"Real friendly type," Charley growled at me. "Quit riding her. She knows her job and she does it."
"She knows her job but not her place," I growled back. "She has to run every show."
"Boy, I bet your ancestors beat the spit out of their women when they went out after the vote."
"That was the turning point in history," I said. "We have been paying for it ever since."
Charley grinned. "It ain't such a big price, considering."
He looked around the field. "Well, I'll wave in my story on the takeoff stuff. There's nothing else for the noon leads."
I watched him leave. And then I looked for Debby—and watched her. From a distance she looked mighty nice, it was true. She had a funny way of moving, a little awkwardly like a young animal, but it had its appeal. And so did her red hair, which was short and curly and never in place. She was young all over except for her figure which was as grown up as it had to be. What no one could understand, though, was why the best looking gal in Marsport hadn't been trapped by any one guy as yet. And how anyone that good looking could also be good. So far from home it didn't usually work out that way. The girls did as they pleased and no one blamed them. It was one of the rewards for being a sucker and doing a stint on Mars.
It gradually dawned on me, as I watched her, that she wasn't doing much active picture-taking. Her usual intensity was curiously missing. She seemed to be thinking about something else as she aimed her camera, up there on top of the Starfish. I made a mental note of this. I had learned that when Deborah appeared abstracted there was usually a damned interesting reason for it.
I fished out my communication gimmick and flicked a button. I got the control tower, or, more accurately, underground shelter, and the latest poop. Then I signalled Kibby and dictated a story to him. While I was talking privately into the 'com. Vechi watched me in a disinterested way. Raeburn, his assistant, arrived and they wandered off among the fibreboard crates for a private conversation.