She stiffened. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I won’t do it again.” She looked down at him, head cocked sideways. “I guess I have a lot to learn about you. You’re much different from Old Doc. He didn’t snap at me.” She paused for a moment, then drew a deep breath.
Kennon blinked.
“About that report,” she said. “Regulations require that each post-mortem be reported promptly and that a record of the Lani concerned be posted in the death book together with all pertinent autopsy data. Man Blalok is very fussy about proper records.” She drew one of the chairs to a spot beside the desk and sat down, crossed her long legs, and waited expectantly.
Kennon’s mouth was suddenly dry. This situation was impossible. How in the name of Sir Arthur Fleming could he dictate a coldly precise report with a naked redhead sitting beside him? “Look,” he said. “I won’t need you. I can operate a voicewriter. You can pick up the material later and transcribe it.”
Her face fell. “You don’t like me,” she said, her green eyes filling with quick tears. “Old Doc never—”
“Oh, damn Old Doc!” Kennon snapped. “And stop that sniveling—or get out. Better yet—get out and stop sniveling!”
She leaped to her feet and fled.
Kennon swore. There was no reason for him to act that way. He had been more brutal than necessary. But the girl—no, the Lani—was disconcerting. He felt ashamed of himself. He had behaved like a primitive rather than a member of one of the oldest human civilizations in the galaxy. He wouldn’t bark at a dog that way. He shook his head. Probably he was tired. Certainly he was irritable, and unclad females virtually indistinguishable from human weren’t the most soothing objects to contemplate.
He wondered if his exasperation was real or merely a defense mechanism. First Eloise, and then this! Confound it! He was surrounded! He felt trapped. And it wasn’t because he’d been away from women too long. A week was hardly that. He grinned as he recalled the blonde from Thule aboard the starship. Now there was a woman, even though her ears were pointed and her arms were too long. She didn’t pressure a man. She let him make the advances.
He grinned. That was it. He was on the defensive. He was the one who was being pursued—and his male ego had revolted. He shrugged and turned his attention to the autopsy report, but it was hopeless. He couldn’t concentrate. He jotted a few notes and dropped them on the desk—tomorrow would be time enough. What he needed now was a stiff drink and eight hours’ sleep.