“But . . .”

“See how standard you are on com? I can tape my whole side of a conversation with you and get it right down the line.”

“But the . . .” He nodded at the hatch into software storage.

“Oh, that’s where you always are when nobody can find you—somewhere in there.” She pointed to the storage area.

“Hmmm.” He took her hand and they headed out toward the west shell.

“Why so thoughtful?” she asked. “I thought you’d be amused, surprised . . . laugh, or something.”

“I’m sorry. Lately it’s bothered me when I do that. Never take time for people, never seem to have the flair for . . . the right word at the right time.”

“A pretty strong self-indictment for a poet.”

“It’s much easier to order characters on a page or a holo than it is to order one’s life. ‘One’s life’! Why do I talk that way?”

She slipped an arm around his waist and hugged him as they walked. He smiled. Presently, they emerged into the Dome of Trees. It was dayside, the sunglow of Rega muted through the screening filters. All the greens came with soothing blue undertones. Kerro took a deep breath of the oxygenated air. He heard birds twittering behind a sonabarrier off in heavier bushes to the left. Other couples could be seen far down through the trees. This was a favorite trysting place.

Hali slipped off her pribox strap and pulled him down beside her under a cover of cedar. The needle duff was warm and soft, the air thick with moisture and sun dazzled through the branches. They stretched out on their backs, shoulder to shoulder.

“Mmmmmm.” Hali stretched and arched her back. “It smells so nice here.”

“It? What’s the smell of an it?”

“Oh, stop that.” She turned toward him. “You know what I mean—the air, the moss, the food in your beard.” She brushed at his whiskers, wove her fingers in and out of the coarse hairs. “You’re the only Shipman with a beard.”

“So I’m told.”

“Do you like it?”

“I don’t know.” He reached out and traced the curve of the small wire ring which pierced her left nostril. “Traditions are strange. Where did you get this ring?”

“A robox dropped it.”

“Dropped it?” He was surprised.

“I know—they don’t miss much. This one was repairing a sensor outside that little medical study next to Behavioral. I saw the wire drop and picked it up. It was like finding a rare treasure. They leave so little around. Ship only knows what they do with all the scraps they carry off.”

She slipped her arm around his neck and kissed him. Presently, she pulled back.

He pulled away from her and sat up. “Thanks, but . . .”

“It’s always ‘Thanks, but . . .’” She was angry, fighting the physical evidence of her own passion.

“I’m not ready.” He felt apologetic. “I don’t know why and I’m not playing with you. I just have this compulsion toward timing, for the feeling of rightness in things.”