“Wives have an unfair advantage. We must level the playing field.” Alabow.

Besh walked beside Sposh that evening. The setting sun pleased him. The curious but courteous deference of the Tappish people pleased him. Being free from jail pleased him. It was more than he could have hoped for to be put up with such a pleasant Dalop as Sposh.

As Besh understood the matter, Marken had been escorted back to the ship while Faith had been relocated to a private room within the Papal compound. Work had begun that afternoon to remodel the empty melon exchange to suit the needs of a Terran negotiator.

Sposh stopped in front of a shop with slumped shoulders. Besh looked down at his new friend, then he looked up at the sign. It read Old Drafter’s Pub. The wooden shingle moved slightly in the pleasant evening breeze; the letters were bold, outlined in black, though the red coloring was somewhat worn.

Besh asked, “Should we stop for a drink?”

Sposh sighed from the depths of his spirit. “I wish,” he said. “I don’t have the riffmarks.”

Besh asked, “Will they take gold coins?”

Sposh turned with gaping mouth and looked up at Besh. “You have gold coins? I could drink for a month on a Terry coin.”

Besh pulled his small colorful bag from his shoulder and searched the interior. He held a bright yellow Terran True before his friend’s wide eyes. “In that case,” said Besh, smiling, “allow me to open a line of credit.”

Faith found the private room small but adequate. She had studied the glass walls with great deliberation until she decided that the glass muted details to such an extent that she might feel comfortable bathing. After a thorough inspection of her body and new accommodation for fleas, Faith went to the water basin and bathed at length. She relished the lukewarm water and drew the simple wet cloth in slow relaxing circles.

She felt clean; the air slightly chilled her skin. There was no soap, no shampoo. She wet her hair and used her fingernails to scratch around the roots of her hair. Finally, she rinsed her one-piece light suit and wrung it out by hand. As Faith walked around the small apartment in search of something on which to hang her light suit, she started and drew the suit up to hide her nakedness. Alabow stood in the open door glaring at her with small beady beaver eyes.

“Damn!” swore Faith, as her blood raced and her heart turned over in her chest. “What the! Get out! How dare you?”

The Pope smiled. He replied to Faith’s demand with a practiced answer. “This is my Palace, my room, and you are my guest. Quite fetching for a Terry.”

Red in the face, Faith complained, “That’s no excuse. You can’t just barge into a woman’s personal space. I'm a diplomat. Show at least a modicum of respect.”

“Why?” asked the Pope.

“Why!?” Faith asked in a rising voice. “Because I’m naked. You should have knocked and given me a chance to dress.”

Alabow stroked his hairy double chin. He asked slowly, “So, what you’re saying is I should respect naked diplomats?”

“I say,” argued Faith, “that you should respect a woman’s privacy.”

“A woman’s argument,” said the Pope waving his hand dismissively. “I had wanted to begin negotiations early, but you seem a bit worked up. Since you are standing there in such fine display, and I am standing here in such admiration of Terry hairless pulchritude, I will ask a question.”

“Please hurry,” said Faith.

“I’m curious,” said Alabow. “Do Terry females have the edge?”

Faith answered with a burgeoning rage, “Since the beginning of time. Now, please leave.”

The Pope shook his head slowly and made soft clucking noises of disapproval. As he walked away, he said to himself, “The gods are cruel.”

Faith rushed to the door and closed it. For good measure, she took a chair and jammed it under the handle. Her heart pounded as she gaped in absolute dismay before finally sputtering, “The perv!”

Besh sat to the left of the pub entrance, his back to the wall. Sposh sat on the right side of the door. Old Drafter brought another large tray to them. Besh removed the pale with the ale in it and returned the empty pale smiling politely. Sposh took his clay mug with eager gratitude. Old Drafter bowed at the waist and ran back inside.

Sposh turned to Besh with a raised mug and asked, “Did you see how bright Old Drafter’s eyes were? This is our third round.”

“No need to count,” said Besh merrily.

Sposh, taking a big swallow of ale and wiping foam from his hairy upper lip, spoke euphorically. “We could drink all night.”

Besh raised his pale and sipped. A satisfied sigh escaped him as he turned to his friend. “We should save some for tomorrow. I need to relieve myself.”

Sposh laughed and stood. He said “We just pee behind the pub. I’ll show you.”

Marken leaned against the wall outside of Captain Howard’s office. A small wooden plaque above the hatch affectionately read The Great Room. Marken felt as if he had waited forever. He feared his absence would be punished. He did not mind so much a reduction in pay, but if the Captain confined him to the ship, he would not get to see Faith. That prospect troubled him.

At long last, a steward dressed in white stepped through the hatch and said with regulation smarminess, “The Captain will see you.”

Captain Howard was a man to be feared. Marken stepped through the hatch and stood at attention. He had run afoul of the Captain several times along the net. Marken felt as though the Captain harbored a secret grudge against him. His work spoke for itself. Why did the Captain always single him out?

Captain Howard looked up from his terminal and sighed. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. As a Captain, Rudd Howard had served the Consortium for twenty-three years. He was proud of his service and settled in his command. The only thorn in his flesh was the mechanic before him. Marken was a gifted engineer, but his heart was not in his work; the man was a slacker and a hopeless romantic.

“Once again,” said the Captain, “you stand before me. You left the ship without authorization and have been gone for a day. I know you have an excuse; let’s make it brief this time.”

Marken cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said. “I was concerned for the lady. I offered to escort her into town with every intention of returning immediately. But, you see,” Marken faltered.

“Just say it, crewman.” The Captain’s expression remained fixed, to Marken’s discomfort.

“We were arrested, Sir,” said Marken. “Miss Armature, the stowaway, and I.”

“Then, I suppose,” said the Captain, “I should just let it go as time served.”

“Please, Sir.” Marken pressed his palms together prayerfully.

The Captain swiveled in his chair, looking away from his chief mechanical engineer. He asked distantly, “How were you set free?”

Marken quickly returned his arms to his side. “The stowaway, Sir. He spoke to their leader and got us freed.”

“And the negotiator?” asked the Captain.

“The stowaway got their leader to build her an embassy,” said Marken. “I only hope it is suitable to a woman of her quality. Yes sir, the stowaway was our savior.”

The Captain turned in his seat and cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should have sent the stowaway.”

“Sir,” hazarded the engineer. “Shouldn’t we send someone to her side? The lady is all alone. I will volunteer, and pledge myself to her defense.”

The Captain coughed and pulled at the end of his nose. “My mission is quite clear, crewman. Deliver the diplomat and wait.” He stood and walked around his desk to stand directly in front of Marken. Marken stood a little straighter and looked forward without blinking. What else could he do with the Captain in his face? The Captain said, “Miss Armature is both experienced and capable. I suggest you forget about the woman.”

Marken looked desperately into the Captain’s eyes. “But, Sir,” he said.

The Captain said, “You will be too busy running a full ship-wide diagnostic. Dismissed.”

Besh stood on the roof of his friend’s house. Sposh had led him up the steps on short wobbly legs, dropped the pillow and blanket, laughed, and left. The rooftop patio was spacious. Stars were visible. Besh stood at the raised border, feeling tipsy, and looked into the valley below. The lights of the ship waxed and waned hypnotically. Besh pulled the key from beneath his shirt, pressed it between finger and thumb, and smiled knowingly.