"Like I told you," Caine said, "I'm just a hired man. What my customers think or do between themselves is none of my business."
"You're not that cold," she said, looking into his eyes.
"I'm that cold."
She shook her head stubbornly. "Be kind to me. You can. For just this one moment, when I'm not alone or afraid, when there's just this one moment before tomorrow—when it starts all over again."
Caine didn't answer, but he relaxed in his chair slightly and leaned back.
She smiled at him and it was a warm simple smile with all the hardness and sarcasm erased. "Would you have one drink with me? One small drink to seal the night up, so maybe you won't remember me so badly, so maybe you'll think I've got some heart and human feelings?"
Caine waited, watching her shiny eyes. "One drink," he said.
She smiled and stood up, returning to the side of the ship where Fairchild had set up his portable bar. She poured two glasses, and while Caine watched her, he noticed that in her straight, motionless posture, the animal litheness had disappeared. She was very simple—and naive-looking, and when she returned, he saw that the tears were still wet on her face.
She handed him a glass, and she held her own in the air. "A trite toast—here's to two people who met in the Venus night ... briefly."
"Two people," Caine repeated, lifting his own glass. The Scotch burned down his throat.