John Sandford - Saturn Run

Gorey asked, “You got a note from Fang-Castro?”

Sandy wheedled: “Elroy, I’ve been talking to Fiorella about doing a feature on the garden, but I can sink that in one minute. I’m not saying I will, because I’m a good guy, but I’m telling you, she needs some convincing.”

“I might be able to spare one tomato,” Gorey said. “If nobody talks.”

“He made my bass,” Crow said. “I won’t talk.”

“Me neither,” Martinez said.

“I want a big one, and juicy, but not overripe,” Sandy said. “And maybe a couple of lettuce leaves.”

“Picky, picky, picky…”

Sandy knocked on Becca’s cabin door and she popped it open. She was sitting on her bunk. The Go board and two bowls of Go stones, half black, half white, took up most of the space on a small table.

Unlike the chess nuts at Harvard, Becca had proven to be cheerfully patient with his beginner status: he was even starting to improve. She’d gone from spotting him eight stones, to seven, though he suspected that he’d never be playing her even-up. It was that whole brain thing, he thought, and the differences in cerebral structure that probably went to early childhood or even to genetics. She visualized whole towns with buildings and apartments and bicycle racks, a useful ability in Go. He couldn’t do that.

But she couldn’t let go of that structure. She’d seen him drawing, freehand, different concepts for guitars that he was manufacturing with Martinez, and asked him to teach her a little drawing. As it turned out, she could draw neither a straight line nor an accurate curved one. She insisted on drawing what she knew, rather than what she saw, a tendency not easily curable.

They’d talked about those differences: he’d argued that a mind that could build and contain an entire town, right down to the wallpaper in the apartments, was a winner at Go. She’d said, “There’s a part of Go, at a level higher than I’m at, that involves intellectual release…. I can’t do that, but you can.”

“Maybe,” he said doubtfully.

In any case, he pushed through the door carrying two paper bags and a covered plate that smelled of hot buttered toast and tofu bacon, though the tofu bacon was indistinguishable from the pig kind.

“What’s that?” Becca asked.

“Got a contraband tomato from Elroy,” Sandy said.

He rolled the tomato out of the smaller sack and popped the lid on the covered plate. Four slices of hot buttered toast, six strips of crispy bacon.

“Oh my God, BLTs. Real ones,” Becca said. “You should have gotten one for yourself.”

“Yeah, you try to eat one bite more than your share, you’re gonna be in a fistfight,” Sandy said. “And… I got beer. I bought Wagner’s ration.” Jim Wagner, a navigation tech and Sandy’s backup photographer, didn’t drink. Didn’t like the taste of alcohol, he said; but he had no difficulty in collecting his ration, and selling it to the highest bidder.

“If Fang-Castro finds out he’s selling his ration, she’ll kick his ass,” Becca said. “Somebody could get enough beer together to get drunk.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to tell her? Besides, if you really wanted to get drunk, you could just save your own ration for a few days.”

“When you’re right, you’re right. Pop me one of those babies.”

Four days past perihelion and thirty-six days into their flight, the Nixon was now a safe fifty million kilometers from the sun, and shipboard life, despite the two-day furor over the orgy club, had resumed its previous level of boredom. Sandy would’ve thought that impossible.

The Nixon was still too close to the sun for extravehicular sorties, but the risk to the ship from solar misbehavior had diminished. The giant metal radiator sail protected the living and engineering modules from the killing heat of the receding sun; they’d also block the brunt of any soft radiation or charged particle winds that might blow their way. X-rays were still a risk, if there were major flare, but that was about it.

Sandy handed Becca the first of the four beers he had in the sack, and they ate the BLTs in companionable silence, and finally settled behind the Go board. Sandy had a seven-stone handicap. He’d thought about the game during the day, had reread part of a famous Go instruction book by Nicholai Hel that he’d downloaded from the Internet, and confidently began to lay out his handicap.

This time—and maybe because she drank three of the four beers—it took her almost an hour and a half to beat him.

When it was over, Becca pursed her lips thoughtfully and said, “You know, Sandy, I think you’re actually getting the hang of this. Maybe you should move up to a six-stone handicap.”

He grinned. “Or maybe I should stay with seven stones and get to win a game, for once.”

“That’s probably not going to happen, not yet,” she said.

“You really like to win, don’t you?”

“The business I’m in, when I’m right, you bet. Keeps power plants running, keeps people alive. And I’m just about always right. On the big points, anyway.”

Sandy looked at her thoughtfully. “Isn’t that kind of self-aggrandizing?”

Becca was taken aback for a second, by both the thought and the vocabulary. Damn, she thought. I keep forgetting he’s not stupid, just lazy. Harvard degree. Gotta remember that.

“Sandy…” She paused for a moment, organizing her thoughts before responding. “I have to be. You are a rich, handsome, privileged, white guy. You get to play on the easy level. If you gave a crap, people would take you seriously, automatically, because guys like you get that as a freebie. I’m a short, blond woman who was raised Minnesota Nice, plus I have a cute face and I’m fat! How seriously do you think I’d get taken in the world if I didn’t regularly throw it in their faces?”

Sandy’s gaze was fixed on her; it was a little unnerving when he focused like that. “But wouldn’t people like you better if you weren’t quite so, um…” He fumbled for a word. Becca interrupted him.

“What? Assertive? Aggressive? Pushy? Do you really think people will pay more attention to my technical advice, my expertise, if it comes from a nice Minnesota girl? Really?”

Sandy held up his hands, palms outward. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

Her eye ticked, which meant she was checking the time. “Speaking of winning, we could probably squeeze in another game before lights-out.”

Sandy didn’t say anything, just looked at the board for several seconds.

“Yoo-hoo, Sandy?”

“So… I’ve been thinking…” He paused.

She looked at him impatiently. “Aaaaaannnd? Tick tick tick…”

What the hell, he thought: she was the blunt sort: “Have you considered the possibility of the two of us having sex?”

Becca blinked and then she laughed, a real laugh. “Wow, so that’s how you smooth Harvard stud-muffins woo your women? Who knew! Be still, my heart.”

“Look, there didn’t seem to be any… if this pisses you off… I’m saying, I’m not real big on pressure, it’s, uh… I don’t think our friendship… or the Go, for that matter…”

“Hold it, hold it, hold it. Did I say no?”

Sandy relaxed just a trifle. “I thought you might be about to. Especially after the freak-out with the orgy club.”

“Did fantasizing about the orgy club get you to this? Because if it did…”

“No, no, no, nothing like that. You’re a good-looking woman—”

“I’m fat…”

“So you’re round. That’s fine with me. Doesn’t mean you aren’t cute, except when you’re slicing me up for something…. Anyway…”