“Klein’s laundry,” Rogers said.

You’re at the garbage dump, not the laundry! he realized too late.

Mailn raised an eyebrow. “His clothes that dirty, eh?”

Rogers shrugged, playing it off smoothly. “He’s the boss,” Rogers said. “He wears his clothes once and then gets rid of them. That way, he always looks fresh. Can’t stand loose threads on his uniform, and all that.”

“Ah,” Mailn said. “Well, if Klein says it helps, then it helps. Whatever keeps him doing all the great work he’s doing up top.”

You mean all the great work I’m doing up top, Rogers thought bitterly. His suspicions about Klein had been growing every moment he saw the man work. From what he could tell, Klein hadn’t been doing anything other than writing speeches and polishing his Toastmasters’ certificate.

“Yep.” Rogers said.

“Yep.”

They stared at each other for a few long moments, before Rogers realized that they were expecting him to open the door.

“Oh,” he said. “Right. I have a little bit of a problem. My keycard doesn’t seem to work down here. I guess Admiral Klein forgot to add the codes while he was, ah, memorizing enemy battle formations.” Or making me memorize enemy battle formations.

“That’s no problem,” the Viking said, covering the distance between Rogers and the doorway in about a fifth of a step. A titillating sense of excitement washed over him as she came near, and he felt his resolve waver for a brief moment. She swiped her card in the reader and pressed the button, and the door opened to reveal a giant pile of trash and a very interesting smell.

“There you go,” the Viking said. “Smells like a sand dragon’s asshole in there.”

Even her profanity was exciting. Rogers took a deep breath—something he regretted immediately, given his surroundings—and slowly pushed the cart into the room.

Then he just stood there. He turned around. Mailn and the Viking were just standing there too, looking at him. Mailn raised her eyebrows.

“Well,” Rogers said, “I’ll see you later?”

“Just dump the stuff,” Mailn said. “Some of the marines are getting together on the training deck to throw each other around for a while. We thought you might like to come.”

Mailn stabbed a secretive finger at the Viking and winked at him. Was she trying to help Rogers’ romantic inclinations? Would it work?

Briefly, a vision flashed by of him and the Viking in the training room, alone, bodies sweaty and dressed in those old-fashioned karate uniforms, their belts loosely tied around their waists. She would throw him but not let go, landing on top of him as they rolled around on the mats while the room caught fire. Suddenly, the Viking would be outside, and she would kick down the door to rush in and rescue him from certain peril.

“Are you alright?” she would ask.

“Are you alright?” she really was asking.

“Um,” Rogers said, swallowing hard. He could feel a new layer of sweat coating his entire body. “No. I mean, yes. I’m fine. It’s just that I’ll have to, ah, catch up with you later. The admiral’s instructions were very specific. I need to take all of the clothes out of the laundry and fold them before I throw them away.”