Didn't seem the time to say anything. She waited, hands tucked behind her.
"You tell me, Yeagerc areyou smart, or just smartass?"
"Hope I'm smart, sir."
"You know what they call you on the bridge?"
"Nossir."
"Spit 'n polish.—Shit won't stick to you, is that it?"
"I try not to get into it, sir."
"Smartass again."
"Sorry, sir."
Orsini rocked his chair back, hands folded across his middle, and stared up at her a long time. "You come on this ship with papers by the grace of your last captain, you haven'tgot the rating you claim, have you?"
"Machinist, sir."
Long, long stare of those black eyes. "Hughes make a grab at you?"
She felt the sweat running. "Wouldn't venture to say, sir."
The com beeped. Orsini took it private, using the earpiece, listened while he watched her.
"Thanks," he said to whoever. And to her: "Headache, is it?"
"Yessir."
"It's not Hughes' prescription. It's 'dust. You know that word?"
Worse than she figured, then. "Yessir."
"You still think it's Hughes."
She thought about that, with Orsini staring up at her and her heart thumping hard. "I think if that was what he meant he's no friend of mine."
"You ever thought about the diplomatic branch?"
"Nossir." She hated round-the-corner attacks. Orsini was that kind.
"Are you clean?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where do you suppose it came from?"
"Somebody who wanted me in a lot of trouble, sir."
Long silence again.
"Why?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Spit 'n polish, where'd you learn your manners?"
"Lot of ships, sir." She made herself shift weight on her feet, stand easier, civ-like.
"And station militia. Pan-paris."
He might believe it. He might not. He said, one brow lifting: " Militia, was it?"
"Yessir."
"What rank?"
"Specialist."
"In what?"
"Weapons tech, sir."
He thought about.that, rocking his chair. Finally he said, "What kind?"
"Whatever we could get."
Toomuch truth, in the last years, the losing years. Her pulse skittered and fluttered while Orsini kept up that gentle rocking.
"You can wait outside."
There was no indication how it was going. No figuring anything with Orsini. "Yessir,"
she said, and she went and opened the door.
"Send Hughes in."
Hughes was out there, sitting on the bench along the wall. So was Bernstein out there, standing talking with Fitch. "Your turn," she said to Hughes.
Hughes got up, scowling as they passed each other, and she sat down on the bench in Hughes' place, while Bernstein and Fitch went on talking, Bernstein just as calm and reasonable as if it was the supper menu they were talking about, instead of NG Ramey.
"c no question," Bernie was saying, to Fitch's objections, "he's steadied down a lot, no sick-reports, no problemsc"
"The man's always the center of something. I'm not surprised to find him in the middle of whatever's going on." Fitch made a move of his hand and pulled Bernstein over out of earshot. Voices dropped, Fitch's face stayed angry, Bernstein's worried.
Had to be coming up on alterdark, thirty minutes or so, and that meant the alterday evening/maindawn lapover ended. So did Orsini's optional jurisdiction, unless Orsini planned to stay up around the clock, and small chance Orsini intended to do that.
Small chance that Bernstein could, counting he had one of his shift under arrest and NG under consideration for arrest—God knewfor whatc but Bernie might have his hands full tomorrow, working the boards himself unless he pulled somebody off mainday right now and put him back to bed, or unless Orsini was going to let him work somebody twenty-four hours solid at the boards—
And Fitch was just warming up, just starting to ask questions.
Like about NG.
What in hell can he have done?
God, are they on him because of me?
If they have, if Fitch corners him— God knows what he'll do, he'll go out on Fitch, he'll do one of those eetee spells with Fitch watching and they'll jerk him off the boards, they'll lock him up— it'd kill him, it'll finish him—
If he doesn't go for Fitch's throatc
If Fitch doesn't goad him into itc
And Fitch would.
She sat there staring at the wall while a couple of the bridge crew and a mainday tech on business walked through. She listened to the few words she could catch from Fitch and Bernstein. Bernstein was looking worried, from what she could catch out of the corner of her eye; and she reckoned Bernstein didn't even have the right to stay there, once the curfew rang and the watch passed to Fitch, Fitch could order him out of it, Fitch could order any damn thing he wanted with anybody in his way—except maybe Orsini.
Oh, God! let Orsini stay on the case.
Bernstein and Fitch stopped talking. Bernstein just stood there looking upset, but Fitch walked off a little up the rim and gave some order on his pocket com, with his back turned, so she couldn't hear what he was saying, or read lips for it.
Bernstein walked back to her and said: "The packet was 'dust."
"Yessir, I heard."
"They're pulling half of main Engineering, putting them on alterday."
"What are they going to do?" She felt the panic rise and fought it. No use for the adrenaline rush, nothing to fight, and it sure as hell didn't help a body think. "They didn't plant anything on NG—"
"Musa's rep is clean, and that's a given. Just keep calm. You've got a witness."
"They arrested NG?"
"He's up for questioning. Just questions."
God. Like someone had hit her in the gut. She couldn't breathe for a second. But the mind went on working, thinking about him and small spaces, about him and his temper and Fitch getting him in his office—and she thought about how to stop that and the answer came up the only way she could sort it out.
"What's the log if I tell Orsini it's mine?"
Bernie frowned, quick and hard; and she thought in the same second that logwasn't a civ word, and that Bernie hadn't missed it and that Bernie was adding that up, somewhere in the muddle of everything else going on, Bernie was upset as hell and ready to kill Hughes with his bare hands.
Because they were in a trap and sheshould have broken Hughes' damn neck, hell with the chance of getting caught at it—the chance of Lindy Hughes coming back at her was a hundred percent, and she'd knownthat, dammit, known it right in the gut and she'd pulled back from what she should have done till Gypsy and Davis and Presley were in on it and everything was too damn late.
So when you screw up you cover it, Bet Yeager. Same as under fire.
"It's a detention offense," Bernstein said, quiet and fast, under the ship-noise. "If you're lucky. You don't sign off this ship. There isn'tany discharge, you understand me?
You've got no priors, you've got a good work record—but you knowwhat happened to NG—"
"I'll live. I'll getHughes—someday. I'll pay him."
She was saying that to a mof. But Bernie understood her, Bernie was somebody you could say that to and Bernie would keep his mouth shut when Hughes had a real bad accident someday.