*
The pain was getting worse by the second, and Malcolm did not know how long he would be able to keep standing here, pretending he was having a good time. Something in the overly-perfumed air of the room was not agreeing with his allergies; the food had tasted horrid and was now merrily bubbling along destroying his small intestines, and the company...
"--the most common variety of spongeweed on this continent is the Spiky Green." This nameless diplomat (well, surely she had a name, but Malcolm had blocked it out - along with pretty much everything else she'd said since) had been droning on and on about Firzia Prime's seven hundred varieties of spongeweed for the last ten minutes. Malcolm smiled and nodded and pretending he gave a damn. He would gladly have sold his soul to anyone who could come up with a plausible excuse for him to leave.
"Lieutenant Reed?"
Ah. Lieutentant Reed's soul goes to...
"Ensign Mayweather."
He could do a good deal worse.
"I'm sorry to intrude on your conversation, sir, but you're needed in the captain's guest quarters."
"Thank you, Ensign." Malcolm turned to the diplomat. "My apologies, Madam." She demurred, and Malcolm raced out of the hall after the helmsman. "My God, Travis, have you any idea how much I love you right now?"
A slow grin curled Travis's lips. "No, but I'm more than willing to let you show me."
END