Their own instructor sighed, and shook his head dolefully at the armbands. "No."
"No?" queried the chief instructor. Miles was not sure if it was with amazement or disappointment.
"No."
"This I've got to see." The two instructors ducked into the shuttle, leaving Miles and Kostolitz alone a moment.
Kostolitz cleared his throat. "That, ah—blade of yours came in pretty handy after all."
"Yes, there are times when a plasma arc beam isn't nearly as suitable for cutting," Miles agreed. "Like when you're in a chamber full of inflammable gas."
"Oh, hell," Kostolitz seemed suddenly struck. "That stuff will go off, mixed with oxygen. I almost .. ." He cut himself off, cleared his throat again. "You don't miss much, do you?" A sudden suspicion filled his face. "Did you know about this set up in advance?"
"Not exactly. But I figured something must be up when I counted the three breath masks in the instructor's pocket."
"You—" Kostolitz paused, turned. "Did you really lose track of your light-pen?"
"No."
"Hell," Kostolitz muttered again. He scuffed around the corridor a moment, hunched, red, dismally recalcitrant.
Now, thought Miles. "I know a place you can buy good blades, in Vorbarr Sultana," he said with nicely calculated diffidence. "Better than standard issue stuff. You can get a real bargain there sometimes, if you know what to look for."
Kostolitz stopped. "Oh, yeah?" He began to straighten, as though being relieved of a weight. "You, ah—I don't suppose …"
"It's kind of a hole-in-the-wall. I could take you there sometime, during leave, if you're interested."
"Really? You'd—you'd—yes, I'd be interested." Kostolitz feigned a casual air. "Sure." He looked suddenly much more cheerful.
Miles smiled.