“When will Channel One be coming back on TV?” someone asked. “I want to watch the docking.” It was the compulsive joker, aft.
“We can’t spare the bytes.”
“Huh? That’s not—”
“Shut up.” She switched back to command frequency.
I took off my hood. The cabin pressure was lower now than it had been before the blowout. Which was good: all the foul air gushed out of my suit as I unsealed it. I was briefly embarrassed, but in low pressure no one can smell anything very well; it passed without comment, as it were.
I wondered how much air I had left, if I should need it. These were cheap tourist p-suits we were wearing, with just enough air to survive a disaster like we’d just had, in four small cylinders fitted along our upper arms and shins. (In proper p-suits with full-size tanks at our backs, we’d have needed awfully complicated seats.)
There was a subdued murmur of conversation. Suddenly the attendant’s strident voice overrode it; she must have pulled off her hood. “You! Nine-D, sit down and buckle up!”
“What the hell for? You said we’ve got twelve minutes—”
“Sit down!”
It was the joker again. “See here,” he said, “we’re not soldiers and we’re not convicts. I’ve been looking forward to free fall for a long time, and I have a right to enjoy it. You have no authority—”
“Don’t tell me: you’re an American, right? This vessel is in a state of emergency; I have authority to break your spine! Sit or be restrained.”
“Come, come, the emergency is passed, you said so yourself. Stop being hysterical and lighten up a little.” He drifted experimentally out into the aisle. “We have a perfect right to Jesus!”
She had pushed off much too hard, I thought, with the full force of terrestrial muscles. She came up the aisle not in graceful slow motion, as my seatmate had earlier, but like a stone fired from a sling. Even I knew not to jump that hard in zero gee: you bash your head. But as she came she was tucking, rolling—
—she flashed past me quickly, but it’s just about impossible to move too fast for a dancer to follow: I spun my head and tracked her. She ended her trajectory heels foremost, smacked those heels against the seats on either side of him, took all the kinetic energy of her hurtling body on her thighs, and came to a dead stop with her nose an inch from his, drifting just perceptibly to her left.
Try it yourself sometime: drop from a third-story window, and land in a sitting position without a grunt of impact, without a bruise.
I may had been the only one present equipped to fully appreciate what a feat she had just accomplished—but it made the loudmouthed American cross his eyes and shut up.
“You have the right to remain silent,” she told him, loud enough to be heard all over the vessel; he flinched. “If you give up that right, I will break your arm. You have no right to counsel until such time as we match orbits with or land upon UN soil—which we don’t plan to do.” I don’t think he was hearing her. He was busy with the tricky mechanics of getting back into his seat. “Does anyone else have any questions? No? You—strap him in there.”
She kicked off backwards, repeated her feat by flipping in midair and braking herself against the first row of seats, came to rest with her back against the forward bulkhead, and glared around at us. Suddenly her expression softened.
“Look, people,” she called, her voice harsh in the low air pressure, “I know how you feel. I remember my first time in free fall. But you’ll have plenty of time to enjoy it later. Right now I want you strapped in. We’re in a new orbit, one we didn’t pick: there’s no telling when the Captain may have to dodge some new piece of junk.” She sighed. “I know you’re not military personnel. But in space you take orders from anyone who has more experience than you, and ask questions later. A lot later. I’ve logged over six thousand hours in space, half of them in this very can, and I will space the next jerk who gives me any shit.”
“Fair go,” my Aborigine seatmate called. “We’re with you!”
There was a rumble of agreement in which I joined.
“Look, Miss—” she added.
“Yes?”
“You asked for a doctor before. I ain’t no whitefella doctor. My people reckon me a healer, but. Can I come see the bloke?”
The attendant started to answer, frowned and hesitated.
“I won’t hurt him any.”
“All right, come ahead. But be careful! Come slow. And headfirst—don’t try to flip on the way, you’re too green.”
She unstrapped and clambered over me with some difficulty, clutching comically in all directions. A few people tittered. The Chinese steadied her and helped. Presently she was floating in the aisle like someone swimming in a dream…except that her swimming motions accomplished nothing. She looked over her shoulder to the Chinese. “Give us a hand then, will you, mate?”
He hesitated momentarily…then put his hand where he had to and gave her a gentle, measured push.
If a male dancer had done that in the studio, in a lift, I’d have thought nothing of it. But he wasn’t a dancer, and this wasn’t a studio. That’s how I explained my sudden blush to myself.
“Ta,” she called as she slowly sailed away. This time the titters were louder.
No, maybe I would not ask him for lessons in free fall movement.
He turned to me. “Excuse me,” he said politely.
“No, no,” I said, “I understand. If you’d pushed on her feet, she’d have pushed back and spoiled your aim. You’re a spacer, aren’t you?”
Even for a Chinese, his poker face was terrific. “Thank you for the compliment. But no, I’m not.”
“Oh, but you handle yourself so well in free fall—”
“I have spent a little time in space, but I’m hardly a spacer.”
Usually a set of features I can’t read annoys me…but his were at least pleasant to look at while I was trying. Eyes set close, but not too close, together, their long lashes like the spread fins of some small fish, or the fletching of an arrow. Nose slightly, endearingly pugged; mouth almost too small, nearly too full, not quite feminine, chin just strong enough to support that mouth. I caught myself wondering what it would feel like to “Kissing cousin to one at the very least. My name is Morgan McLeod.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Morgan. I’m Robert Chen.”
We shook hands. His grip was warm and strong. The skin of his hand felt horny, calloused—the hand of a martial arts student. That meant that his body would be lean and muscular, his belly hard and “Flattery aside, Robert, you move beautifully. By any chance, have you ever been a dancer?” Definitely not going to ask this one for private movement lessons…
“Not really. I’ve studied some contact improv, but I’ve never performed. And if I’d spent my life at it, I wouldn’t be in your league. I’ve seen you perform, several times. It’s an honour to meet you.”
Well. It is nice to be recognized. And, for a dancer, so rare.
“Thank you, Robert, but I’d say your own performance left little to be desired.” Oh my God, I was speaking in double-entendres. Clumsy ones! “Uh…do you think you could teach me a little about how to move in zero gee?”