “I was just wondering, how are you doing at staving off the Red Menace?”
The Red Menace was the nickname the Legionnaires had assigned to Tiffany, mostly due to her blatant and obvious efforts to herd Phule into her bed. Of course, to her face, the moniker was shortened to just “Red.”
“Isn’t that question a bit personal, Lieutenant?” the commander growled in mock severity.
“Yes and no, sir,” Armstrong chimed in with a grin. “You see, the crew is giving odds as to your holding out, so you might say it affects the morale of the whole company, which, as you keep telling us, is our business.”