I thought about it and nodded. "I see. But don't worry -- when my arms are well, I'll take you up again."
She touched my foot. "Dear Holly. But I won't be flying again; I'm going back where I belong."
"Earthside?"
"Yes. I'm taking the Billy Mitchell on Wednesday."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
She frowned slightly. "Are you? Holly, you don't like me, do you?"
I was startled silly. What can you say? Especially when it's true? "Well," I said slowly, "I don't dislike you. I just don't know you very well."
She nodded. "And I don't know you very well... even though I got to know you a lot better in a very few seconds. But Holly listen please and don't get angry. It's about Jeff. He hasn't treated you very well the last few days -- while I've been here, I mean. But don't be angry with him. I'm leaving and everything will be the same."
That ripped it open and I couldn't ignore it, because if I did, she would assume all sorts of things that weren't so. So I had to explain... about me being a career woman....ow, if I had seemed upset, it was simply distress at breaking up the firm of Jones & Hardesty before it even finished its first starship . how I was not in love with Jeff but simply valued him as a friend and associate... but if Jones & Hardesty couldn't carry on, then Jones & Company would. "So you see, Ariel, it isn't necessary for you to give up Jeff. If you feel you owe me something, just forget it. It isn't necessary."
She blinked and I saw with amazement that she was holding back tears. "Holly, Holly... you don't understand at all."
"I understand all right. I'm not a child."
"No, you're a grown woman... but you haven't found it out." She held up a finger. "One -- Jeff doesn't love me."
"I don't believe it."
"Two... I don't love him."
"I don't believe that, either."
"Three... you say you don't love him -- but we'll take that up when we come to it. Holly, am I beautiful?"
Changing the subject is a female trait but I'll never learn to do it that fast. "Huh?"
"I said, 'Am I beautiful?'"
"You know darn well you are!"
"Yes. I can sing a bit and dance, but I would get few parts if I were not, because I'm no better than a third-rate actress. So I have to be beautiful. How old am I?"
I managed not to boggle. "Huh? Older than Jeff thinks you are. Twenty-one, at least. Maybe twenty-two."
She sighed. "Holly, I'm old enough to be your mother."
"Huh? I don't believe that, either."
"I'm glad it doesn't show. But that's why, though Jeff is a dear, there never was a chance that I could fall in love with him. But how I feel about him doesn't matter; the important thing is that he loves you."
"What? That's the silliest thing you've said yet! Oh, he likes me -- or did. But that's all." I gulped. "And it's all I want. Why, you should hear the way he talks to me."
"I have. But boys that age can't say what they mean; they get embarrassed."
"But--"
"Wait, Holly. I saw something you didn't because you were knocked cold. When you and I bumped, do you know what happened?"
"Uh, no."
"Jeff arrived like an avenging angel, a split second behind us. He was ripping his wings off as he hit, getting his arms free. He didn't even look at me. He just stepped across me and picked you up and cradled you in his arms, all the while bawling his eyes out."
"He did?"
"He did."
I mulled it over. Maybe the big lunk did kind of like me, after all.
Ariel went on, "So you see, Holly, even if you don't love him, you must be very gentle with him, because he loves you and you can hurt him terribly."
I tried to think. Romance was still something that a career woman should shun... but if Jeff really did feel that way -- well... would it be compromising my ideals to marry him just to keep him happy? To keep the firm together? Eventually, that is?
But if I did, it wouldn't be Jones & Hardesty; it would be Hardesty & Hardesty.
Ariel was still talking: "--you might even fall in love with him. It does happen, hon, and if it did, you'd be sorry if you had chased him away. Some other girl would grab him; he's awfully nice."
"But," I shut up for I heard Jeff's step -- I can always tell it. He stopped in the door and looked at us, frowning.
"Hi, Ariel."
"Hi, Jeff."
"Hi, Fraction." He looked me over. "My, but you're a mess."
"You aren't pretty yourself. I hear you have flat feet."
"Permanently. How do you brush your teeth with those things on your arms?"
"I don't."
Ariel slid off the bed, balanced on one foot. "Must run. See you later, kids."
"So long, Ariel."
"Good-bye, Ariel. Uh... thanks."
Jeff closed the door after she hopped away, came to the bed and said gruffly, "Hold still."
Then he put his arms around me and kissed me.
Well, I couldn't stop him, could I? With both arms broken? Besides, it was consonant with the new policy of the firm. I was startled speechless because Jeff never kisses me, except birthday kisses, which don't count. But I tried to kiss back and show that I appreciated it.
I don't know what the stuff was they had been giving me but my ears began to ring and I felt dizzy again.
Then he was leaning over me. "Runt," he said mournfully, "you sure give me a lot of grief."
"You're no bargain yourself, flathead," I answered with dignity.
"I suppose not." He looked me over sadly. "What are you crying for?"
I didn't know that I had been. Then I remembered why. "Oh, Jeff -- I busted my pretty wings!"
"We'll get you more. Uh, brace yourself. I'm going to do it again."
"All right." He did.
I suppose Hardesty & Hardesty has more rhythm than Jones & Hardesty.
It really sounds better.
Sky Lift
"All torch pilots! Report to the Commodore!" The call echoed through Earth Satellite Station.
Joe Appleby flipped off the shower to listen. "You don't mean me," he said happily, "I'm on leave—but I'd better shove before you change your mind."
He dressed and hurried along a passageway. He was in the outer ring of the Station; its slow revolution, a giant wheel in the sky, produced gravity-like force against his feet. As he reached his room the loud-speakers repeated, "All torch pilots, report to the Commodore," then added, "Lieutenant Appleby, report to the Commodore." Appleby uttered a rude monosyllable.
The Commodore's office was crowded. All present wore the torch, except a flight surgeon and Commodore Berrio himself, who wore the jets of a rocketship pilot. Berrio glanced up and went on talking: "—the situation. If we are to save Proserpina Station, an emergency run must be made out to Pluto. Any questions?"
No one spoke. Appleby wanted to, but did not wish to remind Berrio that he had been late. "Very well," Berrio went on. "Gentlemen, it's a job for torch pilots. I must ask for volunteers."
Good! thought Appleby. Let the eager lads volunteer and then adjourn. He decided that he might still catch the next shuttle to Earth. The Commodore continued, "Volunteers please remain. The rest are dismissed."
Excellent, Appleby decided. Don't rush for the door, me lad. Be dignified—sneak out between two taller men.
No one left. Joe Appleby felt swindled but lacked the nerve to start the exodus. The Commodore said soberly, "Thank you, gentlemen. Will you wait in the wardroom, please?" Muttering, Appleby left with the crowd. He wanted to go out to Pluto someday—sure!—but not now, not with Earthside leave papers in his pocket.
He held a torcher's contempt for the vast distance itself. Older pilots thought of interplanetary trips with a rocket-man's bias, in terms of years—trips that a torch ship with steady acceleration covered in days. By the orbits that a rocketship must use the round trip to Jupiter takes over five years; Saturn is twice as far, Uranus twice again, Neptune still farther. No rocketship ever attempted Pluto; a round trip would take more than ninety years. But torch ships had won a foothold even there: Proserpina Station—cryology laboratory, cosmic radiation station, parallax observatory, physics laboratory, all in one quintuple dome against the unspeakable cold.