"Paragraph, Kibby," I said into the mouthpiece. "'The vast rocket terminal at Marsport is soberly alive this morning with preparations for the giant rescue job awaiting the joint forces of the U.F.S. Rocket Auxiliary, and the Martian disaster crew....'"
Pundra Doh, the Martian premier, was in the lead ship, Electra. But there wasn't time for an interview. Thin, electric-blue spits of exhaust flickered all over the spaceport by the time I had finished dictating. The high, keening sound of the rockets revving up tore through my helmet and I shouted at Deborah who was still up there, on top of the Starfish. My voice in her helmet must have blasted her eardrums.
"Damn you, Steve," she screamed back at me. Then she clicked another wide-angle shot of the field, sat down suddenly and slid down the polished tail of the Starfish on her fanny.
It's a wonder her camera survived the descent.
The Starfish shuddered as she lurched along, keeping up with the rest of the fleet. Her vibration was too heavy to be soporific but Deborah slept like a baby on a pile of things she had scratched together. Or at least she seemed to be asleep. Maybe because I was looking at her she figured it was a good idea to pretend. There was something wrong with her, something I couldn't put my finger on.
Charley took out a cigarette. He looked at me looking at her. "Why resist?" he grinned.
"You've got a one-track mind," I said. "What I'm wondering is what that little witch has up her sleeve. She's behaving like she's done something—it makes me uneasy."
Charley looked real angry. He flicked an ash meticulously. "You haven't got a damned thing to gripe about, have you? So, instead of relaxing, you're imagining enormities she could have committed! What a jerk. Why don't you admit it to yourself; she attracts you. Like she does everyone else. Say something nice about her for a change—you don't impress me."
"She takes good pictures."