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When the girl who was actually watching Spacer Gift approached him, as he stood in line or looking out
the window, he thought he knew what she was going to say. Under other circumstances he would
certainly have found her attentions flattering. Since he'd left the base at Port Diamond, other young
women along the way had given signs that they would like to get to know him better; but until now he'd
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been in a hurry. And now he wondered why.
Nifty first became aware of this one through her reflected image in the composite glass that formed the
inner layer of the broad observation port. She looked truly young, not yet twenty at an estimate, and her
slender figure was coming toward him steadily and purposefully; the nature of the movement, the
determined look on her pale face, and the fact that her small fists were clenched, told him that this was
not going to be easy to discourage.
And suddenly he realized that he was in no hurry to get anywhere anyway, and therefore he had no
reason to be discouraging.
So far, from his dramatic return to Uhao until he boarded the admiral's cruiser at Port Diamond, Gift had
been frequently reminded of his celebrity status. His brief experience since leaving the hospital suggested
that he would have no problem at all finding any kind of companionship he wanted. No doubt the badly
concealed fear and disgust he felt gave the impression of shyness, and made him all the more attractive.
So far he'd been avoiding that kind of attention, beyond a few minutes' casual conversation. A few
months ago, immediately after the berserker raid on Port Diamond, casualties had come pouring through
here in a flood; but for the last few weeks, wounded war heroes had once more been rare.
And the more he looked at this one, the more easily he could convince himself that she was truly
different. She was good-looking, all right, but not the best he'd seen on his way home. Wearing sandals,
and a clinging, short-skirted dress that, he decided, was probably more expensive than a first look at it
suggested. Certainly it was flattering. Legs were displayed to ad-vantage, slim hips neatly suggested
rather than revealed. Like him, she was carrying one small piece of luggage. Her eyes were hazel, skin a
creamy off-white, her long hair in braids was almost the color of metal shavings. But there was nothing
harsh or cold about her face or attitude.
"Hello," she said, in a slightly husky and distinctive voice.
"Hello." He turned fully around, setting his back to the observation port.
"I've been watching you." Her voice was not hero-worshiping but almost challenging. She was almost as
tall as he.
"Do I pass inspection?"
That didn't get a direct answer. "I've been waiting for you."
"Really? How did you know I was going to be here?"
They were standing an arm's length apart, with the crowd milling around them.
"I knew." The girl nodded solemnly. "You're going home on leave now, right? The story said your home
was on Earth."
He heard himself say: "I'm not sure where my home is any longer." And as he said the words, he realized
that they were true, and that he was basically comfortable with them.
In any case, the girl ignored the statement. Under pressure of various crowd nudges, they were now a
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couple of centimeters closer to each other. "I'm not going to offer to buy you a drink, anything like that. I
just wanted to see what a hero looked like." There was no gushing or simpering in the remark. But at the
same time, as far as Gift could tell, she sounded perfectly sincere.
He cleared his throat. "Who says I'm a hero?"
"Lots of people." She tossed her metalized braids. "You're Spacer First Class Nifty Gift, aren't you?"
"I have to plead guilty to that, at least."
"Spacer First Class," she mused, as if there were something remarkable about that very ordinary rank. It
wasn't clear if she thought it ought to be higher or lower. Her forefinger traced gently the stripes on his
right sleeve, and it seemed to Gift that he could feel a surprising physical warmth of contact, even through
the thickness of his uniform. Her fingernails appeared to have been altered to grow in the same color as
her hair.
"And your left arm has been hurt," she went on. "They said that on the news." Now she touched the
sleeved forearm on that side, even more gently. There was no obvious giveaway that the hand and wrist
were artificial, and he supposed the idea never occurred to her. She went on: "So you're the one. You've
been in the news for days. How you were the only survivor of your ship."
It had already occurred to Nifty that his one brief press conference must have been broadcast a large
number of times, all across the homeworlds and probably farther. He had seen it, or part of it, a couple
of times himself, by accident.
It gave him an odd feeling to think of his image, his few stumbling, untruthful words on all the media,
spreading out across the Solarian Galaxy. Uncounted billions of people had heard his name, thought that
his ship had been a crewed courier or a scout or supply ship. The location where it had been destroyed
was only vaguely specified.
"I guess a lot of people have seen my face on holostages and in pictures," he said, aware of
understatement.
"Indeed, you're famous."
Several anonymous units of the crowd bumped him again, one after another in rapid succession. "Well,
we're the only two here who seem to realize it. Let me buy you a drink after all, if you don't want to buy
me one. What's your name?"
"I didn't say I wouldn't buy you one. My name is Flower."
"Just generic Flower? Why not maybe Lily, Rose, Violet, some particular kind of flower. Orchid?"
"No. Just Flower. One name is enough."
He understood, from listening to young people at the hospital, that having only a single name was a
fast-spreading fad just now among the young. Anyway, this girl's features were delicate, and the name
she had picked for herself seemed to fit.
"Pretty." He was thinking that he didn't believe it, it somehow fit too well. "Real name?"
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They had linked arms now and were walking together. Flower gripped his left arm, as if it had already
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