"What is your name?" the girl asked.
"Monk, they call me. Monk O'Hara." He could feel the blood pulsing through his temples.
"I am Tooli." She curtsied. "You like me?"
"Yeah," Monk, breathed. "I like you a lot."
Later, through the ports of his sandcar, he watched her lithe movements as she and her father set up their tent. Throughout the night, his sleep was thin and restless, his mind on fire with the vision of the dark, lovely face.
So early this morning he'd gone to her again. "How about some coffee, kid? Got plenty in the sandcar."
She crinkled her nose teasingly. "Yes, I like Earth coffee. My bocle come too?"
"No, just you, kid. Your old man's busy taking down the tent."
She nodded eagerly, smiling. "Yes, I come. I like you."
What greater invitation did a man need?