Her sullen expression had melted away. She pouted for a moment, and then seemed to accept her situation. She used the refresher, found dry garments and toyed with the dispenser—ordering a flask of grenadine—sweet, aromatic pomegranate liqueur.
Several hours later she was seated on the floor going through a set of elaborate isometric exercises. Moses ignored her while she was quiet—a little grateful for the moment’s peace. She removed the top of her garment and continued her yoga. He saw that her skin glistened slightly and assumed it was sweat. Then he saw the liqueur flask was open. She dabbed the fluid on her scalp—matting down her hair into a tadpole tail. More grenadine brought a sheen to the hair as she finger-combed it down the front of her right shoulder. Muscles tightened and relaxed repeatedly. More liquid was poured on her head. The sheen spread to her chest and back. An hour passed, during which she hardly moved.
Moses shrugged.
She finally stood up—moving slowly, she danced out of the rest of her clothes. Odd. She raised the flask over her head and let several more ounces trickle over her body. Under the glistening skin he noticed muscles he hadn’t seen on her before—the sternocleidomastoid in the neck and the rectus in the abdomen. On her legs the sartorius muscle ran from the hip to the inside of the knee. It took him a moment to understand her myotonia. When he saw that her breasts had increased in size he braced himself. Myotonia and vasocongestion of the breasts—she was well into the excitement phase.
“Easy, now—” he cautioned, holding up his hand.
She planted both feet firmly, eyed his sinewy forearm sullenly, and leaped. His hands slipped. She grappled hard. Her teeth bit through his clothing. Her nails dug his arms.
Locking her arms around his waist she lifted him an inch off the floor and pinned him against the cabin wall. His fingers slipped off her shoulders. Reaching back, he unlatched the port and grabbed a handfull of brine-soaked ice chips from the outside ledge. A gust of icy wind hit her alcohol-soaked body—chilling it. He smacked her on the back with the brittle ice sending small chips scattering about the floor. She stiffened, put a scissors hold on his right thigh and rolled back—pulling him down on the floor.
He felt the crunch of her teeth in his left flank and cuffed her on the head several times firmly. Slowly, spasmodically, she relaxed. He elbowed her now-limp form off his lap and stood up. She lay in the ice chips breathing hard. Her eyes glistened and there was blood on her lower lip—his blood. He stepped over to her, intending to give her a kick. She didn’t flinch. He hesitated—studying her. Her fight was gone. She was as docile as she had been after her dip in the ship’s wake. Shrugging, he tossed a blanket over her and closed the port.
“What kind of a nut are you?” he asked, sitting down and trying to piece together his torn shirt. There were teeth marks on his arm, chest and flank. They were purple and ecchymotic. Only in the flank had she broken the skin—two square red punctures. He dabbed an antiseptic.
The ice chips melted. Fifteen minutes later she got to her feet exhausted. He studied her apprehensively while she got dressed again—myotonia and flush gone, nipples flat. Whatever had come over her had passed.
“If you don’t settle down, I’m going to have to tie you up again,” he threatened.
She just smiled knowingly.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he explained, “but these crazy fits of yours are upsetting the ship’s—”
He didn’t finish. She was ignoring him—dry-combing her hair and puttering around on her side of the room. He went out on the deck and stood behind the mast with the ship’s brain on top. He picked up the discarded tube segments which had bound her elbows, and put them in his pocket.
“Keep a southerly course, ship,” he said calmly.
He walked the deck checking for weapons. There were no sharps, of course, not even knives and forks to eat with. The tool kit contained nothing he could use for a hand weapon—except a spanner; but he didn’t want to use that on his prisoner. Her brains would surely splatter. He hid the heavy tool under the loading platform’s dust cover—so she wouldn’t use it on him. But there seemed to be little danger of that—her attacks had a definite sexual quality. Her little love bites were designed to stimulate, not injure. He finally realized he had a masochist on his hands.
Her refractory period ended. Eight hours later she poured the liqueur on her head and slurped her hair up into a tadpole tail. Stepping out of her clothes she poured and lubricated. She came stalking—reeking of pomegranates—nipples hard—skin mottled and flushed. He stepped to the front of the mast pulling up his collar against the icy breeze. His shoes crunched in two inches of brine and ice chips at five degrees below freezing. Smiling to himself, he thought she wouldn’t want to roll around in that—not with a naked, alcohol-soaked body.
He was wrong. She leaped from the orange light of the doorway—catching him by the neck and rolling him into the deck’s frozen slush. Her body was actually hot to the touch! She screamed and bit as they slid against the railing. His clothes soaked and chilled. On the rough, cold deck she had a very short plateau phase—spiking almost immediately. He dragged her by one foot—into the cabin and onto the cot. Then he went back onto the deck, glancing at the chronograph. Forty seconds—that wasn’t too bad.
He cut her next attack down to thirty seconds by hitting her in the eye with his elbow.
On the third day they crossed 60:00. The ocean appeared vast and quiet. Nothing moved except the clouds and the ice. He saw the derelict body of an old plankton Harvester beached on a tiny island—its arched ribs standing tall.
As they passed the island the boat turned abrupty westward.
“No—south,” said Moses firmly.
The Attendant smiled smugly through her ecchymoses.
“This trip is no longer authorized. Try your muscle on Security.”
He reached for the manual override and was knocked flat by a bright spark.
“Field’s on,” she grinned. “Boat has heard the long-distance call.
We’re going to shore.”
Moses picked up the heavy spanner and advanced on the cybermast.
“I wouldn’t try that either,” she continued. “Unless, of course, you really like to swim. If you crack the meck brain it loses control of all its sphincters. We’ll be up to here in ice water.” She waved her hand over her head.
Moses kicked the emergency button and fat little kayaks inflated. He lifted a little lifeboat and studied the choppy frozen sea—reconsidering. His chances were better with the guards.
As they docked he swung his heavy spanner and shouldered his way through the lethargic Nebishes. His cutaneous melanin and carotenoids fluoresced. Watcher circuits tracked. The tubeway crowds could not hide him. Wrestling new issue tissue away from citizens did not help. He was too low on the thermal scale. At buckeye wavelengths he was umber against mauve. For several days he evaded capture. The Big ES assigned new Security teams as he fled from city to city. There was no time to sleep. He stole food from daydreaming Nebishes as they left the dispensers. Whenever he tried to doze off the Security people closed in. Capture was inevitable.
“Open up,” he shouted to the door at the top of the shaft cap. “Open up. Let me Outside.”
The baleful optic stared.
“Unauthorized,” it announced.
A class twelve door—and it blocked his escape. He sat down weakly and closed his eyes. When he opened them again there was a circle of nets and quarterstaffs—five squads had come for him. A Hi Vol shot jolted his deltoid.