I shook my head, and rang for the steward again. "I think we both could use a drink."
Later, the puzzled steward departed for the dining salon to return the steak knife which Snow had "accidentally" picked up. We sipped our drinks in mutual silence for a minute or two, regarding one another over the rims of our tumblers. To me, Snow was looking better by the minute. I even had a momentary thought of flashing the Amnesty at her to see if those red velvet lips could fulfill in a tactile way the promise they made visually.
But instead, I said, "Tell me, do you always attack Amnesty-bearers with the nearest weapon you can lay hold of?"
Snow laughed musically, shaking her head. "I didn't mean to come in at full threat, Jery," she said softly. "I just wanted some sort of defense in case—Well, Amnesty-bearers think they can ask anything of a person, and—"
She left the explanation unfinished, but I found myself glad I hadn't tried pulling rank for a fast romance. "I'm very curious to know just what you did come in here for, Snow. Or did you just want a peep at the Amnesty? I saw you react when Baxter let it slip back at the spaceport."
"Is that who that was? Chief Baxter, of International Security?" she exclaimed.
I realized I was blurting things, and sighed, "Damn, I'm talking too much."
Snow's eyes gave me the once-over, and she tilted her head to one side, curiously. "You know, Jery, you don't look like a government official. You seem to be just an average man."
I thought of my dossier and frowned. "Not quite average, I'm afraid. I can be hopelessly confused by women."
Snow digested this, then shrugged. "Like I said, you seem to be just an average man."