“People usually go there after a workout.”
“Hell, only dirty people need to keep washing themselves,” Barrow’s slate-grey features creased in a grin as his eyes fixed on Hilliard. “Besides, I was in the tub last night. At home. With my wife.”
“Not another one,” Surgenor muttered.
Barrow ignored him, keeping his gaze on Hilliard. “Real fancy tub, it is. Gold. Just matches my wife’s hair.”
Surgenor noticed that Hilliard, beside him, had set down his fork and was staring at Barrow with a peculiar intensity.
“Her skin’s sort of gold-coloured, as well,” Barrow continued. “And when we’re in the tub together she ties her hair up with a gold ribbon.”
“What’s her name?” Hilliard said, surprising Surgenor with the question.
“Even the faucets are gold on that tub. Gold dolphins.” Barrow’s face was ecstatic. “We shouldn’t have really bought it, but when we saw it in…’
“What’s her name?” Hilliard’s chair tumbled behind him as he jumped to his feet.
“What’s the matter with you, Pinky?”
“For the last time, Barrow—tell me her name.” Red beacons of anger burned in Hilliard’s cheeks.
“It’s Julie,” Barrow announced contentedly. “Julie Cornwallis.”
Hilliard’s jaw sagged. “You’re a liar.”
“I ask you,” Barrow said to the others who were watching the incident, “is that any way to speak to a shipmate?”
Hilliard leaned across the table towards him. “You’re a bloody liar, Barrow.”
“Hey, Bernie!” Surgenor stood up and caught Hilliard’s arm. “Cool off a little.”
“You don’t understand, Dave.” Hilliard shook his arm free. “He’s claiming he’s got a Trance-Port tape the same as mine, but the supply office doesn’t do that. They make sure there’s only one of each type on a ship.”
“They must have made a mistake,” Barrow said, chuckling. “Anybody can make a mistake.”
“Then you can turn yours in and get a different one.”
Barrow shook his head emphatically. “No chance, Pinky. I’m happy with the one I got.”
“If you don’t turn it in I’ll…’
“Yes, Pinky?”
“I’ll…’
“My soup is getting cold,” Surgenor said in his loudest voice. He was a big deep-chested man and could produce an awe-inspiring bellow when he thought it necessary. “I’m not going to eat cold soup for anybody—so we’re all going to sit here quietly and take our food like grown-ups.” He picked up Hilliard’s chair and pushed the younger man into it.
“You don’t understand, Dave,” Hilliard whispered. “It’s like my home has been invaded.”
For a reply, Surgenor pointed at his soup and began to spoon it up in silent concentration.
In the “afternoon’ Surgenor finished reading a book, spent some time in the observation room, then went to the gymnasium and practised fencing with Al Gillespie. He saw nothing of Hilliard or Barrow, and if he thought about the incident of the Trance-Port tapes at all it was only to congratulate himself on having forced some sense into the two men concerned. Peaceful red-gold light was flooding through the “western’ end of the mess when he entered and sat down. Most of the places were filled and the dispensing turret was busy whirring up and down the table’s central slot.
The lively atmosphere would normally have made Surgenor feel cheerful, but on this occasion it served to remind him of Christmas he was not going to have on Earth, of the bleak new year that would begin in the absence of an afterglow from the old. He dropped into a chair, called up a standard dinner and was eating without much pleasure when he became aware of a latecomer sitting down beside him. His spirits sank even further when he saw it was Tod Barrow.
“Sorry I’m late, men,” Barrow said, “but I see you’ve started without me.”
“We took a vote on it,” Sig Carlen growled, “and decided that was what you would want us to do.”
“Quite right.” Barrow stretched luxuriously, immune to sarcasm. “I was dozing most of the afternoon, so I decided to go home. To see my wife.”
There was a groan of complaint from the assembly.
“That Julie is some girl,” Barrow continued, heedless, closing his eyes the better to savour his memories. “The way she dresses you’d think she was a Sunday school teacher or something—but what a line in undies.”
Somebody at the other end of the table gave an appreciative guffaw. Surgenor glanced around, looking for Hilliard, and saw him sitting with his head bowed. There was a rigid stillness about the young man which Surgenor did not like.
Surgenor leaned closer to Barrow, meeting his gaze squarely. “Why don’t you give it a rest?”
Barrow waved a dismissive hand. “But you’ve got to hear this. Lotsa married women will only perform in bed, but my Julie has a habit of…’ He stopped speaking and a grin spread over his face as Hilliard jumped to his feet and ran from the room. “Aw, look at that! Young Pink’s gone and left us, just as I was getting to the good bit. Perhaps he’s gone to warn Julie about two-timing him.” More laughter greeted the remark and Barrow looked gratified.
“You’re laying it on too thick,” Surgenor told him. “Leave the kid alone.”
“It’s only a joke. He should be able to take a joke.”
“You should be able to make one.”
Barrow shrugged and, apparently having satisfied himself as regards getting even with Hilliard, scanned his menu display. He ordered corn-and-crab soup and took it slowly, pausing every now and then to shake his head and chuckle. Surgenor tried to repress the anger he felt at Barrow for being such a disruptive influence, at Hilliard for allowing himself to get so worked up over nothing more than a piece of dream tape, at the Service psychologists for issuing the Trance-Ports in the first place, and at Aesop for prolonging the trip beyond its normal term. The effort stretched his tolerance to the limit.
He was toying with the remains of his meat loaf when the conversational hum in the room faded away. Surgenor looked up and saw that Bernie Hilliard, unnaturally pale, had come back into the room. The young man walked around the table and came to a halt beside Barrow, who twisted in his chair to look up at him.
“What’s on your mind, Pinky?” Barrow seemed slightly taken aback by the new development.
“That soup you’re eating looks a bit thin,” Hilliard said woodenly. “What do you think?”
Barrow looked puzzled. “Seems all right to me.”
“No. It’s definitely too thin—try some noodles.” Hilliard produced a tangle of silver-and-green tape from behind his back and slapped it down into the other man’s soup.
“Hey! What is this?” Barrow stared at the knotted mass and suddenly was able to supply his own answer. “That’s a Trance-Port tape!”
“Correct.”
“But…’ Barrow’s eyes shuttled as he reached an inevitable conclusion. “It’s my tape!”
“Right again.”
“That means you went into my room.” Barrow sent a scandalized glance around the other men, making them witnesses to the confession, then he leapt at Hilliard’s throat. Hilliard tried to twist free and both men fell to the floor, with Barrow uppermost.
“You shouldn’t…have gone…into my room!” Still holding Hilliard by the throat, Barrow punctuated his words by hammering the young man’s head against the floor.
Surgenor, who had risen from his place, lifted one foot and stamped it down hard between Barrow’s shoulder blades. Barrow collapsed like a pile of sticks and lay on his side, gasping, while Surgenor and Voysey picked Hilliard up.
“Do me a favour, Bernie, for God’s sake,” Surgenor said. “Try to unscramble your brains.”