Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [48]
As she’d expected, he made his way to the farthest table from the bar—a small set-up for two right by an observation port. When he pulled out a chair, the legs clattered against the floor; as he lowered himself into it, he did so awkwardly. Then he slumped over the table, turning his head to the observation port—as if he preferred the company of the streaking stars to that of the crewmen who sat all around him.
Dunhill was the waiter assigned to that area. But before he went over to take Joseph’s order, he cast a glance in Guinan’s direction.
She shook her head slowly from side to side. Acknowledging her silent instructions, Dunhill waited on another table, ignoring the Lexington’s security chief. Somehow, though he wasn’t looking in that direction, Joseph managed to notice. He turned, straightened, and glared at Guinan through narrowed bloodshot eyes.
Recognizing her cue, she wove her way among the tables, exchanging greetings with those she passed, until she reached the place where Joseph was sitting. He studied her sullenly.
She returned his hard gaze with a more pleasant one. “May I?” she asked, indicating the empty seat opposite him.
His nostrils flared. He shrugged.
Taking that as an affirmative response, she pulled out the chair and sat down. For a moment there was only silence between them—a silence strung so tight that it seemed liable to snap at any time.
Then she spoke. “You know,” she said, “you’re getting to be quite a regular around here. Aren’t there any other parts of the ship you’re interested in?”
He chuckled. The sound had an edge to it.
“Not that it’s any of your business.” He leaned forward, the pupils of his eyes larger and blacker than they had a right to be. “And if I were Morgen or Ben Zoma or—hell, any of the others—you wouldn’t be mentioning that now, would you?”
“As a matter of fact,” Guinan said, “I would be.”
Joseph sneered, leaning back again. “In a pig’s eye.”
“I don’t lie, Mr. Joseph.”
“Uh-huh.” He looked at her. “Where did you come from, anyway?”
“You mean what race?” she asked.
“That’s right. What race.”
“An old one,” said Guinan. “Old enough to know alcoholism when we see it.”
Joseph grunted. “Give me a break, all right? I can hold my liquor.”
“No doubt,” she answered, though she had lots of doubts. “The question is why you would want to.”
His mouth twisted into something mean. “I love people like you,” he told her. “Crusaders. They always think they know you—know all about you.” His voice became menacing. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Guinan stood her ground. “I just might know more than you think.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re bubbling over with hate. For others, to an extent—but most of all, for yourself. Because you don’t like what you’ve become. Because you think it could’ve been different. And because you believe, in the secret center of yourself, that somehow it’s all your fault.” Seeing him shrink a little from her, she softened her voice. “And the alcohol is the only way you can keep the hate in check. It’s the only way you can smile at people and not snarl at them, because if you let them see what’s inside you, you know you’re going to lose what precious little you do have.”
Suddenly, Joseph’s face was flushed. It took him a few seconds to respond, and when he did, his voice was little more than a rasp.
“You’re crazy,” he said.
She shook her head. “No. I just come from a very old race.”
Gradually, Joseph’s confusion dissipated. But it wasn’t replaced by anger. Rather, the man seemed on the verge of tears.
“I’m as good as they are,” he said. “I’m as good as anyone.”
“Of course you are,” Guinan assured him. “But now you’ve got more than a couple of bad breaks to deal with. The alcohol has gotten in your way. Can’t you see? It’s like a jealous lover. It doesn’t just console you—it makes sure you stay just where you are. Beaten. Bitter. If you really want