Then the spell was gone and she relaxed against a brace holding one hand under her left breast and breathing heavily. "What on earth—?"
"Lamp fell out of its moorings," said Farradyne. "My fault. That's one of the pre-flight check-ups that I didn't have time to make this morning. Stay where you are and I'll clean up this mess."
"Do you mind if I sit down? I haven't been that startled in years. I thought the ship had exploded."
"Park yourself in the pilot's seat," he said. "But be careful. Broken fluorescent tubing is doubly dangerous. The gook they put on the inside is as poisonous as hell and the glass is as sharp as a razor."
She nodded and picked her way through the glass. She looked up at him and said, "You don't seem to have been startled at all."
"I had a few millionths of a second to get my nerves in readiness," he said. "I saw it come down. You took a beating."
"I guess I did," she admitted weakly.
Farradyne laughed; it was a forced laugh but he hoped it was convincing. "Someone told me once that when a person is excited he always reverts to his native tongue." Her eyes widened and her mouth started to open, but Farradyne went on as though he hadn't been watching avidly for some sign. "But I didn't think your native tongue was Upper Irish Banshee."
Her eyes half-closed and her mouth snapped back from slack wonder to toned self-control. "What did I say?" she asked with a half-humorous smile, which Farradyne knew to be false.
"It sounded like, 'I am slain to pieces' but I don't know Upper Irish Banshee very well."