Day of the Dragonstar by Thomas F. Monteleone, David Bischoff Page B
Authors: Thomas F. Monteleone, David Bischoff
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personal, warmer side to Colonel Kemp that she alone knew.
She had grown up with a father who had Iittle time for his children. He worked on Seventh Avenue in Manhattan’s garment district, spending sixty to seventy hours a week building his financial empire. He built it and died of a heart attack by the age of fifty-six, and Becky often mused that the most important thing he had ever said to her was “Pass the salt” when they were seated together at the dinner table. It is often said that people choose mates in relationships that are close to the templates of their most influential parent. Could it be that Becky’s father, by his very indifference to her, had influenced her more than her overly protective mother?
An interesting thought, that.
Becky had always been more of a cool thinker, respectful of the rational idea, the empirical approach to problem solving. She prided herself in being of the scientific bent all through school, but she secretly feared that she was suppressing her emotional side. In fact, when she really analyzed herself objectively, she suspected that she was a closet romanticist, that she really needed someone to be sweet and sappy with. She wanted someone who remembered anniversaries and silly little things, someone who sent her flowers for no reason at all, someone who gave from the heart without being asked first.
And it wasn’t that Phineas Kemp was not capable of those kinds of things. No, it was simply that they never occurred to him. Becky knew that he would normally tryto give her anything she asked for; she was simply tired of having to go through the motions of asking.
What happened to spontaneity? To pleasant surprise?
Her decision to go on the Heinlein had been a bit of spontaneity, hadn’t it? And if it wasn’t pleasant for Phineas, it had at least been a surprise.
She smiled at this last thought, then began wondering why she had pushed so hard for the mission slot. Was it because she wanted to prove something to herself? Or maybe prove something to Phineas? Perhaps the real reason was something more subconscious — a means of drawing Phineas out of his official shell, of making him demonstrate some concern for her . . .
Well, he had certainly done that, although not in the way she had really wanted. She wanted support from him, some sign of belief in who she was, not merely as a desirable woman, but as a person of self-worth and professional ability.
As she lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, she began wondering about the mission itself for the first time. She had not really considered how dangerous the exploratory journey might be. It was funny how the mind worked — placing emotional and psychological needs in the highest priorities, and in the process, forgetting about the real physical dangers.
What did she really expect to gain from the Heinlein mission? Becky sighed to herself and rolled over to stare at the blank face of the bulkhead.
IT TOOK ALL of Ian Coopersmith’s professional training to stay calm, to continue concentrating on the problem before him and not the immensity and majesty of the thing called Artifact One. There it was now in the viewscreen, Iending part of its reflected light to the dimness of the lASA Heinlein’s control room. Scattered about him, either in their flight positions or simply strapped down to observe, were the other members of the expedition, the lights from the screen and the control boards playing over their intent features in odd patterns. He’d come to know them all in the days of the journey. Traveling in space tended to do that with a group. You learned your insignificance real quick against the backdrop of the universe, and you let more of your defensive barriers down to others, if only for the company that as so vital.
Coopersmith stared down again at his operations panel, wanting to check his figures again, but knowing they were right. A trace of the old neuroticism again, huh chappie? he asked himself.
In this
She had grown up with a father who had Iittle time for his children. He worked on Seventh Avenue in Manhattan’s garment district, spending sixty to seventy hours a week building his financial empire. He built it and died of a heart attack by the age of fifty-six, and Becky often mused that the most important thing he had ever said to her was “Pass the salt” when they were seated together at the dinner table. It is often said that people choose mates in relationships that are close to the templates of their most influential parent. Could it be that Becky’s father, by his very indifference to her, had influenced her more than her overly protective mother?
An interesting thought, that.
Becky had always been more of a cool thinker, respectful of the rational idea, the empirical approach to problem solving. She prided herself in being of the scientific bent all through school, but she secretly feared that she was suppressing her emotional side. In fact, when she really analyzed herself objectively, she suspected that she was a closet romanticist, that she really needed someone to be sweet and sappy with. She wanted someone who remembered anniversaries and silly little things, someone who sent her flowers for no reason at all, someone who gave from the heart without being asked first.
And it wasn’t that Phineas Kemp was not capable of those kinds of things. No, it was simply that they never occurred to him. Becky knew that he would normally tryto give her anything she asked for; she was simply tired of having to go through the motions of asking.
What happened to spontaneity? To pleasant surprise?
Her decision to go on the Heinlein had been a bit of spontaneity, hadn’t it? And if it wasn’t pleasant for Phineas, it had at least been a surprise.
She smiled at this last thought, then began wondering why she had pushed so hard for the mission slot. Was it because she wanted to prove something to herself? Or maybe prove something to Phineas? Perhaps the real reason was something more subconscious — a means of drawing Phineas out of his official shell, of making him demonstrate some concern for her . . .
Well, he had certainly done that, although not in the way she had really wanted. She wanted support from him, some sign of belief in who she was, not merely as a desirable woman, but as a person of self-worth and professional ability.
As she lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, she began wondering about the mission itself for the first time. She had not really considered how dangerous the exploratory journey might be. It was funny how the mind worked — placing emotional and psychological needs in the highest priorities, and in the process, forgetting about the real physical dangers.
What did she really expect to gain from the Heinlein mission? Becky sighed to herself and rolled over to stare at the blank face of the bulkhead.
IT TOOK ALL of Ian Coopersmith’s professional training to stay calm, to continue concentrating on the problem before him and not the immensity and majesty of the thing called Artifact One. There it was now in the viewscreen, Iending part of its reflected light to the dimness of the lASA Heinlein’s control room. Scattered about him, either in their flight positions or simply strapped down to observe, were the other members of the expedition, the lights from the screen and the control boards playing over their intent features in odd patterns. He’d come to know them all in the days of the journey. Traveling in space tended to do that with a group. You learned your insignificance real quick against the backdrop of the universe, and you let more of your defensive barriers down to others, if only for the company that as so vital.
Coopersmith stared down again at his operations panel, wanting to check his figures again, but knowing they were right. A trace of the old neuroticism again, huh chappie? he asked himself.
In this
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