Brain Ships - Anne McCaffrey [147]
And he could hear sounds in the central cabin. Was one of the girls up and about already? Darnell sucked in his gut, threw his shoulders as far back as they would go, and glanced at his reflection in the synthalloy wall once again. His face wasn't really soft and puffy like that; he told himself; it was a trick of the distorted reflection. Made him look middle-aged and flabby and tired. Nonsense. He was the handsome young heir to OG shipping and he was fit to take on anybody or anything. . . .
But not, maybe, that cold fish, Polyon de Gras-Waldheim. Darnell clutched at the doorway and tried to stop his impulsive movement into the central cabin. His legs kept going while his arms tried to haul him back.
"Oh, come on in, OG," Polyon said impatiently, his back to the door. "Don't just cling to the doorframe waving your tentacles like a seasick jellyfish."
Seasick.
Jellyfish.
Darnell gulped down a wave of nausea and reminded himself again that space travel on a grav-enhanced drone was not like being on an actual moving, swaying, shifting oldstyle sea vessel.
"What are you doing?"
Polyon released the chair controls and spun slowly round to face Darnell, long limbs relaxed as if to emphasize his comfort in this environment. "Just . . . playing games," he said with a queer smile. "Just a few little games to pass the time."
"What'd you do, crash the SPACED OUT gameset so badly you lost the screens?"
"Something like that," Polyon agreed. "You can help me start it up again, if you like."
It was the closest thing to a friendly overture Darnell had heard from Polyon since they met the previous night. Maybe, he thought forgivingly, maybe the poor guy didn't know how to make friends. Coming from a stiff-backed upper-crust lot like the de Gras-Waldheims, spending his life at military boarding schools, you couldn't expect him to have the savoir vivre and easy social manners that Darnell prided himself on displaying. Well, he'd help old Polyon out, be his friend on this little jaunt.
"Sure thing," he said, walking on into the room with a careful soft step that didn't jar his aching head. He sank into one of the cushioned passenger chairs. "Nothing to it. I used to play this stuff all the time in prep school. Tell you what—if I help you get into the computer, maybe you'll help me get into something else?" He winked laboriously at Polyon.
"What exactly did you have in mind?" The man didn't have a clue how to make light conversation.
"Two of us," Darnell explained cheerfully, tapping away at the console keys. "Two of them. The black one is more your size. But I need a strategy to get into the del Parma skirt's pants. Tactics, maneuvers, advance and retreat—Got any suggestions?" Not, Darnell thought, that he really needed any help, but there was nothing like a round of good, bawdy male-to-male bonding talk to cement a friendship. And since Polyon evidently wanted to be friends, Darnell was more than ready to meet him halfway.
"I'm afraid you're on your own there," Polyon said distantly. "I've . . . never had occasion to study the problem." He flicked an invisible speck of dust off his pressed sleeve and affected to study the SPACED OUT screens as Darnell brought them back to fill the walls of the cabin.
The implication was clear; he'd never needed to work out tactics with the ladies. Well, of course not. With the de Gras-Waldheim name and fortune behind him—and that muscle-bound, oversized physique—still, he had no call to sneer at somebody who was just trying to be friendly. Darnell glowered at the console and tapped the commands that would set the game at—hmm, not Level 10, his reflexes weren't quite up to the interactive holowarriors just yet. Level 6. That should be high enough to scramble Polyon's moves and let him see what it was like dealing with an expert.
"It's a new version," Polyon said in surprise. "I don't remember that asteroid belt."
"I'll bet five credits there's a clue to the Hidden Horrors of Holmdale somewhere in the new asteroids," Darnell offered.
"No bet on that. But I'll lay you five credits