Free Conquistador by S. M. Stirling Page B

as he replied. It was encouragingly ringless, and the mark of his own wedding band had had years to fade. There was a ring on her thumb, a distinctive circle of braided gold and platinum.
    â€œThanks!” she said pleasantly.
    She had an accent, though not the flat Californian one with the perky rising inflection on the end of sentences, which he’d always found rather grating. This was more like a very faint Southern tinge underlying General American, a pleasant softening; there was something else too, a lilt and roll he couldn’t place at all. Possibly European of some sort. At a guess, she was Bay Area, or possibly points a bit north. The long-fingered hand in his as they shook was pleasantly solid and strong; she looked like a human being, not a Dresden figurine. Petite women made him nervous, which was a handicap even when it wasn’t mutual. His wife had been a cheerleader when he met her; football was where he got the slight kink in his nose, although the wedding had been long after high school.
    â€œI’m Adrienne Rolfe,” she went on, holding out a hand. “Just got into town to do some lobbying.”
    Oh-ho! he thought. The game commences, Watson!
    Her eyes narrowed.
    Damn! My poker face isn’t quite as good as I thought.
    â€œYes,” she said. “I’m one of those Rolfes—and I did hear about that embarrassing little episode in Los Angeles. As a matter of fact, I was investigating it myself—for the family.”
    He nodded noncommittally. Although it was hard to be entirely detached . . .
    â€œTom Christiansen,” he replied. “Department of Fish and Game. Warden.” That was reflex; in the state capital you established your tribe. She probably knew already.
    â€œAh!” she said, her eyes widening in an interest that looked sincere. That was unusual. “I love the outdoors. I fish and hunt myself, whenever I get the time.”
    Better and better, he thought.
    To a lot of people here in California, hunting anything but the wild tofu-lope was equivalent to sacrificing babies to Satan. It was amazing how little contact with real nature a lot of people who thought of themselves as environmentalists had; if there was one thing that was completely natural, it was killing your food.
    â€œMe too,” he said. “Though not so much recently.”
    She nodded and went on: “I don’t know anyone here. Would you mind spotting for me, if you have the time?”
    â€œSure,” he said, grinning; she matched the expression. “What weight?”
    â€œOne-sixty,” she said. “Three sets of twelve reps; just a maintenance program while I’m away from home.”
    He blinked as they rearranged the weights, the cast-iron disks of his program clanking as they unclipped them from the bar and dropped them onto the appropriate pegs and replaced them with hers. One-sixty was awfully heavy; it must be a good twenty over her own body weight, maybe more. She didn’t look like a bodybuilder, though she wasn’t skinny, and the definition on the long straplike muscles of her arms and shoulders was excellent.
    More likely dance training, maybe acrobatics, or just a fitness freak like me, he thought.
    They both looked like human beings, not anatomical diagrams; the “ripped” look required special diets and programs to get rid of the normal thin coating of subcutaneous fat; it was also violently bad for you, not to mention the hormones those idiots stuffed into themselves. Not to also mention that when a woman drove her body-fat content down that far her breasts disappeared, which with Ms. Rolfe was obviously not the case.
    She lay on the bench, breathed in and out sharply three times, and put her gloved hands on the checked grip section of the bar. Tom stood at her head and kept his hands between hers, palm-up but not quite touching the metal rod, ready to grab it if she lost control. She didn’t; instead she lifted