BOUNDARY(121)

"Then I will. Unless what he—they—define as 'cracking down' goes beyond what I'm willing to do. In which case"—the brilliant smile came, in full flashing force—"I guess I'll be the first case of interplanetary unemployment. Maybe I can get a job washing bottles for the chemists."



The dazzling smile was a weapon, too, Joe understood. This was a woman who had devoted her life since she was a child to turning herself into a weapon—and in every way possible.



Could be a weapon, he reminded himself again. The fact that a good kitchen knife was kept sharp didn't automatically make it a weapon for murder. The problem was simply that a good knife had to be sharp, or it wasn't much use. Worse than that, actually. As an experienced chef, Joe knew full well that the most dangerous knife to the user was a dull one. It could slip when you applied the extra force you needed to make it work.



He stared out the window.



Phobos came. Phobos went.



Can I live with that?



Again, the answer came to him the moment he posed it.



Don't be stupid, Joe. And stop being so self-righteous, while you're at it. Every knife in your kitchen is as sharp as a razor.



He couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Leave it to a gourmet to fall in love with a razor blade," he murmured. "Serves me right for being such a snob."



"I'm sorry, I didn't hear that," Madeline said.



"Ah . . . never mind. I was just thinking to myself that if I insisted on a woman who didn't use ketchup on steak, I had a lot of nerve whining about the rest."



He turned and smiled at Madeline. The slight frown on her face made it clear she still didn't understand what he was talking about. No way she could, of course.



"Never mind. Let's just start with the basics. What do you want, Madeline? Concretely, I mean. Sorry, I know that doesn't sound very romantic. But I think like an engineer."



Her frown cleared immediately. "Oh, that's easy. I want to go back, Joe. At least for us. I want to sit down with you and talk food, watch bad action movies, and . . . whatever else we would do together. Even though I know my job isn't going to make that easy."



He looked at the flowers, which seemed to glow in the light of the cabin. She'd spent a week making them, using her ingenuity to design it out of completely unsuitable elements. Knowing, of course—God, the woman was sharp—the emotional impact it would have on him. Manipulating him, if he wanted to think about it that way.



And so what? Naturally she'd use the same skills she'd learned for her profession on a personal matter. Did Joe pretend he wasn't an engineer—forget everything he knew—whenever he repaired a personal item?



What was important was the end, not the means. She'd spent that time for herself, and for Joe, not for her mission. She did it because it was that important to her.



Finally, he felt something inside loosening, opening up almost like a flower itself.



"You know what?" he mused out loud. "I've been in absolutely rotten shape ever since this happened. My work's been crappy, I can't concentrate on recipes—hell, I can't even watch a damn movie because they keep reminding me of you. Like being a dull knife, myself. I don't think I can function without you around any more, Madeline."



She looked up at him with sparkling eyes, maybe a hint of tears. Probably something of an act there, too, but that didn't mean it wasn't sincere.



"So please stay here, eat my chocolate, and watch a movie with me. How's that sound? I have five hours before I go on shift."



"Sounds wonderful."



She sniffled happily, wiping her nose.



Naturally, it was a good sniffle. Even a great one.





"Finally," A.J. said to the uninhabited room around him.



He looked with justifiable pride at the image in front of him. It showed one of the noteplaques with a map of a section of Mars on it.



The thing to be proud of was that this particular plaque did not exist any more—it was the one that Joe had accidentally wrecked a few days before. As they'd suspected, the plaque covered a part of Mars for which they had no other Bemmius-made maps, and was thus the only source of information about what Bemmie and friends had thought about this particular area.



He immediately set the system to processing the data on the plaque. "Hey, Rich, Jane," he called, his system patching into the communication net as he specified the people he wanted to talk to. "Got something for you."



"Don't tell me you actually got it back?"



"Jane, Jane, how could you ever doubt me? I said I could do it, didn't I? So let it be written; so let it be done!"



"So," Rich said, "is it Mars?"