Three - Michael Jan Friedman [12]
“Roast chicken with giblet gravy,” the Binderian announced proudly.
Nikolas had to wince. Obal—and apparently, every other member of his species—bore an unfortunate resemblance to a plucked chicken, as Joe Caber had often pointed out. Apparently, Obal had missed the irony when he put in his dinner order.
But then, Nikolas had been encouraging him to try a wider range of foods. Obal had simply done what he thought his friend wanted him to do.
“Great,” he said. “How do you like it so far?”
Obal shrugged. “Well enough. It’s not plomeek soup ... but then, what is?”
For some reason, the Binderian’s favorite dish of all those he had tried was some kind of bitter Vulcan gruel. Go figure, Nikolas thought.
“And what did you select?” asked Obal.
Nikolas looked down at his tray, where an oversized [31] plate contained a plentitude of assorted delicacies—most of them from Earth, but not all. “The usual,” he said.
“Considering the quantity of food you eat,” said Obal, “it’s a wonder you’re not overweight.”
Nikolas had heard the remark before, though it had always been laced with a certain amount of envy. “What can I say? I’ve got the old Papadopoulos metabolism.”
Obal tilted his head. “Papadopoulos?”
“My mother’s maiden name,” Nikolas explained. “Every man in her family ate like a pig and looked like he was on a starvation diet. I’m guessing that’s where I got it.”
“Heredity is a powerful force,” Obal observed.
He said something more, but Nikolas didn’t hear him. He was too distracted by the feminine figure that walked into the mess hall at that moment.
A figure often seen in duplicate on the bridge and around the ship. A figure no red-blooded man could ignore.
Nikolas wasn’t sure if it was Gerda or Idun. Then he remembered that Idun had worn her hair up that day, and her sister had worn hers down.
Idun then, he told himself.
She was wearing a regulation uniform—a jacket with black pants—that seemed designed to conceal her considerable physical attributes. And yet, she looked fantastic in it.
Knowing it was rude to stare, the ensign tried to keep from looking in Idun’s direction. But he couldn’t help it. It was physically impossible.
[32] She was just too beautiful.
“Nikolas?” said Obal.
Nikolas tore his gaze away from Idun long enough to glance at his friend. “What?”
“Pardon me if I am wrong, but it appears you are staring at Lieutenant Asmund.”
The ensign sighed. “You’re not wrong.”
Obal made a face. “I was afraid you would say that. You know that you are going down a very dangerous road, do you not? A road you have traveled before?”
Nikolas nodded. “I know.”
“Then you will desist?”
“I wish I could, Obal. She’s just ...” He shook his head ruefully. “Irresistible.”
The security officer made a face. “I will have to take your word for it. As you might imagine, my people have different standards of physical beauty.”
Nikolas wasn’t surprised. Though he had never seen a female Binderian, he would have to guess that Idun had little in common with her.
“I might also point out,” said Obal, “that Lieutenant Asmund doesn’t show the same interest in you.”
The ensign had to agree. If his last “date” with Idun was any indication, she didn’t want any part of him.
Not that it mattered. He still couldn’t stop looking at her, regardless of whether she looked back. He couldn’t stop drinking her in with his eyes.
And he couldn’t stop wondering what it would have been like if things had turned out differently between them.
* * *
[33] Vigo surveyed the single narrow room in which he would be sleeping during his stay on Wayland Prime. It was actually smaller than his living quarters on the Stargazer, and that was saying something.
He didn’t understand the need for economy. On a starship, space was at a premium. But on a planet with nothing but open terrain, and a dearth of sentient population ...
Still, Vigo wasn’t about to complain. “It looks fine,” he told his guide.
Riyyen nodded. “I’m glad you like it. We were afraid it would be too cramped.”
“It’s not a problem,” said Vigo,