"Lots of in-and-out, like usual this time of year."
They were walking down the slip, back toward the ramp, when movement caught the corner of Kate's eye. Gull walked on a few paces before he realized he was alone, and stopped to look around. "Kate?"
She held a ringer to her lips, and he, surprisingly light-footed for one of his bulk, came back to stand next to her. "What?"
She pointed with her chin. He looked, and his face darkened. "Ah."
It was Cal Meany, boarding his drifter, and he wasn't alone. She had a mass of dark hair that rioted around her face in artificial curls and a figure lush enough to give the Pope whiplash. Her plaid shirt was unbuttoned and her jeans were falling down and her back was against the bulkhead of the cabin on Meany's boat. As they watched, one of his hands fumbled with his zipper. A second later the woman let out a shriek that echoed around the boat harbor. Meany clapped a hand over her mouth, wrenched the door of his cabin open and stumbled inside, her legs wrapped around his waist. The door slammed shut behind them.
Gull had turned a delicate shade of red, and he looked everywhere but at Kate. Kate herself was unmoved. The encounter had had all the tenderness and respect of a couple of Doberman pinschers in heat. She looked around the harbor, wondering how many other witnesses there had been. Meany had conducted his amour on the side of the boat facing away from town, but that didn't mean much between periods in the middle of the fishing season.
"Bastard," Gull mumbled, still red.
"You know Meany, Gull?" Kate said, starting to walk again.
"Damn straight I do, that prick is the biggest poacher in town. I mean to tell you, Kate, it's hot and cold running babes the year round. And he's married," he added, outraged, like no one in Alaska had ever committed adultery before. He added accusingly, "And so is she."
"Who is she?"
"Myra," he said. "Myra Sarakovikoff."
"Not Tim's wife?" she exclaimed. She hadn't made the wedding, and so had not yet met the bride.
Gull gave a gloomy nod. "Meany likes his married, because he is, too," he said. "Makes it easier to avoid scenes when they'll both be in trouble if they get caught." They came abreast of the last slip before the ramp, the timbers lining the edges painted yellow, and black letters spelling out "Transient Parking Only." The big man's face darkened. "And Meany's always sneaking into transient parking when I've got my back turned. Last time I ran him off with a shotgun. I'll use it, by God, the next time he tries to pull that crap."
Kate regarded the empty spaces, enough for a dozen bow-pickers or two dozen pleasure craft or four or five crabbers, her tongue firmly between her teeth. "Umm."
"Damn fishermen, anyway," Gull grumbled. "They're always whining and complaining about how long it takes to get a permanent slip, like that's some excuse to take the transient spaces instead. I mean, if you think it takes forever to get a permanent slip in this harbor, you ought to hear what the parking situation is like around Enif Prime, especially since those pushy Nekkarians insisted on a whole friggin' degree of arc for their ambassadorial entourage."
"Crowded, is it?" Kate said sympathetically.
The harbormaster gave an indignant, emphatic nod. "Like salmon up a creek on a morning in July!"
"That is crowded," Kate agreed. She regarded him from one corner of her eye. He had a broad, smooth face (he plucked his whiskers out by the roots) dominated by high, wide cheekbones, widely spaced brown eyes, eyebrows that looked as if they could use a good raking and a mop of thick, naturally curly hair the color of wet sand that would not stay in braids, but Gull didn't let that stop him.
In his authority as harbormaster, Shitting Seagull retained the right to reserve transient parking for ships belonging to such extraterrestrial visitors as wandered out this far on the galactic rim. He had been doing so for twenty years, ever since he first took on the
They were walking down the slip, back toward the ramp, when movement caught the corner of Kate's eye. Gull walked on a few paces before he realized he was alone, and stopped to look around. "Kate?"
She held a ringer to her lips, and he, surprisingly light-footed for one of his bulk, came back to stand next to her. "What?"
She pointed with her chin. He looked, and his face darkened. "Ah."
It was Cal Meany, boarding his drifter, and he wasn't alone. She had a mass of dark hair that rioted around her face in artificial curls and a figure lush enough to give the Pope whiplash. Her plaid shirt was unbuttoned and her jeans were falling down and her back was against the bulkhead of the cabin on Meany's boat. As they watched, one of his hands fumbled with his zipper. A second later the woman let out a shriek that echoed around the boat harbor. Meany clapped a hand over her mouth, wrenched the door of his cabin open and stumbled inside, her legs wrapped around his waist. The door slammed shut behind them.
Gull had turned a delicate shade of red, and he looked everywhere but at Kate. Kate herself was unmoved. The encounter had had all the tenderness and respect of a couple of Doberman pinschers in heat. She looked around the harbor, wondering how many other witnesses there had been. Meany had conducted his amour on the side of the boat facing away from town, but that didn't mean much between periods in the middle of the fishing season.
"Bastard," Gull mumbled, still red.
"You know Meany, Gull?" Kate said, starting to walk again.
"Damn straight I do, that prick is the biggest poacher in town. I mean to tell you, Kate, it's hot and cold running babes the year round. And he's married," he added, outraged, like no one in Alaska had ever committed adultery before. He added accusingly, "And so is she."
"Who is she?"
"Myra," he said. "Myra Sarakovikoff."
"Not Tim's wife?" she exclaimed. She hadn't made the wedding, and so had not yet met the bride.
Gull gave a gloomy nod. "Meany likes his married, because he is, too," he said. "Makes it easier to avoid scenes when they'll both be in trouble if they get caught." They came abreast of the last slip before the ramp, the timbers lining the edges painted yellow, and black letters spelling out "Transient Parking Only." The big man's face darkened. "And Meany's always sneaking into transient parking when I've got my back turned. Last time I ran him off with a shotgun. I'll use it, by God, the next time he tries to pull that crap."
Kate regarded the empty spaces, enough for a dozen bow-pickers or two dozen pleasure craft or four or five crabbers, her tongue firmly between her teeth. "Umm."
"Damn fishermen, anyway," Gull grumbled. "They're always whining and complaining about how long it takes to get a permanent slip, like that's some excuse to take the transient spaces instead. I mean, if you think it takes forever to get a permanent slip in this harbor, you ought to hear what the parking situation is like around Enif Prime, especially since those pushy Nekkarians insisted on a whole friggin' degree of arc for their ambassadorial entourage."
"Crowded, is it?" Kate said sympathetically.
The harbormaster gave an indignant, emphatic nod. "Like salmon up a creek on a morning in July!"
"That is crowded," Kate agreed. She regarded him from one corner of her eye. He had a broad, smooth face (he plucked his whiskers out by the roots) dominated by high, wide cheekbones, widely spaced brown eyes, eyebrows that looked as if they could use a good raking and a mop of thick, naturally curly hair the color of wet sand that would not stay in braids, but Gull didn't let that stop him.
In his authority as harbormaster, Shitting Seagull retained the right to reserve transient parking for ships belonging to such extraterrestrial visitors as wandered out this far on the galactic rim. He had been doing so for twenty years, ever since he first took on the
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