This was not his most favorite thing in the Universe. Garibaldi slouched down in the chair and briefly considered attempting to balance the stylus on his forehead. Of course it might be interpreted as some sort of commentary on the utterly boring and mind-numbing nature of the paperwork for incoming shuttle pilots. "Listen, Michael," he said to himself, "if you want the Mars licenses, you're gonna have to fill this stuff out. Besides, if you get through this sane, you could market these forms as quick and easy brainwipes."

He straightened up, and called up the next screen of information.

...

She couldn't believe how late it was getting. Another surreptitious peek around her console at the pilot told her that at least he was _working_ on the forms. He'd slipped in just moments before closing, and by rights she should have told him to come back tomorrow. Lise sighed, and shook her head. He'd given her this crooked little smile and a look of mischief and had said "Please" so nicely that... Lise shivered and slipped her jacket on. It was late enough that the heating had been switched down for the night--she winced as a look at the console chronometer showed just how late it was. She'd missed dinner at the community kitchens. That meant waiting until tomorrow or buying something from one of the vendors, and she was already low on credits.

She resettled herself in her chair and started processing the latest batch of license applications. It was too late for dinner, so she might as well do something constructive.

...

"Miss Hampton?"

She looked up, startled. The pilot was standing there on the other side of her desk, his hands buried casually in his pockets.

"I'm sorry, but...have we met? How do you--"

Garibaldi shrugged, embarrassed. "Sorry. It's a bad habit I picked up in Earthforce, reading docs on the CO's desk. I got your name off those flimsies you're working on." Lise looked down at the flimsies beneath her fingertips. Sure enough, there was her name, visible at the top of the sheet.

"Earthforce?" Lise asked with some concern. "You're not here for a military license, are you? This office processes just the commercial pilot licenses for Mars."

Garibaldi fished in his jacket pocket, produced two data cards and put them into her hand. He took the seat at the side of her desk. "No, it's commercial. I just got here, and I want to set up a shuttle service. You know, pilot for hire--have ship, will shuttle."

His eyes were twinkling, and Lise got the impression that he'd just made a joke. Darned if she knew what it was, though. Her smile and nod of the head seemed to satisfy him.

She transferred the history and references off the data cards and included them with his license application. Lise turned the console screen and Garibaldi signed off at the bottom of the form.

Lise turned the screen back. "Well, Mr. ...Garibaldi, your application is submitted and time-stamped and we're not backlogged at the moment, so barring any problems your licenses should come through by the day after tomorrow at the latest." She stood and extended her hand. "Best of luck, Mr. Garibaldi."

He took her hand and held it. "I wish you'd call me Michael. Every time someone calls me 'Mr. Garibaldi' I figure it's Trouble paging me personally."

She blushed, and laughed softly. "All right, 'Michael' it is. My name is--"

"Lise." She caught the mischief in his voice straight on. Garibaldi let go of her hand with obvious reluctance.

"Well..." Garibaldi mumbled into the sudden silence, his hands taking refuge in his pockets once more. "I should be going...listen, can I ask you something? Any particular reason it's so damned cold in here?"

Lise wasn't sure whether he was kidding or not. No, he'd just arrived, he wouldn't know. "This is a business and industrial complex. They turn down the heating after hours to save energy."

He looked at the time on the console for confirmation. "Aw, nuts. It's really late--I probably made you miss your date this evening. A woman as beautiful as you must have a boyfriend. He's gonna be angry and come looking for me and then all that paperwork for the licenses will go to waste. I just wanted to be a working stiff and now I'm going to be a dead working stiff."

His chagrin was charming, then the compliment caught up with Lise. She smiled shyly and shook her head. "No, no boyfriend, and the only plan was dinner at the community kitchen--"

"Dinner? You'll forgive me if I take you to dinner? You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Hampton." Lise opened her mouth to object, but Garibaldi gave no quarter. She just managed to grab her purse as Garibaldi herded her toward the door.

"Listen, there's this place with the best burgers. It's kind of a dive--near the pilots' quarter--but the food is reasonable and they've got these vids you wouldn't believe--"

...

"_Kind_ of a dive?" Lise thought dubiously as Garibaldi escorted her into the dimly lit and demonstrably disreputable Flame Out Bar and Grill. In the near corner a group of decidedly greasy techs eyed her and bartered whispers to each other, humorous conjectures in exchange for a pull from a flask passed hand to hand. Lise edged a little closer to Garibaldi. Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea.

The bartender raised an eyebrow as he looked Lise over, but cocked his head toward the back of the establishment in response to Garibaldi's two-fingered sign. One of the greasy techs had moved in to block their way, weaving slightly as he stood but his eyes round with the sight of Lise. Garibaldi wagged his finger disapprovingly, then leaned forward.

"I wouldn't, pal," Garibaldi warned in a low whisper.

"Yeah?" sneered the tech, who managed a redolent belch in the middle of the word.

"Yeah. See," Garibaldi leaned even closer, "she's an undercover PsiCop, a P13, and if you try to jump her--she'll make you chew *it* off with your own teeth and then she'll feed it to you." Garibaldi looked back over his shoulder at Lise, then to the visibly horrified tech again, letting his gaze drop to the tech's fly. "Raw."

The tech stumbled away, murmuring a drunken apology, overturning stools and chairs in his haste. Lise clung to Garibaldi's arm, watching the tech's retreat with astonishment.

"What did you say to him, Michael?"

Garibaldi shrugged. "I told him you were here for a quick bite." Lise turned back to see the group in the corner, and the men, who had been listening to the drunk's story, noticed Lise's stare and trampled each other in their rush to be the first one out the door. She looked the question at Garibaldi, who seemed to be at a loss for an explanation.

"Maybe they were late for an appointment. This way, the tables are in the back."

...

Lise lifted the edge of the bun slowly, peering at it sideways, as if afraid something was going to slither out. But nothing oozed, crawled, or signaled distress as she pulled the bread away. Garibaldi was oblivious to her concerns; instead, he launched into a gastronomic evaluation of the condiments at the table.

"...and this one," Garibaldi tapped the lid of the jar with the bowl of his spoon, "this one is the best. A lot like the flavor of jalapeno chutney--the kind with raisins and allspice--but without the fire." He dumped a heaping spoonful onto the mystery meat on his plate, and then put half that amount on Lise's open-faced burger. Lise squelched the remainder of her protest and smiled weakly.

Truth be told, this back area was much nicer than the front. It had cozy, almost intimate seating, and it was certainly cleaner than the bar area they'd walked through. Each table had a vid unit, with a decent selection of classics and new fare available upon request. Garibaldi had tapped his index finger on top of the vid unit, asked for "the usual" and had then ordered for them both--burgers and, after a moment of consideration, tumblers of ice water.

Garibaldi was already three bites into his burger. "C'mon, eat, it's getting cold," he mumbled around the next mouthful. Lise replaced the bun on the meat topped with almost-chutney, and picked up the whole assemblage with dainty fingers.

Garibaldi paused mid-chew, watching her. She was acting like she'd never had a burger before.

Lise looked at the supposed food item she held before her. Were these burger things supposed to drip? The chutney juice was leaking out and making colorful splats on her plate. Was 'mystery meat' a humorous label or --she swallowed nervously-- a warning about the contents?

She closed her eyes and nibbled.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she took a big bite of the burger. Garibaldi burst out laughing. Lise tried to look offended, but with the chutney juice dribbling down her chin, she only managed to look slightly depraved, like a vegetable vampire.

...

He'd watched her wolf down the burger. Hers was an innocent, ravenous delight in something newly discovered. She was an odd contradiction of impressions: she projected strength and fragility, evenly matched, yet unintegrated. It was almost as if she was still deciding which of the two to tap for dominance. After a bit of encouragement, she'd finished off the burger without any further worries about its constituents; that took some guts--some guys he knew would refuse to eat anything 'alien.' A couple of times altercations in the bar had spilled through the doorway of the dining room--and had been immediately ejected by the waitress-bouncers--but each time Lise had grasped his arm, looking for his protection.

"Duck Dodgers" had required a lot of explanation. She'd never seen a classic cartoon vid before. They nursed the water through the rest of the cartoon, and a couple of Daffy shorts before the general din got too loud. Garibaldi paid up, refusing Lise's offer to go 'Dutch' on the bill, then escorted Lise out through the bar. He noted with wry amusement that all conversations stopped and a clear path to the door melted open in the packed room. Lise had momentarily looked bewildered, then she'd held her head high and walked proudly beside him. He could see the envy in more than a few eyes in the bar, a reassessment of this new shuttle pilot named Garibaldi. Good. Maybe he could get a new start here. Maybe he could break away from the booze this time. He just needed some incentive, that's all. Maybe he could do it for her, for Lise.

...

Garibaldi offered to walk her home, and Lise had accepted gladly. She was fairly convinced now that he'd stood up to the drunk in the bar to protect her. It was a heady mix, this feeling of security and the comfort of a full stomach. She could get used to this.

"Do you like to cook?" he'd asked.

They were getting close to home now. Lise waved her hand in the direction of her residential block with some embarrassment. "I'm not very good at it...and these rooms aren't equipped with cooking units anyway. I eat at the kitchens...sometimes when I have a few credits I'll get something from a vendor, some bread or fruit, maybe a little cheese." It was hard admitting that she was living on the edge, living frugally so she could send home some money to her family and still keep up a personal appearance necessary for her job. No one liked eating at the kitchens, but after a while, you got used to it.

"I take management courses when I can," Lise told him. "I've been building a good record here, working my way up through departments. I'm fully qualified as an executive assistant...but those jobs aren't easy to come by. Still, the Commercial Licensing Bureau is a start. That will give me the experience I'll need to apply for an opening with the Transport and Commerce Division. They deal with all the Earth and Mars conglomerates, so a placement there can be a really big break."

He'd confided that he *loved* to cook, and that he'd be happy to make dinner for her sometime, if he wasn't being too forward. Lise laughed, and said she'd consider it. Finally at her door, he shook her hand then impulsively gave her a small kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for this evening, Lise."

"Michael, thank *you*. I enjoyed it--a lot." She paused, and he nodded his head and started off down the corridor.

"Michael?" Lise called after him.

"Yes?" Garibaldi looked back.

"Do you think you could pick up the licenses in person?"

A sly smile broke over his face. "Maybe. Yeah, I think that can be arranged."

Lise leaned against the door for a while, listening until the notes of his whistling were lost in the ambient whispers of the dome.

© 1998 An Acquired Taste by Cathy Faye Rudolph