Dinosaurs & A Dirigible by David Drake

Author:David Drake [Drake, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2014-09-02T04:00:00+00:00

“You know,” Brewer said as he forked torosaur steaks onto the platter, “it tastes more like buffalo than beef, but if we could get some breeding stock back, I’d by God find a market for it!”

Everyone seemed to be concentrating on their meat—good, if pale and lean in comparison with feedlot steer. “Ah,” Vickers said, keeping his voice nonchalant. He looked down at the table instead of the people sitting around it. “Ah, Dieter and I were talking . . . We’ll bunk outside tonight. The, ah, the rest of that pack of dromaeosaurs chased some duckbills through the camp this morning, Steve thinks. So just for safety’s sake, we’ll both be out of the tent . . . So, ah, Mrs. Salmes—”

Everyone froze. Jonathan Salmes was turning red. His wife had a forkful of steak poised halfway to her mouth and her eyebrows were rising. The guide swallowed, his eyes still fixed on his plate, and plowed on. “That is, you can have your own tent, ah, to sleep in.”

“Thank you,” Adrienne Salmes said coolly, “but I’m quite satisfied with the present arrangements.”

Dieter had refused to become involved in this, saying that interfering in the domestic affairs of the Salmeses was useless at best. Vickers was sweating now, wishing that there was something to shoot instead of nine pairs of human eyes fixed on him. “Ah,” he repeated, “Mrs. Salmes—”

“Mr. Vickers,” she overrode him, “who I choose to sleep with—in any sense of the term—is none of your business. Anyone’s business,” she added with a sharp glance across the table at her husband.

Jonathan Salmes stood up, spilling his coffee cup. His hand closed on his fork; each of the four staff members made unobtrusive preparations. Cursing, Salmes flung the fork down and stalked back to his tent.

The others eased. Vickers muttered, “Christ.”

Then, “Sorry, Dieter, I . . .”

The thing that bothered him most about the whole incident was that he was unsure whether he would have said anything at all had it been Miss McPherson in Don’s bed instead of someone he himself found attractive. Christ . . .

“Mr. Vickers?” Adrienne Salmes said in a mild voice.

“Umm?” His steak had gotten cold. With Brewer cutting and broiling the meat, the insertion group was eating better than Vickers could ever remember.

“I believe Mr. Brady is scheduled to take me up in the platform tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Vickers agreed, chewing very slowly.

“I doubt my—husband—will be going out again tomorrow,” the blonde woman continued with a nod toward his tent. “Under the circumstances, I think it might be better if Mr. Brady were left behind here at the camp. Instead of Don.”

“Steve?” Dieter asked.

Brady shrugged. “Sure, I don’t need the flying time. But say—I’m not going to finish ditching around the tents by myself. I’ve got blisters from today.”

“All right,” said Dieter. “Henry, you and Don—” no one was looking directly at Washman, who was blushing in embarrassment he had damned well brought on himself—“will take Mrs. Salmes up after the tyrannosaur tomorrow.

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