She heard him mutter something. Thomas was the only man she knew who talked to himself more or less constantly. He faded in and out of conversations. You could never be sure whether he had been thinking aloud or talking to you.

“What?”

“The plaz. Not as strong as plasteel. We had to do some buttressing inside. Makes things much more crowded than you might expect.”

He moved through a group of workers to speak to their foreman, a low-voiced conversation which came through to her only in bits: “. . . then if you lattice the . . . and I’ll want . . . where we . . .”

Presently, he returned to her side. “My design isn’t as good as it might be, but it’ll suffice.”

So he has his little mistakes but he doesn’t hide them.

She had heard a few snatches of talk among the workers. They stood a bit in awe of Thomas. The man showed a surprising ability at their work, no matter what the work—plaz welding, control design . . . He was a jack of all trades.

Master of none?

She sensed that this was a difficult man to influence: a fearsome enemy, that one friend who does not mirror but mocks when mockery is needed.

This recognition increased her uneasiness. She knew she could like this man, but she felt bad vibrations about the team . . . and it wasn’t even a team yet.

And the sub will be crowded even with three of us.

She closed her eyes.

Should I tell him?

She had never told anyone, not in the debriefings, nor in friendly conversation. The kelp had a special hold over her. It was a thing that began happening as soon as the sub started slipping through the gigantic stems and tentacles: a sexual excitement very nearly impossible to control at times. Absurdity, in fact. She had managed a form of balance by hyperventilating but it remained troublesome and sometimes reduced her efficiency. When that happened, though, the shock of it cleared the effect.

Her old teammates had thought the hyperventilating a response to fear, a way of overcoming the terrors all of them felt and suppressed. And now they were all dead—nobody left to hear her confession.

The closeness, the strange sexual air that had taken over the background of the project—the unknowns in Thomas—all frustrated her. She had thought of taking Anti-s to relieve the sexual tensions, but Anti-s made her drowsy and slowed her reflexes. Deadly.

Thomas stood beside her, silently observing the work. She could almost see him making mental notes for changes. There were gears turning in his head.

“Why me?” she muttered.

“What?” He turned toward her.

“Why me? Why do I have to take on this poet?”

“I’ve told you what . . .”

“There are women paid well to do just what you . . .”

“I won’t pay for this. It’s a project thing, vital. Your own word. You will do it.”

She turned her back on him.