Terence Michael Burke, our red-headed astrogator, was standing as close to Polly as he could get, and from the gleam in his eye he was quoting some more of his abominable romantic poetry at her. But she wasn't responding as usual. Not even blushing. She just stood there looking pale and wan, frozen up inside. Typical symptoms of the Complex, and it made me wince.
Mike looked around, missed something, and turned to me.
"Where'd you put my books?" he demanded.
"Cargo hold," I growled at him. "Had to use that space for the Hustic modulator."
"Barbarian squarehead!" he yelped.
"If you'd gas off to sleep like a human being—!" I squawked right back at him. The Wilsons weren't warming yet, but already my nerves were tightening up in anticipation.
"Come on, Polly," he said. But she didn't follow him until he took her hand.
Mike was born in San Francisco, but he's a professional Irishman. Red Irish. And a prolifically lousy poet. Had a picture of himself as the spiritual descendent of Fin McCool and Francois Villon and Robin Hood and Sir Henry Morgan and all the other poet-adventurers and troublemakers of history. He was one of those romantics—and still is.
When he and Polly came back a few minutes later he had his bag of books under one arm, a smear of lipstick across his mouth, and a worried expression on his face. That was unusual. Ordinarily Mike was too slugnutty to worry about anything. On Polly's much prettier countenance there was no expression at all. And that was all wrong.
Wild Bill, Professor Harrigan's younger but larger brother and skipper of the Banshee, came up from checking the drive room.