----------------------------------------

"Probably," she said, "providing you're a Heechee with pilot training."

"Not even like one color means you're going farther from here than some other color?"

"Not that anybody here has figured out. Of course, they keep trying. There's a whole team that spends its time programming returned mission reports against the settings they went out with. So far they've come up empty. Now let's get on with it, Broadhead. Put your whole hand on that first wheel, the one the others have used. Shove it. It'll take more muscle than you think."

It did. In fact, I was almost afraid to push it hard enough to make it work. She leaned over and put her hand on mine, and I realized that that nice musk-oil smell that had been in my nostrils for the last little while was hers. It wasn't just musk, either; her pheromones were snuggling nicely into my chemoreceptors. It made a very nice change from the rest of the Gateway stink.

But all the same, I didn't get even a show of color, although I tried for five minutes before she waved me away and gave Sheri another shot in my place.

When I got back to my room somebody had cleaned it up. I wondered gratefully who that had been, but I was too tired to wonder very long. Until you get used to it, low gravity can be exhausting; you find yourself overusing all your muscles because you have to relearn a whole pattern of economies.

I slung my hammock and was just dozing off when I heard a scratching at the lattice of my door and Sheri's voice: "Rob?"

"What?"

"Are you asleep?"

Obviously I wasn't, but I interpreted the question the way she had intended it. "No. I've been lying here thinking."

"So was I. . . . Rob?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you like me to come into your hammock?"

I made an effort to wake myself up enough to consider the question on its merits.

"I really want to," she said.

"All right. Sure. I mean, glad to have you." She slipped into my room, and I slid over in the hammock, which swung slowly as she crawled into it. She was wearing a knitted T-shirt and underpants, and she felt warm and soft against me when we rolled gently together in the hollow of the hammock.

"It doesn't have to be sex, stud," she said. "I'm easy either way."

"Let's see what develops. Are you scared?"

Her breath was the sweetest-smelling thing about her; I could feel it on my cheek. "A lot more than I thought I would be."

"Why?"

"Rob--" she squirmed herself comfortable and then twisted her neck to look at me over her shoulder, "you know, you say kind of asshole things sometimes?"

"Sorry."

"Well, I mean it. I mean, look what we're doing. We're going to get into a ship that we don't know if it's going to get where it's supposed to go, and we don't even know where it's supposed to go. We go faster than light, nobody knows how. We don't know how long we'll be gone, even if we knew where we were going. So we could be traveling the rest of our lives and die before we got there, even if we didn't run into something that would kill us in two seconds. Right? Right. So how come you ask me why I'm scared?"