Free Upon a Sea of Stars by A. Bertram Chandler

said, “We may be crossing our bridges before we come to them, if we ever do come to them. But that’s one of the things that a commanding officer is paid for. It looks as though we may have to devise some workable system of polyandry. . . .”
    “Include me out,” she said sharply. “By some people’s standards I’ve led a far from moral life, but I have my own standards, and they’re the most important as far as I’m concerned. If the microcosmic civilization aboard this ship degenerates to a Nature red in tooth and claw sort of set-up, then I’m looking after Number One. The best bet will be to become the private, personal popsy of the Old Man of the tribe.”
    He looked at her carefully as she sat there in the armchair, contriving to loll even in conditions of Free Fall. She was wearing uniform shorts and her smooth, tanned legs were very long, and her carelessly buttoned shirt revealed the division between her firm breasts. He looked at her and thought, The Old Man of the tribe . . . But it’s a figure of speech only. I’m not all that old. He said drily, “I suppose that rank should have its privileges. And if I’m the Old Man of my tribe, then you’re the Old Woman of yours.”
    She said, “You flatter me, sir.”
    He said, “In any case, all this talk is rather jumping the gun. Your Mr. Renfrew and my own bright boys may come up with the answer.”
    She said, “They may not—and a girl has to look after herself.”
    He murmured, more to himself than to her, “I wish that there were some other reason for your . . . proposition.”
    She laughed, but tremulously, “And do you really think that there’s not, John?”
    “But these are exceptional circumstances,” he said. “I know your reasons for embarking on this expedition. There were two men in your life, in our own Continuum, and you lost both of them. You’re hoping to find what you lost.”
    “And perhaps I have found it. We’ve been cooped up in this tin coffin together long enough now. I’ve watched you, John, and I’ve seen how you’ve reacted to emergencies, how you’ve kept a tight rein on your people without playing the petty tyrant. They all respect you, John, and so does my own staff. And so do I.”
    He said, a little bitterly, “Respect isn’t enough.”
    “But it helps, especially when respect is accompanied by other feelings. It would help, too, if you were to regard me, once in a while, as a woman, and not as Commander Verrill, Federation Survey Service.”
    He managed a grin. “This is so sudden.”
    She grinned back. “Isn’t it?” And then she was serious again. “All right. I don’t mind admitting that the jam we’re in has brought things to a head. We may never get back again—either to our own Continuum or to any of the more or less parallel ones. We may all die if one of our bright young men does something exceptionally brilliant. But let’s ignore the morbid—or the more morbid—possibility. Just suppose that we do drift for a fair hunk of eternity on our little, self-sustaining desert island. As you know, some of the old gaussjammers have been picked up that have been adrift for centuries, with the descendants of their original crews still living aboard them. . . .
    “Well, we drift. You’re the boss of your tribe, I’m the boss of my smaller tribe. Our getting together would be no more than a political alliance.”
    He said, “How romantic.”
    “We’re rather too old for romance, John.”
    “Like hell we are.”
    He reached out for her, and she did not try to avoid him.
    He reached out for her, and as he kissed her he wondered how long it was since he had felt a woman’s lips—warm, responsive—on his. Too long, he thought. And how long was it since he had felt the rising tide of passion and let the softly thunderous breakers (her heart and his, and the combined thudding loud in his ears) bear him where they would? How long since he had felt the skin—firm, resilient, silken-soft—of a