He lifted his goblet and touched hers with a tiny musical sound. "I'd duel a dozen Nergol Triannics—ripe ca'ombas at ten paces—if you would promise to debrief me each time I got home." The meem was like silver fire in his throat. He bad never experienced such fine vintage.
"One Nergol Triannic is quite sufficient for this war," Margot said with a wink, "in spite of what I am sure are your very formidable talents throwing ripe ca'ombas."
As the cycles slipped by, they talked of poetry, Gimmas, and the endless duty watches. She clearly had the broader picture of their war, and by the time Grimsby materialized with a second bottle of the same rare Logish meem, Brim had a confused impression that her mysterious Technology Division was actually beginning to grasp some of the enemy's meter, that Count Rogan LaKarn didn't find his way to Gimmas Haefdon as often as she thought he should, and that even when he did, her own work schedule took its toll of an already abbreviated love life. Somehow Brim found nothing unusual about her last comment. She was that sort of person. Besides, he reminded himself, this was simply a social occasion shared between two professionals. But, oh, how he wished he could satisfy that particular area of her needs!
He savored her oval face, her loose curls, her sulky eyes—now even sulkier as fatigue and the meem took effect. And he drew her out, learned what be could of her life, her family, her loves—from her days as a little girl. She spoke freely, clearly relishing the memories of carefree dalliances before the war. Brim smiled with her, but somehow the words were bittersweet in his ears.
Then, suddenly she looked about the wardroom. His eyes followed. Except for Grimsby's spectral presence in the pantry, they were alone. Margot glanced down at her timepiece and shut her eyes. "Oh, Universe, Wilf," she whispered. "I'm oh duty in less than five metacycles. I've got to go—now!" She touched his hand and drew his eyes to hers. "Thank you for a beautiful break ma long tour of duty," she whispered. "'Rarely, rarely, comest thou,/Spirit of Delight!/Wherefore host thou left me now/Many a day and night? '"
As he helped her into her Fleet Cloak, Brim found his mind a poetic blank. "All I can think of right now are my own words," he stammered. "But I need to tell you that—that this evening has made some of the tough parts of my life suddenly well worth living through." For a few moments of absolute unreality, he stood so close he nearly touched her. And found his carefully nurtured professional attitude was rapidly evaporating with each passing cycle.
Then, from nowhere, Grimsby appeared again, this time with Brim's own Fleet Cloak. It broke the spell.
"M-Many thanks, Grimsby," the Carescrian stammered, looking perplexedly at the strange little man.
"Yes," Grimsby agreed with a warm smile. "She is lovely, isn't she, sir?" Then he saluted and scuttled off toward the pantry.
Margot looked at him and smiled sleepily. "I shouldn't begin to question him, were I you, Wilf," she giggled. "This old Universe has always contained its share of magic.—Grimsby's clearly a part of that."
"So are you, Margot," Brim whispered as he followed her into the companionway.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Nothing," Brim replied. "Just saying good night to Grimsby."
Outside, the wind had abated somewhat, but the cold nearly deprived Brim of his breath while they picked their way over the icy brow. In the snow-strewn mist at the breakwater, they stopped outside her little skimmer.
"I'm glad I scheduled you last, Wilf," she said—almost disconcertedly.
"You did that on purpose?" he asked.
Margot smiled. "My professional secret," she said. "But aside from missing all the important data I took from you, I might also have missed the pleasure of these last few metacycles with you, mightn't I?"
Brim looked down at his boots. "Yes," he admitted. "I would never have dared to even ask you to drink with me." He shook his head and shrugged. "So many other officers must want..."
She put a gloved finger to his lips. "The Universe doesn't have many Wilf Brims to offer," she said.
"Let me choose my friends. All right?"
"All right," Brim agreed with a smile. He opened the door to her skimmer in a shower of tiny snowflakes that tingled against his face and flashed in the dim light of Truculent's battle lanterns.
She slid into the seat, then looked him in the eye once more. "We don't have many people here who recite poetry, either, so don't be a stranger, Wilf." She tilted her head slightly. "Soon," she added, then shut the door.
"I promise," he said.
Moments later, the little machine trembled into life and shook itself of snow. Then it rose and skimmed off over the drifts, lights beaming through the tendrils of fog. Brim stared silently at the point where it disappeared a long time before he trudged thoughtfully back to the starship. A bloody real princess—and he didn't even care.
A fitful night ensued as Brim tossed endlessly in his narrow bunk while his timepiece metered away the early morning watch. When occasionally he could trick himself into something resembling sleep, he was beset by further dream sequences with Margot—whose beauty remained frustratingly untouchable (for one reason or another), but who was at least now unencumbered by Baron Rogan LaKarn. When more commonly he couldn't sleep at all, he lay staring at the dark ceiling attempting to convince himself his impossible relationship with this beautiful young noblewoman was nothing more than a friendship growing naturally out of some shared professionalism.
"Shared professionalism." The term pleased him—a good foundation for a friendship, even with a royal princess so far above his station she ought rightly to be completely out of sight. It explained everything.
Made it all right.
Eventually, he did succumb to a deeper sleep, but it lasted only in to the first portion of the morning watch: two metacycles at most—then chimes woke him, directing his attention to his. message frame, which announced a wardroom meeting for officers in twenty cycles. Sleepily, he pulled on his uniform.
"Shared professionalism," he thought while he polished his boots. Well, if that's what it was, then it was clearly his turn to get them together. Muzzily, he combed the knots from his thick black hair. What did one do with royalty? He shook his head and chuckled. This time, he'd have to improvise as he went because the average Carescrian simply wasn't outfitted with that kind of knowledge, at least as standard equipment. Then he smiled.
Yet...
"I shall detain you only a few moments," a smiling Collingswood called out from the head of the table.
"I know everyone is as anxious to be about their business..." the merest blush of color rose high in her cheeks, "as am I."
A joshing kind of rustle swept the table, punctuated by, "Hear, Hear!" and, "Good on you, Captain!"
Brim looked down the table while the small stir settled. Nik sat to his right, outfitted in his usual finery, the heel of one expensive-looking boot hooked to the front of his chair, hands folded across a sturdy Bear ankle. At the opposite end of the table from Collingswood, Amherst sat imperiously looking neither right nor left, and to his left Gallsworthy already swayed drunkenly in his seat. Next to him, and closest to the door, a tired-looking Sophia Pym slouched in loose-jointed comfort, her red-rimmed eyes dreamily focused somewhere a long way from Truculent.
"We have a whole lot of repairs to put to rights this trip," Collingswood was saying, "as all of you know so well." More laughs and comments punctuated that. "Well, they're going to make it worthwhile for us, too. This time, people, I have been notified we shall be in port for one full month—starting today. And we shall be processing applications for leave directly following this meeting."
At this, the wardroom fairly erupted in cheers and applause. Nik pounded his fists on the table, great diamonds flashing in his fangs. Fourier and Pym slapped each other on the back, and Borodov nudged Flynn in the side with a wicked look on his furry face. Only Gallsworthy seemed not to notice—a momentary cloud of sadness passed over his face. Then it was gone, replaced by the impenetrable mask of drunken indifference.