John O'Flaughty was about as removed from Montgomery Scott as helium was from hawkinium. A lady's man with a joke for every occasion, John had never been heard to raise his voice in anger. Older than Monty by three years, he had a string of would-be lovers as long as the registrar's list at the University of Aberdeen. He also had a fiancée back home, whom he called every night and saw every other weekend.
The only thing they had in common was a gift for creative engineering and an apartment rental in Aberdeen.
The project of the moment was a more economical design of a trimodal personal transport. If the impulse vents could be redesigned to be water tight with a pleomorphic seaborgium valve--instead of the current convoluted system--it would cut production costs by a third, not to mention maintenance and repair.
They thought they had it--or nearly did. They had found an isolated patch of coast north of Aberdeen and now stood on the rocky shore to test their scale model. John manned the tele-troller and brought the robot ship down from space flight into atmospheric propulsion mode. Monty--as everyone had called him back then--scanned the sky. Today was a pleasant change from the usual Highland gray. The sun was playing hide and seek and losing a great deal of the time. The clouds had scattered respectable distances apart and Monty hoped to see their model fly.
It dropped out of a cloud about five kilometers away and cruised down toward the ocean on an even vector. The splash was visible from the shore.
"Six point oh from the Russian judge," joked Monty.
"You want to drive?" grumbled John. "I didn't realize style counts."
"Style always counts," said Monty. "That's the art of engineering. How's the telemetry?"
"Hydropulsion at ninety percent. Internal humidity ranging from twenty to twenty-four and holding."
"Good. Drop down to the bottom."
"Eighty four meters. That's as deep as she gets," announced John. "We need to test it off the continental shelf next time. "
"Assuming we get through this time. Humidity?"
"Holding."
"Wait until the impulse temperature drops to ambient, then bring it in," said Monty.
"Still at seventeen hundred degrees. No reason I can't have a little fun with it 'til then. Have you ever seen a submarine ballet?" John torqued the tele-troller control. "Look it's Swan Lake!"
The tele-troller beeped. "Bugger all! Port valve failure!"
"Surface and bring it in before the conversion chamber floods!"
"Ihm tryin'!" John's brogue thickened as he furiously tried control after control. "It's shorted the guidance."
"I told ya nae to run the transfer cable through the mix chamber."
"Shut up! I've almost--"
John looked up in alarm. "DUCK!"
They both dropped to the rocks as the transport model went shooting over their heads, up over the cliff behind them. They heard a woman scream, then a crash.
They blinked at each other, then went running.
Monty headed for the direction of the crash up the hillock; John headed in the direction of the scream. It had seemed to come from an irregular outcropping in the rock. When Monty came back with the model in his hands, he found the little hideaway. Inside was John staring at a woman, naked save for a miniskirt and long, silver hair draped about her breasts. A few strands of black were peppered through her hair, and one shocking streak of coal black ran down its length.
"Well, what are you looking at?" she demanded in a vigorous Highland brogue. "Haven't you ever seen a naked woman--or perhaps not one you just tried to kill."
"You must know that you are very striking," said Monty, trying not to stare.
"Striking, my Aunt Fannie! Thanks to you, I was all but struck down!"
"We're sorry, ma'am," stammered Monty. "You've heard of the one that got away? This is it." He held the model out for her surveillance, but the joke fell flat.
"Ye need to take better care of your toys around others," she said, pulling a pink tank top on over her head.
"It's not a toy; it's a trimodal transport model," said Monty.
She stared at him like he was a moron. She had a way of making him believe that she was correct. "At least your friend has some manners," she said. John was working on picking up her belongings. It looked like an ultra-portable easel. It was. The seascape painting on it had been smudged beyond repair by the fall to the wet rock.
"Ruined," she pronounced. "A full day's work."
"Accidents do happen you know." John's tone was a mite defensive, Monty thought.
"Aye. More around some than around others." She eyed them significantly.
"Allow, me to introduce myself. John O'Flaughty, at your service." John's voice had shifted to his most winning. He gave a deep bow and whipped an imaginary tam off of his head with a sweep of an arm.
"Thank you for your help, John," she said with a grudging grin.
"And this is my flatmate, Montgomery Scott," John said, gesturing in his direction.
"My friends call me Monty." He extended his free hand.
"Hello, Montgomery," she nodded, pointedly not taking the hand. "I'm Lesa. I don't think we need to be on a last name basis."
Monty didn't think that this was quite fair. John had been the one at the controls, but some how he was now the bad guy left holding the bag--or the experimental model trimodal personal transport, as the case may be. He set the unit down.
He tried one last time. "Look, I don't know what else to do. I've just met the most stunning woman I have ever seen in my life. I am sorry that it was under less than ideal circumstances, but that's over with, and I want to get to know her better. Can ya nae give me some advice as to how?"
She looked him over much more purposefully than before. "If the woman's had a long day, ya might try feeding her. You've heard it's the way to a man's heart, but I've news for you: women eat too."
Monty squelched a smile. It was far too early to be counting his eggs; there was nary a hatchling in sight. "I know a place near here. Do you like seafood?"
"Only if it's fresh."
Monty gestured out the North Sea. "Look where we are. None fresher."
She shouldered her bag. "We'll see about that. You're buying?"
"Of course; we invited you," said Monty.,
She shouldered her rucksack. "Lead on, Macduff."
Lesa accepted the arm that John offered. Monty didn't think this was quite fair. After all, this had been his idea.
Dinner was a crock of steamed langoustines shared among them. Lesa spoke of life in the Orkney's. John waxed charming and hung on her every word. Monty wished he could think of something not related to physics or matter/anti matter mechanics he could discuss. Mostly he watched and tried not to drip food on his shirt.
To make matters worse, he'd left his credit ID back in the flitter. John paid for all three of them.
"I'm staying here, for a while." Lesa answered a question from John as they walked back to the flitter pads.
"How long?" asked Monty, trying and failing at not sounding over-anxious.
"At least until I finish my series of paintings, which--thanks to you two--will be a mite longer than I had planned." She aimed the words deliberately the both of them.
"Good! We'll crash into you everyday, if that's what it takes to keep you here," said Monty. The glare she gave him told him that it had been the wrong thing to say.
Monty decided to try the direct approach. It couldn't get much worse. "I'hd like to see you again."
"I paint here most days when the weather is warm and fair." Her tone was neutral, promising nothing more than her presence.
To Monty, that was a damn fine start. "This is the Highlands. It could be next year before that happens."
"Aye. It could…that soon if we're lucky." She laughed with him. Year-round freezing drizzle keeps out the riff-raff, or so went the local expression. It was a love only true Scots understood.
Her face relented. "If we plan on next Saturday, could your friend come?" She looked to John.
"I was...sort of hoping to being alone," said Monty.
"You can be alone all you like," she quipped back.
"I meant, alone with you."
She said nothing.
John cleared his throat. "There is nothing I would like better to do that day than to share your company."
"Five, then. Don't be late."
"Five it is." John motioned her into the flitter. "Ladies first."
"No," she said. "I'll walk. Where I am staying isn't far, and I don't get enough chances to stretch my legs."
"In that case, we will regretfully bid you a good night." John took her hand and kissed it.
Monty wished he had thought of that.
It didn't matter. She gave them both a quick peck on the cheek before turning back to the road and Monty was in heaven.