CHAPTER SEVEN

Al hated to admit it, but he wasn't really listening. Doctor Demeter was giving his weekly report—usually a fascinating highlight of Wednesday afternoons. Today, though, Al's mind really wasn't on his work.

He was thinking—no, fantasizing—about Sharon. Last night… well, last night had been great. He licked his lips a little at the memory. What a woman, what a woman!

It had been days now since their mutual eruption, and although some part of Al's mind knew that the fight had marked a change in their relationship it certainly hadn't prevented them from getting it back on the next day. And the day after. And the day after that, too.

Al rubbed his hand over his chin, his eyelids fluttering as he tried yet again to make sense of what Demeter was saying. It was a pointless endeavor. All he could think of was Sharon and the fun that he was going to have when he got home…

Doctor Eleese posed some question that Demeter answered brusquely. The two department heads were not especially fond of each other. Eleese found Demeter to be pedantic and closed-minded. Demeter resented Eleese's higher status within the project hierarchy. The reality that her work had more direct importance to the primary goal of the Project than his did irked the older scientist. Al had insight into both their characters that others lacked, since both of them used him as a sounding board for every little problem and frustrations.

AL looked down a the pen hovering over his steno tablet. There wasn't really any need for him to take notes: all meetings were audiotaped for the archives, and Eulalie was present to transcribe the most important points. He liked to have paper on hand, though, because sometimes an urgent thought would flicker into being, to be lost forever unless you caught it on paper.

Al didn't think his memory had always been so unreliable. As he recalled, there had once been a young Bingo Calavicci who had pursued his degree in chemistry, learned all there was to know about every combat plane that the Navy would let him near, and still never forgotten a woman's name. When he tried to figure out when this forgetfulness had begun, he ran into darkness. It seemed everything was clear as day before '67. Of his years of internment he remembered everything in graphic, painful detail, when not actively beating back the misery and the terror. . It was after repatriation: the stress of his NASA days, his second wive—what's-her-name, the Hungarian. That was when he thought it had started. Must've been one hell of a bad marriage.

Al wondered why he was having such trouble focusing now. Aside, of course, from the fact that he'd much rather be at home right this instant, playing dress-up with Sharon…

She looked fantastic in her itty-bitty little baby-doll nighties. Not many women her age could pull off clothes like that (of course, the real fun wasn't her pulling them off, but him…). The way her generous bosom supported the diaphanous folds of the soft pink fabric…

Abruptly, Al realized that the room had gone absolutely silent. He looked around nervously, but no one was looking at him. All eyes were fixed on Doctor Eleese, whose turn it evidently was to speak. She was standing with her weight on one him, the other foot thrust forward forcefully. Her arms were crossed over her chest, its curves made almost androgynous by the lapels of her clinical white coat. Her lips were thin with disapproval, and she was staring resolutely at the ceiling tiles.

"Well, Doctor?" Demeter pressed. "Are you going to share your report, or are we all going to sit here and gather moss?"

Doctor Eleese turned her patented look of exasperation upon him.

"I'm not giving any report until Captain Calavicci is prepared to condescend to listen to it," she said coldly, favoring Al with a thin-lipped glare. "If what I have to say isn't worthy of the attention of the Project Administrator, I don't see why the rest of you should have to be subjected to it."

So saying she gathered up her papers and the ubiquitous stainless steal clipboard, and swept out of the room with her lab coat billowing behind her.

There was a pause, during which Al wondered frantically just what had tipped her off to the fact that he wasn't listening. After a moment Doctor Demeter got to his feet and left the room, followed by his assistant.

Doctor Thorgard cleared his throat. "She has a point, Captain," he said mildly.

Adrian Thorgard was a chemist of international renown, and he had been on the government payroll for fifty years. He was one of those people life never seemed to phase. Even now, stroking his white beard and looking around the half-empty table, he did not seem angry, only factual.

"We put in the effort of preparing the reports. You could do us the courtesy of listening to them."

Al blinked mutely. Coming from a man he liked and respected, these unobtrusive words shamed him far ore than Eleese's prideful posturing and Demeter's frigid silence.

Then Thorgard smiled. "Of course," he added with a twinkle in his gray eyes; "if I had a lovely young wife like yours, I'd be easily distracted too."

Al smiled. At least one member of the brain trust wasn't going to hold this slip-up against him. Thorgard got to his feet and departed. One by one the others followed, until Al was left alone, sitting at the head of the table with his blank steno pad in front of him. Suddenly he felt very tired. He supposed he must be getting old.

He fought that thought back with a bullwhip, one of those long, snakelike horrors with a shard of broken glass knotted into the tip. The kind that stripped away the skin and cut you to the dermis. The sort of whip that could kill a man in less than an hour. You were only as old as you felt, and for crying out loud, he had a girl at home who wore baby-doll nighties! He was sixteen, seventeen, tops.

The thought of Sharon and the sleepwear she almost never actually slept in brought a longing smile to his lips. He wondered if there was any way he could cut out early and head home.

Abruptly, Al realized that he wasn't actually alone. One of the scientists had lingered, lurking nervously at the boardroom door. It was the small, curly-haired computer programmer.

"Doctor Gushman," Al said flatly. "What can I do for you?"

"C-capt… C-c-c-c-c-cap—" Gushman stuttered.

"Captain Calavicci," Al finished wryly. "That's my name. Don't wear it out."

Gushman blushed a brilliant scarlet, and Al regretted his cavalier tone. He indicated the chair at his left hand. "Have a seat," he said amicably.

Nervously, the scientist obeyed. He fidgeted, not quite able to meet Al's eyes.

"You have a concern you'd like to voice?" Al asked.

"I—I—I—y-yes," Gushman stammered. Al wondered if it was just nerves after all, or a speech impediment.

"Well, that's what I'm here for," he encouraged. "Any time, any problem. No job is too small for the Project Administrator. Think of me as the Lone Ranger—without the mask, the horse, the gun, and the faithful companion."

Gushman laughed a little, still not meeting Al's eyes. "I wa-wanted to…" He swallowed hard. "I want to res-res-resign," he said.

"Resign?" Al echoed. "But you were so anxious to come on the project. You've only been here a little over a month. Is it that bad?"

Gushman's throat palpitated as he bobbed his head. "I don't f-fit in," he forced out. "I want t-to resign."

Al got to his feet and gave the other man a bracing pat on the shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let's go grab some coffee and talk about it."

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Topside they kept more regular hours than the throngs of researchers below the surface, and the restaurant was very quiet at three in the afternoon. Al and Gushman sat in an isolated booth, nursing indifferent cups of coffee and having a good old man-to-man chat. At least, that was the charitable way of looking at it. A more accurate picture was that of a dentist of words, painfully extracting every phrase from an unwilling patient.

In the end, though, Al managed to get most of the picture. Essentially, Gushman didn't feel like he belonged. The other scientists, his peers, seemed to look down upon him. This was no surprise to Al, who had noticed before today their penchant for calling him "the technician". This rejection made Gushman perpetually nervous, and so his stutter grew more pronounced. Because of his difficulties communicating, his staff was starting to lose respect for him too, and he had caught them mimicking him and circumventing his instructions. The archival staff were reluctant to give him access to their files, and even when he could get in they weren't helpful in finding the information he needed.

Through this halting litany of complaints Al thought he detected another problem altogether. Gushman was lonely. He had come from a tightly-knit community of a dozen grad students into this enormous and socially diverse Project, and he was finding it difficult to reach out to the total strangers with which he was surrounded. As a result, he was bitterly unhappy, spending his days battling with the unending problems of his work, and his evenings alone, holed up in his tiny quarters. This was why he was having so many issues getting along with the Project staff: he was a fish out of water.

Almost literally, Al reflected unkindly, watching as Gushman gulped out another stinted sentence. He took a long drag on his coffee, wishing it was something stronger. A little bit of whiskey went a long way to speeding up a slow afternoon.

"I understand that," Al said; "but I don't think resignation is the answer."

Gushman stared into the depths of his coffee. "Then what is?" he whispered. It was the first sentence he had got through without stammering.

"I don't know," Al admitted. "But we can work something out. You need to give Starbright time, just the same as everyone else needs to give you time. You've got a lot to offer us. You're one of the top programmers in the country, probably in the world. Give it a chance. We need you here."

Gushman looked up, his eyes so full of mingled emotions that Al felt suddenly very uncomfortable. "Really?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a fishhook in my eye," Al said, raising his right hand as if taking the Oath in court.

Gushman laughed a little, still nervous but no longer paralyzed with fright. "I-I-I'll try," he said, then nodded and repeated more firmly; "I'll try."

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Heading for the liquor cabinet for a quick whiskey was a habit Al had developed at Lakehurst. It was an excellent way to wind down after a long and frustrating day training the arrogant and often foolish new pilots. Since hooking up with Sharon Al had had better means of unwinding, and the old ritual had fallen by the wayside. Today, however, he really needed a good stiff drink, so he made a beeline for the cupboard in which he kept his booze.

He had just poured himself a tumbler of the Olympian nectar when Sharon's voice filtered through from the studio. "Al? Is that you?"

Al took a hasty mouthful of the liquor. Ruthie had always hated it when he drank, and so he found himself instantly bristling into defensive mode. "Yeah, babe, it's me," he called.

"Oh, good," she said.

There was a silence, during which Al knocked back another couple of ounces and topped up. That way he could come out with the "just one" line and still imbibe a decent amount.

He stiffened as Sharon's footsteps came down the hallway. She came around the corner from the living room. She was wearing a miniskirt covered in brilliant patterns and a very low-cut blouse.

"Hey, sailor," she said, draping her arm around his shoulder and leaning her hip in against his. Al curled his free hand around her waist and she kissed him. "Mmm…" she sighed, her tongue flickering over his lips. "Had a little spot of something?" she asked.

Surprised, Al held up the glass of whiskey. She looked at in and grinned. "A fine idea!" she exclaimed in a thick Irish brogue. "Whiskey and romance!"

To Al's absolute astonishment, she took the glass and took a deep swig of it, closing her eyes in pleasure.

"You… you like whiskey?" he stammered.

"To be sure, to be sure," she said, still laying on the affected accent. "Would Paddy Quinn's only daughter not be likin' her hair o' the dog?"

Al laughed. "Just when I think I know who I married," he mused.

"Faith, but you married an Irishwoman!" Sharon said. "You wicked highway robber, coming into me fither's inn to steal his whiskey! I've a mind to scream for the Redcoats, for it's thinkin' I am that you've designs upon me virtue!"

She wanted to play! Al's grin broadened and he gave her a forceful kiss that she resisted delightfully. "You must join me for a drink, milady," he said.

"No, I shall not!" Sharon cried melodramatically.

"You must," Al said. "Or…"

Chester came into the room, weaving a little and blinking drowsily.

"Or I'll sic my mastiff on you!" Al finished, pointing at the dog.

Sharon whirled with a gasp, looking at Chester as he leaned forward on his forepaws, stretching his back with his tail high in the air. "Such a fearsome beast!" she cried, then turned back to Al and picked up the bottle. "Then indeed, sir, I must, for I fear nothing so much as a mastiff!"

They moved to the table, and Al poured more whiskey. He gave Sharon the glass and took the bottle for himself. "To us!" he said, saluting her with it.

"Faith, sir, but I hardly know ye!" Sharon demurred. She clinked the glass against the bottle and drained half of it.

Grinning enormously, Al took a long, satisfying swig from the bottle. He could feel the fire moving down into his stomach and beginning to erase the sour taste of the day. "You're quite a woman," he told Sharon.

"That's how they make 'em here a' the Emerald Isle," Sharon lilted.

Together they polished off that bottle and started on another. They sang together, laughed, continued their playacting. It seemed the highwayman was a lovable rogue, and the innkeeper's daughter not quite so virtuous as she made out. Eventually they found their way up to her humble room above the stables, followed by the bewildered barking of the mighty mastiff. Al stumbled a little on the threshold, more inebriated than he had been for a long time. Sharon caught him clumsily, laughing as her hand closed on his buttock. He kissed her sloppily, and she dragged him into a deeper osculation, one hand clutching each side of his head. This left his hands free to unzip the miniskirt and start to work on the blouse.

Chester yelped in protest, having been quite forgotten in the mounting and increasingly drunken passion. He ran forward, putting his paws on Al's leg and wagging his tail petulantly. His master was too fixated by his mistress's lingerie to notice, and his mistress was occupied with removing Master's uniform. As they spun around and his footholds were snatched from under him, Chester left the room. He went into the kitchen and lay down on the floor, his soft brown eyes fixed on the cabinet where his food was kept. In his haste to greet Mistress, Master had forgotten that Chester needed to be fed.