Rod sat up, stood, and turned to push his bunk back into the wall. "Well, let's hope she's—"

A sudden raucous hooting echoed through the ship. Rod froze, recognizing the "loss of atmosphere" signal. "We're holed!"

If Fess said anything, it was to empty air. Maximan reflexes had taken over, and Rod was on his way to the emergency toolkit.

He yanked it up—it took quite a pull; the bottom was magnetized—and glanced up at the screen above it. An outline of the ship glowed there, with a red dot blinking in the forward hold. He turned toward the doorway, swinging the toolbox up as he sprang. Behind him, he heard Muldoon calling, but for once, it didn't seem important.

He shot down the passageway, ricocheted off the sides of the dog-leg, and hurtled past the entry hatch. Behind him, way behind, somebody was yelling, "Out of the way, swabbie!" But that didn't matter. He braced himself, wrenched at the grip on the hatch, and leaped into the forward hold, hitting the lights as he came.

It felt as though his face was trying to swell. He saw the puncture, an ugly, ragged hole with sharp edges pointing toward him, a good centimeter in diameter. He dove toward it, ripping the emergency box open and yanking out a temporary patch, then swinging the box down against the hull. The magnetic bottom clanked, hard, and Rod held onto it as he swung his feet up, went into a crouch by the hole, and slapped the patch on. He pushed against the box as he smoothed the edges, then swung his legs back to grasp the sides of the toolbox as he pulled an insulated glove on, then took out a steel patch and the spotwelder. Feet pounded up behind him, and Weiser's voice yelled, "What the hell do ya think y're doing? Out of the way, ya spoiled brat, before I push you through that hole!"

Rod gritted his teeth and ignored the man. He stuck the positive contact onto the wall, then held the steel patch over the temp. He pounded its center flat with the hammer end of the welder, then tilted the tip to the edge and pressed the button. Lightning spat from it, and the alloy edge of the patch flowed.

He traced the rectangle around the edges of the patch, then sat back on his heels and heaved a sigh. Now he could let the shakes hit.

And look up at Weiser.

He braced himself; he knew he had disobeyed a direct order.

But the Second was studying the patch, and, slowly, nodding.

Rod felt limpness hovering. "I'm sorry, sir. I…"

"Did what you should." Weiser still nodded. "Good job of welding, too. I should say, 'Sorry'; I didn't see you'd already put the temp patch on." He turned around to scowl down at Muldoon, who was coming up, panting. "Y' taught him fast."

Muldoon shook her head. "Not that, I didn't."

Weiser turned back to Rod. "Where'd ya learn, rich boy?"

Rod managed a thin smile. "I grew up on an asteroid, sir. Our buildings may not look like pressure domes, but that's what they are—and we're raised with puncture drills. I've known how to set a patch since I was ten."

" 'D ja ever really do it before?"

"Once. That was the only time I ever got there first."

Weiser nodded slowly. "Guess even an aristocrat can earn his keep. Well, the fuss is over. Back to stations, everyone."

Rod still served at mess that night, but Weiser didn't glare at him once. Rod's heart sang—he was proving himself!

And the topic of conversation had changed. The officers had some bragging to do.

"What were you trying to do in that restaurant, McCracken—eat the whole menu?"

"No, just everything on it."

Muldoon smiled thinly.

McCracken went on, "Too bad about the keg in the Fall Inn."

"What about it?" Weiser frowned. "I didn't see nothing wrong."

"Then why were you trying to outdo it?"

A laugh rounded the table; even Muldoon joined, and Weiser grinned. "Talk about me having the high old time! Whelk was out with his wife again."

"Which one this time?"

Muldoon's smile faltered.

"The Ceres one." The first officer smiled at Rod. "Entirely legal, Mr. d'Armand—on both Mars and Ceres. Not on Terra, of course—but I don't go there very often."

"Not unless he wants to wear his law suit," Weiser jibed.

"However, our gallant Captain must take his share of ribbing," Whelk said, with a sly wink at Donough. "That was a beautiful brunette we saw you with at Pastiche's, sir."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Whelk." Donough inclined his head, and Muldoon's smile disappeared.

"Brunette?" Weiser frowned. "She was a redhead!"

"No, that was the one at Malloy's," McCracken corrected him. "Cute as a button."

"In a pig's eye!"

"No, the one at The Pig's Eye was blonde."

"Hey, I was at Pastiche's, and she was a redhead!"

"Oh?" said Whelk. "When were you there?"

"Twenty-one hundred."

"Oh, the early shift. Well, I saw him there when we dropped in for a morning snack, about 0400. She was a brunette by then."

Muldoon had to look down at her plate. Rod felt a lump in his throat, and searched wildly for a way to change the topic—but all he could think of was Fess saying, "Swabbies should be seen and not heard."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Donough smiled around at them, amused. "I'm afraid you have caught me out. Margot is my second cousin; she was waiting for me as…"

The hoots of laughter drowned out the end of the sentence.

"And I'll bet the blonde was your Aunt Greta!"

"No, she's the sister of a friend who asked me to take her to dinner, poor thing. She's very shy, never goes out…"

Weiser howled, then smothered it to a chuckle, glanced at Muldoon, and went silent.

"As to the other two," Donough said with dignity, "you'll have to assume prior acquaintance; there as no other way I could have arranged to meet them, ahead of time."

"No way at all," Whelk said, deadpan. "It's too bad you didn't have time to fully enjoy the company of any one of them."

McCracken tried to swallow a snicker.

"Social obligations must come before personal pleasure," Donough sighed.

"Yes, but personal pleasure should be considered." Whelk turned serious, and also turned to Muldoon. "You really must take shore leave now and then, Engineer. It's vital to your emotional well-being."

"Yes, Muldoon!" McCracken turned a genial smile on her. "Why don't you come along next time?"

"Yeah, Gracie!" Weiser said, with genuine concern. "You gotta quit moulderin' in that engine room! Get out an' live a little! You need it!"

"No," Muldoon said, very quietly, "I don't think so."

She was still very quiet as she led the way back to the engine room. Rod felt awkward as he followed behind her, knowing damn well that she wanted to be alone, but not seeing any polite way to excuse himself. He kept feeling as though he should make conversation, but knew it would do more harm than good.

As they came through the door, Muldoon muttered something about paperwork and sat down at her terminal. Rod drifted around the engine room, not knowing where else he could go, but not wanting to be in her way. She was punching at the pads as though they were mortal enemies. The silence stretched tighter and tighter, till Rod could almost hear it thrum.

Finally, he couldn't take it any more. "Uh, sir, I could take the watch, if you needed to do…"

Then he couldn't hear himself anymore, because she was sobbing.

Rod was terrified. Oh, he'd dealt with tears before, but these sounded real. His instincts moved him to her as surely as his glands, but he didn't know what he could do.

Finally, he gave in and dropped to one knee beside her. "It'll be all right," he murmured. "It all comes out okay in the end! It's not really that bad!"

"Oh, shut up!" she stormed. "You don't even know what you're talking about!"