Catkejen stopped outside the carved, brassy regolith door and gave a wry smile. “In my twenties, I learned from tough gals that in a full-on blue-collar guy club, you don’t respond to everything said. Generally it’s best not to. Jump around the tables, leave ’em if you don’t like ’em. Kinda like the three-D chess we’ve been playing. In an attacking move, ignore bishop or castle. Logic and straight lines are out. Best to rely on the knight. Jump to a spot with interesting guys and an empty chair several tables away. Keep ’em guessing.”

Rachel held back. “I don’t know…”

Cat gave a stern glare. “For me, being likable and unthreatening to men comes naturally, not unlike my thick eyelashes. For them, my hobbies include watching action movies, having go-games explained to me, and hanging out with their friends over mine. I have worn many hats for guys—but not in the annoying Look at me, I’m wearing a hat kind of way. But there might be fun guys here, you never know—and best of all, they’re not Librarians.”

“Should we stay together?”

“At first, then you’re free-range.”

In they went. “Remember, to shine is better than to reflect,” Cat said.

Rachel did not catch the pun until she was three steps into the joint. She noticed a bride celebrating in a side room who was wearing a mustard-yellow ball gown featuring puke-green polka dots and puff sleeves, apparently a new Earther fad of the deliberately hideous.

The bar was dark and steamy and just a tad seamy. Sound bubbles damped the talking. Rachel had followed Catkejen’s styling advice and dolled up a bit, so was now a new creature. She swayed in a long-skirted yellow dress with orange ArcMondrian lines, her shoes casual flats, carrying a small orange handbag. Brushed auburn hair, artful makeup, even long, artificial eyelashes. Bait, of a sort. Not her kind of game, but Catkejen had lured her into it by referring to Rachel’s own origins in the American Deep South, where she knew plenty of working-class folks and, indeed, was one of them, until she got into a university. Glancing around, Rachel looked over her competition, reflecting that for some women, there should be a weight limit for the purchase of spandex. Lady miners seemed both brawny and weighty. Three guys with polished scalps were trading lies in a booth and checking her out. The noisiest of them got up to ask her if she wanted a drink. Of course she did, though she was thrown off by his genial warning, “Ladies, you don’t look like you’re the minin’ kind.”

Rattled—had her mask of harmless approachability slipped?—she made herself smile and ask, “Should I be?” Catkejen made a joke Rachel couldn’t follow, and they sat.

They took the usual questions in stride and the talk came fast, eyes shining, drinks or sniffs all around.

She was glad nobody connected her to the hydrogen wall story. She let the banter flow until a guy started pressing in on her. So: “Got to freshen up, boys,” and she headed to the back. But walking around a corner toward the restrooms, her dress snagged on a frag in the wall. She tried to tug it loose, but if she turned to reach the snag, it would rip the dress further. As she fished back for it with her right hand, a voice said, “Let me get that for you.” It was Ruby. She wore a flattering blouse with comfortable, well-fitted jeans, and knelt to unhook the dress from the nailhead. “We should stick together here, guys can be kinda rough.” As if to illustrate, a fistfight broke out. In low grav, she noted, the ceiling was an optional rebound and weapon. Rachel thought, I thought you weren’t that much into guys, Ruby, but didn’t say it.