When we had piled out of the vehicle the first thing I noticed was Deborah's gear, all neat and ready to be stowed. Then Sam Vechi, sitting on a fibreboard crate with his legs crossed at precise right angles. His face in the transparent visor was thin, darkly tanned and healthier looking than any of ours. And his workalls fitted as though they had had him in mind when they tailored the original design. When he got up at our approach I was surprised again by his height. You remembered him, somehow, as being a small man, which he wasn't.
The audio cup in my oxygen helmet buzzed a little when he began to talk, so I adjusted it and picked up the tail end of what he was saying: "... terrible, this Ul thing, isn't it?" I nodded.
Deborah kept fiddling with her audio adjuster, as though she couldn't hear, so she wouldn't have to acknowledge Vechi's greeting. She wasn't good with people she didn't like and she didn't like Vechi.
Charley, who had a bright word for any slob, offered an apology for our offhandedness. "They have a hate on," he lied blithely. "They turned off audio so they couldn't hear my arguments for a reconciliation."
Deborah, who wouldn't let even phony opportunity go by, said nastily, "I wouldn't give him two minutes or two words more than my contract calls for."
"And it's a good thing it isn't up for renewal," I said.
Vechi smiled and there was something agreeable about all those white teeth in that brown face.
I guess it made Deborah uncomfortable to have Vechi agreeable. "Excuse me," she said. "I want some shots of the mob scene." She looked at me. "Are you going to wave in a story to Kibby before takeoff? Lots of color around."
It was a damnfool question. "I do news. You do pictures." I said it patiently.
"I was only thinking of correlating the two, you crab!" she snapped and stamped away.