The Big Black Mark - A. Bertram Chandler [66]
He followed her as she swam, parallel to the beach. After a few moments of exertion he caught up with her. She kept on steadily until the fire and the music were well astern, then turned inshore. A low breaker caught them, swept them in, deposited them gently on the soft sand like stranded, four-limbed starfish. He got to his feet, then helped her up. Their bodies came into contact—and fused. Her mouth was hot on his, her strong arms Were around him as she pulled him to her—and, after they had fallen again to the sand, above the tidemark, her legs embraced him in an unbreakable grip. Not that he wished to break it. She engulfed him warmly.
When they were finished he, at last, rolled off her, falling on his back onto the sand. He realized that he and Mavis had performed before an audience. Somehow he was not at all embarrassed—until he recognized, in the dim starlight, the naked woman who, with a young man beside her, was looking down at him.
"I hope you had a good time, Commander Grimes," said Vinegar Nell acidly.
"I did," he told her. "And you?" he asked politely. "No!" she snapped.
"Fuck orf, why don't yer?" asked the mayor, who had raised herself on her elbows.
The young man turned at once, began to trudge toward the distant fire. Vinegar Nell made a short snarling noise, then followed him.
"That Col," remarked Mavis, "never was any good. "That sheila o' yours couldn't've picked a feebler bastard. All blow, no go, that's him."
"The trouble," said Grimes, "is that she is, as you put it, my sheila. Or thinks she is."
"Then wot the hell was she doin' out with Col?" she asked practically. "Oh, well, now we are alone, we may as well make the most of it."
Chapter 29
The next morning—not too early—Grimes held an inquest on the previous night's goings-on. He, himself, had no hangover, although he had forgotten to take an anti-ale capsule on his return to the ship, before retiring. He felt a little tired, but not unpleasantly so.
He opened by asking Brabham how he had spent the evening.
"I went to a party at Pete's place, sir."
"Pete?"
"The president of the Air Pilots' Guild."
"And what happened?"
"Well, we had a few drinks, and there was some sort of help-yourself casserole, and then we had a flight over the city and the countryside in one of the airships."
"Anything else?"
The first lieutenant oozed injured innocence. "What else Would there be, Captain?"
"Any relaxation of what we regard as normal standards? Any . . . promiscuity?"
Brabham looked injured.
"Come on, Number One. Out with it. As long as you do your job your sex life is no concern of mine. But I have a good reason for wanting to know what happened." He grinned. "Some odd things happened to me. Normally I'm a very slow starter."
Brabham managed to raise a rather sour smile. "So that's what Vinegar Nell was dropping such broad hints about! Well, sir, I had it off with one of our tabbies—I'll not tell you which one—during the flight over the city. Have you ever done it on the transparent deck of a cabin in an airship, with the street lights drifting by below you?" The first lieutenant was beginning to show signs of enthusiasm. "And then, after we got back to the airport, there was a local wench . . . I can't remember her name. I don't think that we were introduced."
"Mphm. And how do you feel?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Presumably you had plenty to drink, as we all did. Any hangover?"
"No, sir."