Alper Gor laughed in a liquid soprano. “I find myself developing an inclination toward proceeding on that basis,” she admitted. “Our activities of a little while ago, considered in retrospect, add flavor to my growing enthusiasm for the prospect.” She had colored slightly, her fine golden eyebrows showing by contrast.
“Then you will find me not merely willing but enthusiastic.” He grinned. “We might begin by repeating the inspection procedure. Certain areas would almost certainly reward more study.”
Her flush deepened. “More detailed information is almost always useful,” she murmured.
Ander Korwits’s smile was now fully in evidence. “What would you do in the case where both of us wanted to continue?”
“I would respond with equal enthusiasm to both,” he assured her. “But here we encounter both a personal preference and a physical limitation. We have already determined that I am vain, but I assure you that I am not nearly vain enough to try to perform adequately with both of you at once; you will have to decide who has precedence. Furthermore, I am debilitated by exertion, stress, lack of nourishment, and not least by the aftereffects of my overindulgence. I would require a meal, and at least a few utle of sleep, before I could be expected to perform with more than minimal adequacy.”
“Alper has expressed interest first, and I yield to that prior claim,” Korwits declared. “As for the matter of nourishment and rest, neither of us is a teenager, to require everything immediately, and we wish to encounter the height of your powers. Do you concur, Alper?”
“In every respect,” the blonde declared. “There is an unoccupied chamber in these apartments, and the kitchen staff are always available for our needs. As for the delay—” she smiled, eyes slitted “—I can bear it if you can.”
“And I will excuse myself, expressing regret,” Luter Ander noted. Peters bowed again, and she returned a nod and slipped out the door, glancing back with a half-smile as she did so.
“Food first, or rest first?” Ander Korwits asked economically.
Peters considered. “Food first,” he specified. “The duration of the necessary rest can be part of the experiment.” The two women exchanged looks, and Alper Gor laughed again.
Chapter Forty
Peters ran his finger up the seam of the kathir suit, thinking how much easier it was to seal. Handheld and earbug went into pockets, leaving worse lumps than with the Grallt suit; this one was thinner. The ornh could stay; there was more where that came from. His multitool was missing, a real pity, but a nice souvenir for some ferassi… there was just enough light from Jivver through the window to allow him to scan the surface of the dresser for anything else. Just the small push-force weapon. He thought about leaving it, but it might be useful.
The woman on the bed stirred, rolling over to throw an arm over the unoccupied side. “John?” she said sleepily, and Peters felt a combination of pride and real regret. Having the woman remember your name at this point was a compliment, no doubt about it; he smiled in the dark at the memory.
He checked the door. Locked, of course, but the control was on this side. When he released the catch the mechanism snicked loudly, and the woman rolled over, sat up, and said, “John, what are you doing?”
The weapon weighed in his hand. Screaming women were not in his plans at the moment: the correct thing, the logical thing, was to shoot her and bug out. Jivver light backlighted a tumble of raven hair, now touseled, and picked out other salient features. “Escaping,” he said conversationally.
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.” He slipped out the door, closing it behind him, and set off up the corridor at a fast walk.
He was banking on memory, subterfuge, and timing. The ferassi ship observed a standdown period, a “night”, when few were about, and those at specific watches. They had no reason to expect untoward events, and the watchstanders were bound to be bored and sleepy at best. The subterfuge part came from a discovery: the kathir suit had stored programs for ferassi suit patterns. The patterns were simple, an overall dark forest green like pine needles with rings around the upper arm, their number and color depending on rank and specialty. His whimsical choice had been to assume his own zerkre rank and more or less correct specialty: two white rings, signifying an ipze of the operations department with smallcraft qualifications. The whimsy had stopped short of making one of them wider than the other.
He reached the door of the apartment area where the women lived. Before he could operate the latch another clicked behind him, and he turned, to discover Ander Korwits coming at just short of a run, wearing a white robe tied at the waist. She had nice legs. Well, she had nice everything. “Wait,” she hissed. “This is not a recommended procedure.”
Shit! At least she wasn’t screaming. He pushed into the corridor and set off at a run, heading forward and looking for a stairwell. The pirate ship had carried two small auxiliaries, high and forward of midships, set into the corners of the structure as Fers had described the ones here. So why had Gell said there weren’t any? He hadn’t, the memory came. He’d said there were no docking bays, which was correct.
Stairway here; he swung into it and pounded up the steps. So far no one had been around to ask questions about why someone was running in the corridors, but there was likely to be a guard on the smallcraft. Or maybe not. He remembered how slack they’d gotten after having nothing happen for so long in the first part of the voyage of Llapaaloapalla.
As anticipated the stair ended two decks up, letting out on a long fore-and-aft corridor. If there were six general purpose auxiliaries and two fliers it didn’t really matter which way he went, but he wanted a general purpose one, because the pirate ship hadn’t had fliers and he didn’t know how to open the fairings Fers had mentioned. He headed aft to maximize his chances. No guards visible, which was in a way disappointing. Not that he wanted to shoot anybody… here was a hatch, of the same pattern that had led to the auxiliaries on the pirate ship. He put his back into it, but it was wasted effort. The lever gave smoothly.
Now the securing latches. He stepped back into the corridor and headed aft… there. If he had the pattern right there were four of them, the same general type as the hatch latches. He had to assume that the glyph the handles pointed to meant “secured”, but it was probably the best bet. The first one yielded as smoothly as the hatch had, and so did the second.
Rapid thuds came up the corridor. Ander Korwits was running that way, her robe streaming out. He shook his head, casting off the distraction, and threw the third latch. “What are you doing?” she asked, low but insistent.
“Stealing a smallcraft.” He twisted his mouth. “I suppose it could be called ‘borrowing’. If I make it to Llapaaloapalla, you can have it back.” There, that did it for the fourth latch.
She followed him into the access trunk, crowding close as he worked the handle for access to the ship proper. “You don’t need to do this,” she urged, still in a low voice. “I’ve told you. You can have all the status you want among us.”
“I’m sorry.” She’d made the offer before; so had Alper Gor, in the occasional intervals. He’d thought about it, if fleetingly, but the prospect had no real appeal. The warmth pressing against him was a strong argument, but the women lived in a section to themselves, and he’d never seen another male of either species during the llor or so he’d been there. Continued association with Brendik Jons had no appeal… he’d also discovered he had no more wish to cast away the chance of returning home than Todd had had. He expressed it in his own mind as “Granpap’s funeral”, but even to himself he made no attempt to deny that there was much more to it than that.