Free Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra by Stephen Lawhead Page B

had seen no evidence that anyone had been surreptitiously using the galley, but then as long as the person cleaned up after himself, there was no way anyone could tell.
    So Treet and Pizzle crouched in a cramped cubbyhole for dry stores, waiting—an eternity it seemed to Treet—for the stranger to materialize. The galley lights had been turned off so they could observe the mysterious stranger without themselves being observed, and they had been taking turns watching. It was Treet's turn to put his eye to the crack in the partition, and he was ready to call it quits.
    “I don't see why you need me at all,” complained Treet, not for the first time. “This is a big waste of time.”
    “I need you to verify the sighting.”
    “You make it sound like we're waiting for a UFO.” He craned his neck around and saw the metal rims of Pizzle's glasses glint in the dim light. “Phew! It's stuffy in here. I'm getting out before I'm hunchbacked for life.”
    “Shh! Quiet, will you? If anybody
was
out there, you'd have scared him off by now.”
    “Whoever it is is probably fast asleep in bed, and that's where we should be. Look, why can't you rig up a few motion detectors or proximity switches or something. Anyone messing around in the galley would trip the alarm and you could come running with your little Panasonic holocamera and catch them flatfooted in the act.”
    “Yeah, and get nothing for my trouble but pictures of you or Crocker sneaking food from cold service while I'm trying to sleep.”
    “Why is this so important to you, anyway?” Treet asked. “This guy just likes his privacy. So what?
I
should be so lucky.”
    “It isn't natural, that's why. And I'm curious—that in itself is enough reason for me.”
    “Well, I'm not that curious. I don't know why I agreed to this lunatic scheme of yours anyway. I'd feel silly if I wasn't so sore.” Treet shifted his weight and banged his head against a shelf. “Ow! That's it—I'm getting out of here.”
    With that he pushed aside the partition and climbed out. “You coming?”
    Pizzle glanced at his watch. “Might as well. Time's nearly up anyway.” He crawled out of the cubbyhole on his hands and knees. “If he was coming tonight, he'd have been here by now.”
    Treet walked back to his compartment and Pizzle followed, pausing at the entrance to the stranger's quarters to press his ear against the door. Treet cast a disparaging look back at him; Pizzle shrugged and shuffled along to his room. “G'night, Treet.”
    Treet stood on the threshold of his compartment with the door open. When he heard Pizzle's door close, he tiptoed back to the stranger's compartment and listened. He heard nothing, so pressed his ear against the door. He was about to turn away when, to his surprise, the door folded back and he stood staring into two jet-black eyes. The eyes—set in an exquisite, bronze-colored face which was surrounded by a fall of shining black hair—regarded him coolly. His first impression was that he'd seen that face before, but in a very different context.
    “Miss Talazac!” he said, recovering himself. “I didn't recognize you without your braid.”
    “Mr. Treet,” she replied crisply, “is this one of your perverse habits—listening outside people's doors?”
    “Not at all.” Treet received the strong impression that she had expected him to be there. “I was just … well, curious. We wondered about you—I mean, about the person inside. We hadn't seen anyone, and it's been several days. We thought something might have happened to you.”
    “You need not have concerned yourself. I am, as you see, quite all right. If you will excuse me—” She made a move to pass by him, and Treet stepped back.
    “I'm sorry if I disturbed you,” he said, more for something to say than from any real regret.
    She turned and faced him, holding his eyes with her own, her face expressionless. Treet felt ridiculous, as if he were floundering in shallow water. He wanted to