Upon a Sea of Stars by A. Bertram Chandler

Author:A. Bertram Chandler [Chandler, A. Bertram]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Baen Books
Published: 2014-04-02T04:00:00+00:00

She said, “That was good. . . .”

“It was.”

“Stay there, darling, and I’ll make us some coffee. We don’t want to waste time sleeping.”

A sleep, thought Grimes, is just what I would like. The sleep of the just—the just after.

He sprawled at ease on the wide couch, watched her appreciatively as she left him, as she walked gracefully to the door. In the subdued light she was all rosy bronze. In any sort of light she was, as he knew, beautiful. He heard a slight clattering from the kitchenette, imposed upon the still stertorous snores of the hapless Jeff. After a while she came back with a tray on which were a pot and two cups. She poured. “Sugar, darling? Cream?” The steam from the coffee was deliciously fragrant. He reached out for his cup, accidentally? put his fingers on the handle of hers. She gently pushed his hand away. “Mine hasn’t sugar,” she told him.

“You’re sweet enough as you are,” he said, asking himself, How corny can you get?

So he took three sips of the coffee that was intended for him, and at once felt the onset of heavy drowsiness, even though there was no warning flavor. He mumbled, “Like a smoke. . . . Would you mind, Lynn? In my pocket . . . on chair . . .”

She reached out to his clothing, produced the packet of cigarillos and his lighter. She, he already knew, did not smoke herself, which was just as well. She handed him the packet. In his condition, in the dim lighting, he could hardly make out the distinguishing mark. He hoped that he had the right one. Here and now, the special effects of the other one would be more spectacular than useful.

She lit the cigarillo for him, smiling condescendingly down at him. He inhaled the smoke, retained it for long seconds before blowing it out. He took one more sip of coffee, then let a dribble of the hot fluid fall on to his naked chest. He was careful not to wince. He mumbled indistinctly, then fell back against the pillows. His right hand, with the little smoldering cylinder between his fingers, fell limply onto his belly. He could smell the acridity of burning body hair, felt the sharp beginnings of pain. With a great effort of will he remained in his relaxed posture.

He heard her mutter, “I should let the old bastard burn, but. . .” Her cool, slim fingers removed the miniature cigar from his hand. He felt very grateful to her.

He heard her dressing, heard her walk rapidly from the bedroom. He heard, eventually, the front door open and shut. He gave her time to get clear of the house.

When he got down from the bed he expected to feel sick and dizzy, with drug and antidote still at war within his system. But he did not, although he was conscious of the minor burns. He dressed rapidly, checked his possessions. He was pleased to find that the

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