By the Book by Dean Wesley Smith

Author:Dean Wesley Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: POCKET BOOKS
Published: 2002-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

IT SEEMED LIKE THE ENTIRE SHIP SMELLED FAINTLY OF rotting fish. The odor had clung to everything since Elizabeth Cutler had returned from the planet the day before. The smell even followed her to the mess. Last night, she hadn’t been able to eat dinner—no surprise, Mayweather had said, given what had happened on the planet.

He seemed calmer about it than she was, but she knew that was an act. When she’d seen him in the mess this morning, he’d had shadows under his eyes, and she could tell he’d slept as well as she had, which was hardly at all.

The entire day had been very frustrating. She had asked both Dr. Phlox and the captain if she could visit Edwards, and they’d both refused. Neither would say what was wrong with him. She had a hunch they didn’t know.

What had happened in those moments on the planet? Was it something she and Mayweather could have prevented?

Those questions had been going through her mind ever since she got back. They even interrupted her work during her duty shift. She had been studying the bits of the building she’d brought back, trying to determine how creatures built like spiders made buildings that looked like igloos.

So far she had had no luck.

After dinner, she had planned to go back to her station to look up information on spiders of all types, but her immediate commander had forbidden it.

“Elizabeth,” she had said, “you look exhausted. The best thing you can do is take your mind off everything, and rest.”

But she couldn’t rest, and her mind was working overtime. So when Novakovich, somewhat oblivious of the events of the past two days (he’d been out of touch since he was placed on light duty), asked if they were playing the game that night, she said she would if everyone else wanted to.

Apparently they did. Anderson had shown up for dinner, but Mayweather hadn’t. He had come into the mess as most of their shift’s members were finishing their meals, taken a chocolate-chip cookie from the plate left beside the coffee, and hadn’t even touched that.

“You have to eat,” she had said to him quietly.

He’d given her a small smile. “I know,” he said. “I will. Maybe after the game.”

Maybe. Just like she might sleep after the game. They had gone through this routine before, after the last away mission they’d been on together, the one where Novakovich had gotten hurt. Cutler had barely slept for three days upon their return and Mayweather had hardly eaten. Both of them had consulted Dr. Phlox, who hadn’t seemed too upset by it.

“You’re processing,” he said. “We all process differently and sometimes that means that something else will lose significance while the brain is full of new matters it must assess. What you need to do is find diversions—not that this ship has many of them. Healthy diversions. I would suggest a hobby of some sort, whatever interests you and has nothing to do with your work.”

In some

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