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IN TRANSIT:
NEVASA TO BISCAY

Tables in the Dining Room were set for groupings of two, four, and six. It seemed natural enough, when places were adjusted after the exodus and influx of passengers on Nevasa, for Reed, Da Silva, and the Dewhursts to share one of the larger tables with Wade and Belgeddes.

The huge room was illuminated by surface emission from ceiling coffers and the tall vertical columns separating panels of mythological bas reliefs. The lights had been dimmed when serving robots brought out the dessert, Glace Empress, flickering with blue brandy flames. Now sated diners were beginning to leave, and the walls brightened to accommodate them.

The grand staircase from Deck B, down which the splendid made their entrances, was a less romantic feature as folk climbed it again at the close of the meal. Most people chose to leave by the side doors onto Deck A.

Wade looked at the panel beside him, a scene of Roman fishermen with nets and rakes gathering in the riches of a sea packed with life. The stone was a bluish marble gilded to pick out details of the figures. Men, sea creatures, and the choppy waves were executed in realistic style, but none of the people seemed aware of the fish-tailed Tritons and Nereids sporting among them.

"Reminds one of sponge space, doesn't it?" Wade said, gesturing toward the relief with his coffee cup. "Where what you see generally isn't anywhere near you."

"But we're in sponge space now, aren't we, Mr. Wade?" said Ms. Dewhurst, a slightly shorter, slightly more rounded version of her husband. She wore a choker of diamonds and pearls, the latter with a mauve iridescence that marked them as coming from Tellichery.

"What he means, Esther," Dewhurst said, "is when you're out on the hull of the ship in sponge space, not inside the envelope like we are."

"You've been outside the ship, Mr. Wade?" Ms. Dewhurst asked in amazement.

A human steward began to clear the table, handing items into the open maw of the robot which trailed behind him. Flatware and dishes with remnants of the ice vanished without so much as a clink to mark their passing.

"Wade's been everywhere, didn't you know?" Reed muttered.

"Ah, lots of people have traveled," said Belgeddes. "Dickie's done things wherever he was. Just one of those lucky fellows that things happen to, you know."

"Oh, yes, back in the old days—long, long before you were born, Mistress Dewhurst," Wade said. Ms. Dewhurst beamed, an expression that made her broad face unexpectedly attractive. "We used to go out with the Cold Crews and throw targets for each other to shoot at."

"That's impossible!" Dewhurst said.

"Well . . ." said Reed through a grimace, "I do recall old-timers on Ain talking about that sort of thing. It was something they'd heard of, not done, though. That must have been in the really early days of star travel, though."

"There's ships and ships, you know," Belgeddes commented. "You mustn't think that the standards of Trident Starlines are quite the same as what you'll find on some of the tramps Dickie and I knocked around on in our salad days."

"Not impossible, Dewhurst," Wade said easily, "but damned difficult, I'll grant you. It wasn't a matter of accuracy, you see. I've sailed with some crack shots—lizard-hunters on Hobilo, chaps who could knock the eye out of a squirrel at a hundred paces, even wearing spacesuits. Out on the hull, they couldn't hit a thing."

"That," said Da Silva, "I believe."

"I suppose you didn't have any problem, though?" Reed asked.

"No problem?" Wade replied. "I certainly can't claim that. I needed several shots, sometimes half a dozen, before I got a feel for where to aim. The spatial relationships in another universe—that's what each cell of the sponge is, you know—are utterly different from those of our own. And they changed after each insertion, of course."

"A quick study, Dickie is," Belgeddes said approvingly.

The main room was emptying out. The Empress of Earth had six smaller dining rooms as well. Large parties could book them, but normally the separate rooms were used to accommodate groups of non-humans traveling on the vessel. The door of one opened and disgorged a herd of Rialvans, their jaws working in a sidewise rotary motion as they continued to masticate their meal.

Dewhurst sighed. "Anyone for a drink?"

Da Silva shrugged. "Fine by me. Starlight Bar all right?"

"Ugh, not me," said Ms. Dewhurst. "I'm going back to the room, dear. And I believe there's a dance in the lounge tonight."

"It gives me the creeps, looking out at all that—light," Reed said.

"That's good," replied Da Silva. "You can get a meal and a drink in any hotel in the universe. Up there—sponge space—is what makes this different."

"Ah . . ." said Wade, shooting both cuffs of his loose velour shirt. Neither wrist bore a credit bracelet. "I don't seem to be wearing my—"

"No problem," said Da Silva. "I'm buying."

They all got up. A steward and robot poised to make a final sweep.

"As usual," murmured Dewhurst. "Except when Reed's buying, or I am."

Nobody appeared to hear him.

"You know . . ." Reed said softly as he followed Da Silva out of the dining room. "The Empress is supposed to have an impressive shooting gallery . . . ."

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Framed