Jak's pointed chin seemed to grow longer. He sighed. He shook his head and muttered, "Probably want to borrow a welding rod. I remember once in the Albert Group, a miner boarded me looking almost devitalized, and all he wanted was a can opener to—"
"Spare me the anecdotes," said Drusilla, surveying her surgically tilted nose in a small mirror. "That's all I've heard for three months."
Jak's shoulders heaved in a greater sigh. He hoped for no more trips like this one. During endless earth-days he had cruised the Cassini Division of the Rings of Saturn, picking up a little yttrium, antimony and platinum, with Drusilla sunk in depths of boredom and rarely leaving the plane. The arrival of the viewnote informing her that her Self Portrait had won first prize in the Interearth Photographic Salon had elated her for several days; but then she had announced, one earth-morning, the development of an acute case of pregnancy. Since the much published history of Lar BW16177 on Hungaria throbbed vivid in his mind, Jak could do nothing except set a course for Luna, carrying half empty ore bins and four months of unexpired leave.
A bulb on the instrument panel blinked to signal the opening of the outer airlock door. Jak said, "If I can't greet them in uniform, I'll have to go like this." He adjusted his trunks and stood by the airlock, which placed him head down in relation to Drusilla posing by the strangely silent radio.
Lar BW16177, stranded on the asteroid, had been devitalized horribly when, under low gravity, the fetus had developed with unprecedented rapidity. Jak had set the fastest course he thought safe for Drusilla, 6,240,000,000 kilometers at 1 G acceleration, 208,000,000 kilometers in free fall, and 6,240,000,000 kilometers at 1 G deceleration. He had tried to keep Drusilla occupied with her photographic hobby and its current triumph, although he could not understand why her picture had won first prize. It had no color, being done in blacks, grays, and whites, and showed every detail of her face. It looked about like something Daguerre would have done in 1839. Jak much preferred modern photography with its soft colors, pleasing blurs, and striking abstractions. His own hobby was woodcarving, because so few things were made of wood.
The inner door of the airlock opened. The three men in space-suits walked across the ceiling and down the bulkhead to the deck. Jak saluted the faces almost invisible behind colored glass and made gestures asking the visitors to remove their helmets. One of the men turned and clanked off along the narrow passage. Another unsealed and removed the helmet of the tall man who seemed to be the leader.
Drusilla actually blushed and giggled. Jak, who considered himself above petty embarrassment, felt rather ashamed himself, for the visitor had never had his facial hair removed. It grew profusely in a disgusting fringe between nose and upper lip and formed a horrid black triangle on the point of his chin. Jak rubbed a shaking hand over his own smooth cheeks and shaven head and stammered, "Welcome to the—the Box. How's your hobby? I—I am Jak SP345O926O, and this is Drusilla GW414249834. How may we help?"
The man with the hairy lip paid little attention to the traditional greeting, nor did he reply. His black eyes smoldered at Drusilla. In a vibrant voice, he purred, "Drusilla, Latin, meaning 'with dewy eyes.' How appropriate! What a rare and sweet old name! I detest these ugly modern names."
The eyes flashed to Jak. "I presume your name is a horrid modern one?"