CHAPTER TWO

Al sat back and scratched his neck, staring vacantly at the duty roster he had spent the whole morning drawing up. It was one of the more tedious duties he had as Project Administrator. Though the head of each department handled their own staff rotations, it fell to Al to ensure that the requisite number of top-clearance personnel were on duty at all times. As Senior Residing Officer, too, he had final approval of all scheduling of Naval staff, which due to the integrated nature of the Project meant signing off on every roster anyway.

Oh, well. It was worth the drudgery that comprised at least seventy percent of his duties, because the other thirty percent was absolutely exhilarating. He closed his eyes with a pleasured sign, anticipating this afternoon's session in with article accelerator.

Physics had never been Al's area of expertise, but it was amazing how quickly you could absorb it in an immersion environment. The more time he spent with Eleese and Demeter and Thorgard, the more of their jargon and high-speed banter he understood. Science was a language, and each discipline a dialect. All one needed was a little practice and one became proficient very quickly.

No one else seemed to see it that way, but then Al had always had his own unique outlook on life. He hadn't realized before just how unusual his approach was, but now that he was freed of the rigid military atmosphere of a Naval base he was beginning to find his thought processes changing—reverting, as it were, into a more natural pattern. He had much more liberty here, to express himself as he saw fit and to run things the way he wanted to. That must be what people meant when they talked about the perks that came with power.

Mind you, people were also wont to comment that it was lonely at the top, and that certainly didn't seem to be true. Since coming out here Al had caught more action than he had during his second stint at M.I.T.—when he'd been fresh off of Apollo, decked out in tight pants, floral shirts and a manbag, and the hottest thing the Boston disco scene had ever seen. After the six-month trial period of responsible suburban living that had been his courtship of and marriage to Ruthie Zelnik of Jersey, he had been ready to cut loose and have a little fun. He had certainly not wanted for companionship. The ex-astronaut line was still good as gold. Best thing he'd ever done for his social life? Going to the moon.

He'd taken that art class more in the hopes of meeting a different variety of lady than to improve his skills with a brush. As it turned out, he had achieved both ends. Forget the giggling oil heiresses and the liberated, freethinking leftists: Sharon Quinn, the instructor, had proved the catch of the school! Maybe not the most quick-witted lady, but enthusiastic, open-minded, and absolutely stunning. She had a body that made a man want to take up realism as a genre, and a libido that… well, that had made for one heck of a honeymoon!

Al chuckled a little at the memory of last night. No port like the home port was right! It was a shame he hadn't been able to wrangle more time off to a couple of days at home with his new bride, but there just wasn't time for that kind of thing. He'd been in this position just over a month, since his predecessor and former wingman, Admiral MacArthur, had been reassigned to the Middle East. In that time, he had scarcely managed to get a feel for the job, much less devise a system to keep up with the workload. As it was he was keeping his head above water, but it took a lot of effort and even more help from the thankfully superhuman secretarial staff. The week away had set him back more than he could really afford.

There was a knock at the door to his office, and before he could give his leave it opened. Doctor Wesley Demeter, one of the scientists who had given genesis to the project, breezed in.

"Good morning," Al said pleasantly. It didn't pay to make comments about the wonders of allowing oneself to be announced. His experiences over the last months had taught him that geniuses had to be treated with kid gloves, particularly the influential and indispensable ones.

"There were some specific concerns that arose in your absence that I feel should be dealt with immediately," Demeter said briskly. He was well into his fifties, the leading particle physicist in the public sector, and he did not believe in beating about the bush. In fact, if the Project ever had a bush-beating competition Wesley Demeter would come in dead last.

Al smiled. "Certainly, Doctor," he said, the tiniest hint of his naughty, scornful thoughts creeping into his voice in the form of an unctuous undertone. "I am utterly at your disposal."

Because, really, he had absolutely nothing better to do with his time than listen to the bellyaching of a chronic complainer.

"Excellent," Demeter said, taking the chair at the front of Al's desk and resting on hand on each knee. "To begin, the new technician."

Al frowned. New technician? "Refresh my memory, Doctor," he said. "Which one?"

"The new one," intoned the scientist, his voice thick with impatience. "Bushman."

"Bushm—oh! Gushman!" Al said, the light coming on. "Doctor Gushman!" Demeter grunted in what Al chose to interpret as agreement. "He's not a technician, Doctor. He's our new computer expert."

"He wears coveralls and carries a toolkit. He's a technician," said Demeter. "And I'm afraid he isn't integrating well into the team."

"He's only been with us three weeks," Al reasoned. "You need to give him a little time to settle into the routine and get a feeling for his role." He wracked his brain, trying to dredge up memories of Gushman's introductory interview. All he was getting was the faintest impressions. A little guy with bad breath. Nervous. Didn't like to look you in the eye. Handshake like a fistful of cold putty. But a list of credentials that would've turned his second wife green with envy.

"I think I'm more aware of what is needed in my department than you are, Calavicci," Demeter said coolly. "I have, after all, been with the Project since its inception."

The implication was unlike you, but Al chose to ignore that. He allowed his smile to broaden. "That is precisely why I rely on you to help the new staff settle in," Al said. "Now, I saw the memo you left about the lighting issues on Sub-level Three. Do you think that the upgrades you've recommended can be carried out by our maintenance crews, or should I get in touch with one of the government contractors?"

Demeter paused, momentarily stymied by the change of gears. However, there is something very flattering about discovering that your concerns are being heard, and it didn't take the physicist long to relax a little.

"We can discuss it with Maintenance, of course," he said; "but I do think we would be better to bring a contractor in to take care of it. It will save time and effort in the long run, and anyhow having outsiders on Level Three won't disrupt Project operations too drastically."

"That's true," Al allowed. Sub-Level Three was primarily Filing, Bookkeeping and Security, though Demeter and the other top scientists had their seldom-used offices up there too. "That was the biggest worry with bringing someone in."

"Now," Demeter said, Gushman forgotten; "with regards to this afternoon's propulsion tests…"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

It turned into a much longer day than Al had originally expected. The interruption had wound up devouring most of the morning, and that time had to be made up after the session on Sub-Level Five. Al had been interrupted no less than fifteen times in the late afternoon, by everyone from his own secretary—a beautiful and very capable lady name Eulalie—to Commander Smythe, the head of Project Security, a cold Marine with a chip on his shoulder that dated back to the Korean War. Al wasn't especially fond of his counterpart. In fact, if he'd been asked to lay money on one person at Starbright who hated his Italian guts, it would have been Smythe.

At last, at nine o'clock, he ascended to the surface and made his way to the Administration lot, where the 'Vette was parked. He signed out at the gate, and then maneuvered his car back into the outside world.

He hit the open desert in a burst of sheer horsepower, the dark landscape hissing by as the wind roused his hair out of its tame conformation. It was a long drive into Wickenburg, made longer by the requisite indirectness of the route. There were times when Al wondered if he wouldn't be able to make better time on horseback, just because the horse could take it in a straight line.

Finally he reached the entry to the trailer park, slowing the Corvette to a crawl so as not to wake the hard-working people for whom night was the only peaceful time in a hostile and hectic world. He stopped by the Penja trailer, pulling up to the curb and looking at the flicker of candlelight behind the curtains. He worried sometimes about Celestina, all alone with her little boy. It felt good to check on them, however briefly and unobtrusively. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he taxied down towards his own residence.

He made short work of covering the car, and started towards the house with a spring in his step that belied the weariness. He was expecting two very warm welcomes: one from his dog and one from his wife.

Chester was waiting at the door, tail whipping back and forth and body coiled to spring onto his hind legs. Al greeted him eagerly, bending so that Chester could hop into his lap. Not content to curl up, the dog put his forepaws on Al's chest and tried to reach high enough to lick his face. He was too short to manage it, but Al quickly lifted him onto his shoulder, where he might go about communicating his delight that the master had returned to the castle.

The welcome from Sharon was not as forthcoming. She wasn't in the kitchen, and she wasn't in the living room. Setting the dog down, Al moved towards the bedroom, hoping for a repeat of yesterday's game. He stopped dead on the threshold.

The mattress and box spring had been removed from the bed and were now leaning against the wall, occupying most of the scant floor-space. On her hands and knees inside the perimeter of the bed frame was Sharon. She was wearing a pair of snug blue jeans, a ruffled blouse without sleeves, and a bubblegum-pink headscarf. In her hand was a screwdriver, with which she was detaching the footboard from the side railings.

Al stared, momentarily dumbfounded. Finally he found his voice, after a fashion. "What the… what are you doing, darling?" he stammered hoarsely.

"Moving this monster," Sharon said, in her bold, loud voice. "Get out of that uniform and give me a hand."

"I was looking forward to getting out of the uniform," Al admitted with a suggestive chuckle; "but there was something else I was kinda hoping to do with the bed tonight."

"Well, too bad," Sharon said. "We're moving it to the other room."

"The other room? What other room?"

"The other bedroom, of course!" Sharon exclaimed. "I want this room for a studio, and with this thing in here there isn't room to move, much less create!"

"There's no space in the other bedroom," Al pointed out.

"Yes there is," Sharon said brusquely, tucking a screw into the pocket of her blouse. "I got rid of the costumes."

"You what?"

"I moved those discount racks full of old clothes into the yard," Sharon said. "You can take them to the Salvation Army tomorrow." The rail came loose and dropped onto the ancient carpet with a soft thump.

Al started to laugh. "Oh, no," he said. "No, no. We're not getting rid of my clothing."

"I don't see why not," Sharon said, still working on the bed. "You're in uniform five days a week. There's no reason for you to own all of that junk. It's not like it's even stylish."

"It doesn't have to be stylish!" Al exclaimed. "It's me!"

"You? Didn't realized I'd married a circus performer!"

"You said you like the way I dress!"

Sharon looked up in indignation. "I never said any such thing!"

"Yes, you did! First or second class. Said it was very…" Al groped for the word. She wasn't the quickest on the retorts, but she had a file full of catch phrases pertaining to art. "Very Impressionistic."

"Well, I was flirting with you!" Sharon blustered. "And I don't want that stuff cluttering up the house!"

"It's staying," Al said in the voice that meant he wasn't going to brook any further argument. "If you want some space for a studio we can work something out, but not tonight!"

"No time like the present!" she bit back.

"It's eleven o'clock at night!" Al exclaimed, stepping over the fallen footboard and seizing the screwdriver. "I'll put the bed together: you go out and bring my stuff back inside!"

Sharon sprung to her feet. "Don't you order me around!" she shouted, wrenching the tool out of his hand.

"If you ask me you need some orders!" Al snapped. " 'Cause it looks like when you're left to your own devices you turn into some kind of a destructive whirlwind!" He grabbed the screwdriver again.

"I said don't touch me!" Sharon shrieked, trying to snatch it back.

Al placed his right hand in the center of her chest, pushing her away as he held the screwdriver out and behind him, away from her grasping hands. She struggled to reach. They wrestled for a moment, and then Al threw the tool into the far corner, where it bounced off the wall. Sharon's fingers struck an old sore spot in his shoulder and he tensed with pain, seizing both her arms and pulling her up onto her toes.

Startled, her eyes flitted to his. They were the deep, rich green of Virginia creeper, and utterly captivating. Al tightened his grip and pulled her forcefully towards him, pressing his lips against hers. A moment later, they were entwined in a fierce, feral embrace, groping at one another's clothing.

"Bet you're sorry you took the bed apart," Al gasped as they surfaced for air.

After a little more passionate face-sucking, Sharon choked out, "Hard surface… better for your back… anyway…"

There was a sharp bark of protest, and out of the corner of his eye Al could see Chester in the doorway, his perky face cocked to one side as if in puzzlement. Fumbling with the top button of Sharon's jeans, Al rolled his eyes at the dog. Chester didn't get the message. He barked again, louder this time. He took two dainty steps forward, but the footboard was effectively blocking his passage. He yelped in protest, his tail wagging madly.

Al had Sharon's pants open now, and tried to push them down over her hips. Being fashionable, however, they were too tight to move easily. Sharon was occupied with his shirt-buttons, and didn't seem to notice the tugging on her lower body. After giving it his all to no avail, Al pulled his mouth free of hers.

"Little help?" he exhaled.

Sharon laughed and obligingly removed the snug sheath of denim-clad chastity. She was wearing panties with varicolored polka dots. Al curled one hand around each curvaceous hip to caress a rainbow-spotted buttock, and drew Sharon back into the kiss.

Chester barked once more. It became plain that he was no longer being heard, so he turned up his blackcurrant nose in fastidious resignation. Then he trotted off to the living room, where he could nap quite comfortably in the armchair while his master and mistress went about their nocturnal antics.