Shell Game: 4/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VI
Alan glanced casually toward the inner door as it slid aside and two men entered, then returned to his work. Beside him, Linley looked bored and totally unconcerned as he picked a dead leaf from the tasha foliage.
The newcomers appeared mildly surprised at their presence.
"Hello," one said. "What are you doing here?"
"M'job," Linley said, without enthusiasm. "Can we helpya?"
The second man glanced around. "Where's the strawberries -- an' what the hell are they, anyhow? Lady Jorexzill wants 'em fer lunch."
"Right here," Alan said, helpfully. "They're a Terran plant."
"Thanks, kid." The Shallockian stepped around him. "S'cuse me."
Alan moved politely aside. "Can I help you?"
"Naw, thanks." The man glanced at him curiously. "You new on board?"
Alan nodded. "First trip."
"Have I seen you before? You look familiar."
Alan had been ready for that one. Of all the faces of well-known persons, his and Mark's were among the most widely publicized, made more famous for the fabulous reward offered by the Jilectan Autonomy for their capture. "I'm one of Lord Dilexvor's servants. M'Lord hates the smell of Procyon grish berries and he was worried that some of them might be growing too close to his honeydew melon. I think he's just griping because Lord Brexvor was the one who insisted we bring the grish berries aboard."
The man snickered. "Well, la-de-dah," he simpered.
Mark grunted. "Jils are weird critters," he said.
"You said it." The second man dropped a double handful of strawberries into the container his companion held. "I heard the Mad Scientist tried to kill Brexvor again a couple of hours ago."
"Oh, I don't think it was as bad as that." Alan grinned, recalling the struggle. "I think his temper just got the better of him."
"It always does," the Shallockian said. "I think the guy's off his rocker. Think that's enough for Her Ladyship, Sam?"
"Yeah, I think so." Sam hoisted himself to his feet. "See you guys around."
"Right." Linley detached a tasha leaf and dropped it into the nearest disposal unit.
"You find any?" the Shallockian asked.
"Huh?"
"Grish berries."
"Oh. No, they're mostly over there." Alan gestured vaguely toward his left. "But I'm checking to be double sure." He grinned. "You know?"
"Yeah." The man returned his grin and followed his companion toward the door.
When the outer door had closed behind them, Linley straightened up from his work. He favored Alan with a disapproving look. "Wish you wouldn't get so damn friendly with the flunkies, kid. It's gonna getcha in trouble some day."
"Hasn't yet," Alan said, imperturbably. They had had this argument many times. "Besides, what's the best way to deal with an enemy?"
Linley raised a brow. "Shoot him?"
"Of course not. You make a friend out of him. And who's better equipped to do that than an empath?"
Linley gave up in defeat. "You win. But the Jils don't see it that way."
"I'm not a Jil. Terran psychics are a whole different breed. That's why the Jils are going to lose."
"I guess I can't argue with that." Mark stretched. "Y'know, we can't stay here too long."
"I know. I read those guys. There's a man who comes and checks hydroponics every shift. They thought you were him."
Linley cussed softly. "I don't suppose those guys could be done with the lifeboats yet? It's been six hours."
"Not likely, but we can go check."
"Yeah." Mark looked worried. "I been thinkin' ..."
"Dangerous pastime. What about?"
Linley ignored the witticism. "Suppose they don't finish with the lifeboats before the ship comes out of hyperspace in the system?"
Alan had been thinking about it, too. "Maybe our interceptors will take them before they can send a message?"
"Yeah, and maybe they won't. If the ship just vanishes, it might be considered an accident. Probably nobody'd come to investigate for weeks -- at least, not until well after they're supposed to be back. But if it vanishes after sendin' a message about a planet that ain't supposed to be there ..."
"There'll be a Patrol detachment sent to investigate," Alan finished. "And long before our people have time to evacuate. Either way, it won't do us much good if we're on board when they blow the ship to pieces."
"That's for sure. Let's go see, anyhow. Maybe they're done."
Alan raised an eyebrow but didn't comment as he started for the door.
There were even more people in the lifeboat hangars now. Alan sensed the increased number of minds as they approached and stopped, his shields snapping up. "Hold it, Mark. We can't go in there now. There's a Jil in there. I think it's the Lady."
Linley said a four-letter word. "We better make ourselves scarce."
"Too late. Here she comes." Alan backed against the bulkhead, dragging his partner with him. He kept his eyes focussed on the metal deck as the female Jilectan approached.
The scientist swept down the corridor toward them, her robes swishing about her feet. He sneaked a quick glance through his eyelashes at her, noting that she was much as Mark had described her.
She was as tall as most male Jilectans, her head topped with flaming copper hair. Her lips shone crimson in the artificial lighting and she wore a long, flowing gown of royal blue, bound at the waist with a belt of twisted gold. Eyes the same color as her gown raked over him, then Lady Jorexzill went on by, a female Procyon servant hurrying in her wake. The lift at the end of the corridor opened as she approached and mistress and servant entered. The panel slid shut behind them.
Mark let out his breath in a long "Whew!" He mopped his forehead. "What the hell was *she* doin' here, anyhow?"
"I'm not sure." Alan lowered his shields a fraction. The Lady's mind was still perceptible, but growing rapidly more distant. Unshielded Terran minds were evident in the hangar immediately adjacent to them, and with great care he extended a probe.
The head tech's mind was the easiest read. Alan found the reason uppermost in his thoughts. A defect had been discovered in one of the small crafts' life support system. From the location of the problem, one of the techs had suspected sabotage and had informed his supervisor who in turn had informed the Jilectans. Pilathzor, the one in charge, hadn't been alarmed, but Lady Jorexzill, being the type of Jil she was, thought a more thorough investigation was necessary. She'd come personally to the lifeboat deck to inspect the mechanism, herself. Satisfied, she had ordered a recheck of all the lifeboats, and departed. With a sinking feeling, he informed Linley of the problem. His partner swore, softly.
"That means a longer wait, don't it?"
"I'm afraid so," Alan admitted, unhappily.
Linley cussed again, committing Lady Jorexzill as well as the zealous tech to the nether regions. Alan shrugged.
"So, where should we hole up now, Mark?"
Linley shook his head. "I'm open to suggestions, kid. How about the cargo hold we came in?"
"Fine." Alan led the way back down the passageway. Maintenance techs and Jilectan servants went past, not glancing at them. They paused before the cargo hold and Alan extended a mental probe. "Darn!"
"What?"
"There's a bunch of people in there -- opening crates and checking stuff."
"Terrific."
"Any other ideas?"
Linley thought it over. "Crew's quarters? Maybe we can pretend to be off-duty crewmen."
"It's worth a try." Alan turned to the wall map, studying it. "Crew's quarters is on the deck above us."
The lift took them to the fifth deck. Crewmen passed them in the corridor, also apparently heading for the crew's quarters. This deck was very crowded. Linley swore audibly as a large man stepped on his toe. "Watch it, buddy!"
The man ignored him. They reached their destination at last, to find the cabin full of occupied bunks. As far as Alan could tell, every bunk was presently in use. Linley spoke softly under his breath. "We shoulda expected this."
"Why?"
"You know the Jils. They don't worry much about their flunkies' comfort. They got three guys for every bunk, an' they're expected to sleep in shifts of eight hours each. There's no way we're gonna hide around here."
Alan sighed. "What we need is a job -- something that nobody else would be doing ..."
He paused as an idea occurred to him. "Where's the galley?"
"Huh? It's on the next deck up. Why?"
"I think I've got a job for us." Alan grinned slightly. "Let's go."
The fourth deck was not so crowded. They located the galley without difficulty. Alan paused before the door and lowered his shields with caution, acutely aware, now, of the much closer Jilectan minds. With an infinitely delicate touch, he scanned the cabin beyond. If a Jilectan sensed him now, they would be in real trouble, for, although he could shield his mind undetectably to any telepathic probe, Mark Linley could not. His living power pack had only the most minimal of shielding; a prerequisite for the function he fulfilled. If Mark had possessed the control factor that most humans had, along with his ability to produce psychic energy, he would have been a psychic like Alan. Instead, although he produced the energy in abundance, he had no control over it at all, and thus was designated a psychic power pack, a carrier of the psychic gene whose power could be tapped and used only by his functioning psychic partner. If a Jilectan sensed a Terran psychic aboard, sooner or later he would discover Mark, and their cover would be blown.
There were people in there, of course: kitchen workers. The cook -- Alan identified his mind immediately -- was in a state of upheaval. He had been assigned to cook for four Jilectans, all with widely varied tastes, and was very unsure of his ability to please all of the aliens. Alan had counted on that, and he gave his partner a thumbs-up sign. "Okay, follow me."
Linley's face was a large question mark. "Whatcha gonna do?"
"I'm going to get us a job. Let me do the talking and agree with everything I say. All right?"
"Sure." Linley shrugged. "You're the boss."
Alan pushed open the door to the galley, raising his chin in as arrogant an attitude as possible. Surveying the galley in one sweep, he strode toward the man he had already singled out as the cook.
The man was tall, almost as tall as Mark, and clad in a deep pink uniform, of all things, over which he had tied a white apron. He glanced impatiently at Alan. "What do you want?"
"You're Leiberman? The cook?"
"Yes." The man's brows rose questioningly.
"I am Steven Graves, servant of Lord Pilathzor. He has sent me to take charge of the preparation of their Lordships' meals."
Antagonism and hurt pride radiated from the other man. "Now wait a minute, mister! I was hired for this job by M'lord Pilathzor's number one man! If you think I'm ..."
Alan interrupted him. "Regardless of Anderson's choice, Lord Pilathzor sent me, himself. Of course, if you wish to contest my appointment, you are free to do so."
The cook opened his mouth again, but Mark overrode him. "Speakin' confidentially, I wouldn't make no fuss about it if I was you, pal. His Lordship weren't too happy when we left him."
Alan had a careful finger in the man's mind, and instantly reinforced his partner's suggestion. "The sauteed trimes you sent for his midmorning refreshment didn't set well with him. M'lord has a very delicate digestion, and is easily upset if his food isn't prepared with just the right touch. His last cook died rather suddenly, I heard." He glanced indifferently at the pale faces of the cook's helpers and added casually, "He exiled the man's assistants to the Borantium cinnabar mines. I think it had something to do with a poorly prepared marshhopper."
The cook's face was almost as white as his apron. One of the other kitchen workers tugged at his sleeve. "Let him have it, Franz. It ain't worth gettin' killed over. Just fix the crew's meal an' let the kid take the rap if His Lordship don't like the grub."
Franz hesitated a long moment, then stepped back from the food he had been preparing. "All right, Mr. Graves. It's all yours."
"Thank you," Alan said, courteously. He removed an apron from a hook by the door as Franz and his helpers moved gratefully away.
Linley found himself an apron, shaking with silent laughter. Alan bent over the food that Leiberman had been preparing, finding few corrections that needed to be made. Linley raised an eyebrow at him, still grinning. "You know how to cook a Jil's meal, buddy?"
"Of course," Alan said, placidly. Linley snickered, glancing over his shoulder to assure himself that the other men were out of earshot.
"O' course you do. I couldn't believe it the first time you fixed macaroni an' cheese. Tasted like a gourmet dinner."
Alan grinned at the compliment. Linley didn't hand them out freely. "Before my parents died, one of my hobbies was gourmet cooking."
"Figures." The former Strike Commander shook his head.
Alan's grin widened. "Well, let's just say I don't think M'lords will be disappointed with their dinner. Come on, Mark. You're my assistant."
Linley raised an eyebrow. "I can fix a sandwich in a pinch," he remarked, "but other than that, I don't know a whole lot about cookin'."
"Just do what I tell you, and if you have any questions, please ask. Don't try to figure it out for yourself."
"Wouldn't think of it."
Alan threw a punch at him.
VII
"There, I think that does it." Alan arranged the last dish on Lady Jorexzill's tray and stepped back, surveying his work with the eye of an artist.
Linley shook his head. "Man, I wish you was cookin' at the base. I wouldn't be strugglin' with indigestion most o' the time," he remarked. "Maybe you could give the cook some pointers."
"I don't think anything could make a difference with Joe," Alan said, with unaccustomed acerbity. "He seems dedicated to mediocrity." Turning, he pushed the call bell to summon the stewards.
The men arrived promptly and bore the cart from the galley. Mark flopped down in a chair. "How 'bout some coffee, oh mighty chef?"
"Good idea, oh worthy assistant." Alan sank into another chair and rested his feet on a small table. Linley shoved a mug over next to him and pushed the cream and sugar closer. Real cream, Alan noted. The Jils might not go to much trouble with their servants' sleeping quarters, but they apparently didn't mind providing a few luxuries for the cooks.
Linley sipped his own brew thoughtfully. "I wonder how close they are to finishin' with those damned lifeboats?"
Alan had been thinking the same thing. He glanced at his chronometer. Fifteen hours before they reached Ladreen. "Probably not very. Still, the things are probably operable. They're just checking the systems, after all."
"I hope so. I wouldn't wanna jump out into space and then find out that the damned thing's hyperdrive didn't work."
"That's for sure. Anyhow, I suppose we could go check. They *might* be done."
Linley grunted, elevating his feet as well. "Betcha they ain't. Finish your coffee first an' let's get somethin' to eat." He raised a hand as the Jilectans' former cook went by. "Hey, buddy, d'you think you could find us some chow? We're both sorta hungry."
The man didn't reply, but a few moments later he set plates before them. Alan glanced up at the man, feeling a stab of remorse. "I hope I didn't offend you, Mr. Leiberman."
The cook shrugged. "Forget it. You've got to obey orders just like everyone else." He turned away.
Alan began to eat. The food was very good; he had to admit that. Leiberman was an excellent cook, and he doubted that the Jils would have had any complaints. Mark was also cleaning his plate without hesitation.
"Say, this ain't bad!" he whispered.
Alan chased the last of the gravy across his plate with a piece of bread and sat back, loosening his belt. Leiberman paused beside him again, and he glanced up. "Don't say anything to Lord Pilathzor, but that was really good."
Leiberman's face relaxed into a smile as he set two slices of pie before them and refilled their coffee cups. "Thanks. I'm a fair cook, but I've got to admit you're an artist, Graves. Where'd you pick it up?"
"Cooking school on Terra," Alan said.
"Yeah? And you're one of Pilathzor's servants?"
"Yes."
"Huh! Why didn't he just put you in charge in the first place?"
Alan shrugged. "You're asking *me* to figure out a Jil?"
"You've got a point," Leiberman admitted.
Someone touched Alan's shoulder. "Excuse me, sir ..."
"Yes?"
"Are you the cook who prepared the luncheon for their lordships?"
Alan rose, suppressing a nervous qualm. "Yes."
"M'lord Pilathzor commands your presence at once in his suite."
"Of course." Alan hoped he appeared calm. Linley's face mirrored alarm, Leiberman's surprise. He turned, his heart beating a little fast, and followed the servant from the galley.
VIII
"That's odd," Leiberman said.
"Huh?" Linley hadn't been paying attention. "What is?"
"That servant. He didn't seem to know your friend."
"Oh. He's one o' the new guys." Linley shrugged it off, trying to appear casual. Perhaps he should follow his partner, just in case -- except that he didn't dare go into the presence of a Jil, especially without His Lordship's permission. Such an action could get him killed, without helping Alan one bit ... unless he intended to kill the Jil. If he tried to intrude, the alien could very easily discover his faulty shielding and the whole thing would be blown.
"Wonder what Pilathzor wants him for," Leiberman remarked.
Linley shrugged. "Search me."
"Hope he don't hurt him too bad," Leiberman said.
Linley rose suddenly. "He ain't gonna hurt him!"
Leiberman finished his coffee and rose, a slightly malicious grin curving his lips. "Glad it ain't me," he said. "See you later."
Mark shrugged in what he hoped was an indifferent manner and strolled as casually as he could manage toward the lift. Alan hadn't linked with him. Surely, if he was going to get into trouble, it would have happened by now ...
IX
The lift bearing Alan Westover and his guide opened on the second deck, the one occupied by the officers and the noble passengers. The corridor was carpeted by a plush, blue rug and his boots sank into it as he walked. The servant stopped before one of the cabins and rang.
A voice spoke from nowhere. "Enter."
The door slid aside and Alan was ushered through.
The cabin was large and luxuriously furnished, but Alan had no interest in the surroundings. Lord Pilathzor turned from his dressing table and rose to his feet with the graceful speed that Alan had learned to know all too well. The alien was quite typical of his species, standing nearly three meters in height, his figure deceptively slim. Platinum hair curled on his head, framing fine, delicate features and he wore a knee-length robe of dark blue, embroidered with gold trim. Jewels sparkled from his bare arms, wrists, ankles, fingers and toes.
Alan swallowed convulsively. He had always sort of wondered what a Jilectan's feet looked like. He knew they were supposed to have six toes with an extra joint on each, just like their fingers, but before now, he had never seen a bare-footed Jil.
The servant stood humbly by the entrance and another servant, this one a Procyon, stepped back from the dressing table, an enameled hairbrush in one clawed hand. The air was thick with the scent of some heavy perfume.
Judging by his name, Pilathzor must be an upper class Jil, not of the nobility, but of the gentry, Alan thought. One could always establish a Jilectan's place in society by the structure of his name. The nobility had an "nth" or an "lth" sound combination in the middle of their names, the gentry dropped the "n" or the "l". Middle classers like Dilexvor had an "x" in the middle, and lower class Jils had an "sh" sound. Pilathzor must be a fairly well-to-do member of his class, however, judging by the diamond drops dangling from his ears, and the jewels that flashed from every finger. Alan gulped and dropped humbly to one knee.
The Jilectan spoke. "Your name is Graves, Terran?"
"Yes, M'lord."
"You may rise, Graves."
Alan did so, keeping his eyes lowered. There was a long silence.
He jumped convulsively as the alien spoke. "You need not be afraid, Terran. Look at me."
Cautiously, Alan raised his head and experienced a shock. The alien was smiling. Jilectans *never* smiled at Terrans! What was going on here?"
"I wished to tell you, Graves, that the meal you prepared was most excellent; the best I have tasted in some time."
Alan gulped. "Thank you, M'lord. I'm honored."
"Who is your present master, Graves?"
Alan gulped again. "I have no employer, sir. I was hired just for the duration of the voyage. They needed kitchen workers ..."
The Jilectan's smile widened. "Indeed? This is unbelievably fortunate. I shall be employing you as of this moment. When we return to Riskell, you will be chief assistant to my own personal cook and will supervise the preparation of all meals for my family and guests."
Alan was literally struck dumb for several seconds. "M'lord, I'm honored!"
"The salary is quite generous, I assure you." Pilathzor smiled benevolently at him.
"Thank you, M'lord!" Alan stammered.
Another benevolent smile, and the Jilectan seated himself at his dressing table once more. "That will be all, Graves. You may go."
Alan knelt again, rose and backed from the cabin. The servant opened the door for him.
He went briskly down the corridor toward the lift. Another door opened as he approached and a second Jilectan emerged. Alan stopped and edged to one side, his eyes downcast. The alien surveyed him frostily.
"Who are you?"
Alan went to one knee. "Steven Graves, M'lord. The cook."
"Indeed?" The Jilectan's tone was one of pleasure and Alan glanced up to see the alien smiling at him. "That was an excellent meal, Terran."
"Thank you, M'lord."
"I should like to hire you for my house, Graves. My cook is an idiot, and I am thinking of dismissing him."
While he had been speaking, a door behind Alan opened, and a second voice spoke. "Is this the Terran who prepared that delightful luncheon, Dilexvor?"
The Jilectan who had been addressing Alan surveyed the newcomer with disfavor. "It is, Brexvor."
Brexvor stepped forward into Alan's range of vision. He was a tall, thin Jilectan with honey-blond hair, cut short in the style favored by middle class Jilectan males, contrasting sharply with Dilexvor's long, flowing red tresses. His full lips smiled in a way that made Alan think that the expression was unfamiliar to him. He surveyed Alan with unconcealed approval. "A most excellent repast, Terran."
Alan gulped. "Thank you, sir."
Brexvor was continuing. "My cook met with a fatal accident last week and I am in need of a new one. You will do nicely. Come with me at once."
Dilexvor cut in. "I have already hired him, Dilexvor!"
Brexvor moved with blurring speed, caught Alan by the jacket and dragged him to his feet. Incredibly, Dilexvor was also beside him, grasping him by one sleeve. Holy heck! If they noticed the blaster under his jacket, he was done for!
The two Jilectans were yanking on him, jerking him violently back and forth. An elbow struck him beneath one eye and he saw stars. Their voices had risen in volume until they were screaming at each other and the pulling intensified. Each of them now had him by an arm, and although the blaster was no longer in danger of discovery, Alan feared that in a few moments, the enraged aliens would pull him apart. Something gave in his right shoulder, and he yelped. "Please, M'lords! Stop! I'm already hired! Ouch!"
His words came out in jerky gasps and the two scientists paid him no heed whatsoever. He was dizzy and aching, the blood singing in his ears, when another voice broke through the angry yells, sharper and authoritative. He was jerked roughly from the suddenly slackened grips, and through a blur, he saw the face of Lord Pilathzor. He was set on the deck, and the Jilectan turned away, facing his subordinates. Even dazed as he was, Alan was glad the white-hot fury in Pilathzor's tone was not turned on him.
"This is disgraceful! Utterly disgraceful!"
"He tried to take my servant!" Dilexvor broke in, hotly.
"He is *my* servant!" Brexvor's voice rose angrily.
"He is *mine*!" Dilexvor shrieked. "I saw him first!"
"Silence!" Pilathzor roared. "The Terran is *my* servant, and if he has been damaged by this disgraceful display of infantile temper, you shall both be punished severely!" He turned to Alan. "Are you hurt, Graves?"
Alan shook his head. "No, M'lord," he managed.
Pilathzor turned back to his fellows. "I will tolerate this no longer!" The Jilectan seemed almost beside himself with rage. "If you wish to kill each other, that is your own affair, but you will not inflict your infantile squabbles on *my* servants!" The Jilectan seemed to realize suddenly that he had been speaking Basic, and switched to the Jilectan tongue. The two middle class Jilectans wilted visibly beneath the onslaught and Alan watched the drama in awe. At last, Pilathzor paused for breath and turned to the Procyon servant standing unobtrusively behind him, his round, dark eyes fixed expressionlessly on the bulkhead. "Ch'Pin! You will take *my* servant to the infirmary. The doctor will examine him for damage."
"At once, M'lord." The Procyon stepped forward and helped Alan to his feet. Mark appeared from nowhere on his other side. Together, they escorted Alan, still weaving slightly, into the lift. The Procyon pressed the control for the fourth deck.
"I'm all right," Alan protested. "Really, I don't need a doctor."
The Procyon made a peculiar sound in his throat and Mark began suddenly to laugh. Alan also found himself laughing, if a bit breathlessly.
"That wash funny," the Procyon remarked, unnecessarily. "Although, perhapsh you failed to shee the humor in it."
"Sort of," Alan agreed. "For a minute there, I thought they were going to pull me in half."
"If they had, M'lord would have killed them both," Ch'Pin said. "M'lord doesh not like othersh to damage hish property."
"I'm afraid I wouldn't have been in a position to appreciate it," Alan said, dryly.
"Perhapsh not," the alien agreed. "But M'lord wash quite taken with the meal you prepared. I have never sheen him sho pleashed."
The lift came to a stop. Mark turned to the Procyon. "I'll take him on to the infirmary, Ch'Pin. You can go, now."
The servant's large, round eyes surveyed him expressionlessly. "I do not know you."
"It's all right," Alan said. "He's my assistant."
"Very well." The Procyon stepped back into the lift. "Have Dr. Bingham shend a report to M'lord."
"Will do," Mark said. "Thanks."
The lift closed and Linley turned to Alan, trying to smother a grin. "Man, I thoughtcha were done for! When I got the link, I was sure they were interrogatin' you."
Alan laughed a little shakily. "It was like two kids fighting over a toy -- and *I* was the toy! Besides, I was afraid they were going to notice my blaster!"
"Yeah. Speakin' o' which, you better let me have it for now. We don't want the doc to see it."
"I'm all right, really."
"Yeah, but His Lordship will be expectin' a report, so we gotta give him one. Gimmie the blaster."
Alan slipped the blaster from its hiding place and handed it to him. Linley tucked it beneath his own jacket.
Dr. Bingham had obviously been informed of their coming, for he was waiting for them. He gestured Alan to the examining table. "Climb up here, Mr. Graves, and let's have a look at you."
Alan got onto the table and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a large bruise on his right shoulder. The doctor examined it, running an instrument over Alan's left arm, shoulder and ribs. He grinned.
"Good shoulder wrench, assorted bumps and bruises. They'll heal in a few days. Don't use the shoulder any more than you have to. I heard what happened, by the way. Congratulations."
"Thanks." Alan slipped on his shirt. "I didn't realize how strong Jils were."
"They're over half again as strong as Terrans," Bingham told him. "I'd never try to wrestle one, if I were you." He laughed. "Or outdraw one -- unless you're Alan Westover, of course."
"That's for sure," Alan agreed. "This was enough for me, thanks."
"We gotta get goin'," Linley said, abruptly. "We got dinner to get for four Jils. Seeya later, Doc."
The doctor nodded, turning to put away his instruments. Mark ushered Alan from the infirmary. Once safely in the lift, he spoke.
"Did the doc suspect anythin', kid?"
"No," Alan assured him. "He thought he'd made a clever joke, and was sort of insulted that we didn't appreciate it more."
"Oh." Linley handed Alan his blaster. "That's okay, then. What'd Pilathzor wanna see you about?"
Alan buffed his nails on the sleeve of his jacket. "I've been promoted. You see before you the new chief assistant to M'lord's personal cook." Again he blew on his nails and buffed them. "The salary is quite generous, M'lord informs me."
Linley snorted. "An' I suppose that's why those other two were scrappin' over you."
"That's right," Alan told him. "If I ever decide to quit the Underground, I can always get a job cooking for Jils. I never realized they were so easy to please."
"They ain't," Mark said, uncompromisingly. He stepped out of the lift. "I saw Salthvor kill his cook, once. Wasn't even the poor guy's fault. Salthvor was comin' down with some kind o' stomach bug, but he blamed the cook. He was real sorry about it later. Didn't help the cook none, though." He made a face. "You did the galaxy a real favor when you got rid o' that guy. I could tellya things about him that you wouldn't believe."
They approached the lifeboat hangars and Alan came to a stop, resting one hand lightly on Linley's arm. He shook his head. "They're *still* working on them." He sighed. "Well, we'd better get back to the galley. I've got a dinner to prepare. We're going to have to think of something else. Our people are going to need time to evacuate -- and with Julia and Lyn both pregnant ..."
"Yeah." Linley scowled. "Well, you can bet Kaley'll get the kids and pregnant gals out first. He ain't about to risk all those li'l psychic babies."
"I know." Alan scowled at nothing as they turned to retrace their steps to the lift. "If they aren't finished by morning, we'll have to do something. Think hard, pal."
"I am."
**********
(tbc)
