The Barsoom Project

He was her personal bloodhound, and a dear boy. She wished he would be less protective, or else make a move on her himself. There was something about this Dream Park that got her hormones running.

The environments within Falling Angel were designed for survival and for work. One could lose oneself in the thousand little necessities of life, software and momentum and radiation shielding and recycling of toilet paper, and forget that human beings need more than air, water, and food to be whole.

Then again, Charlene Dula was Ambassador Arbenz’s niece. She was damned rich, and that kept a lot of the men at bay. And there was her height…

What it boiled down to was a set of teen-aged nerves in a twenty-five-year-old body.

“There. I think that’s all we need.” Ollie slapped the side of her knee gently.

“And aside from the knee, how am I doing?”

“Everything is fine, hon.” Ollie cocked his head at her. “My professional opinion is that with plenty of sleep, and the help of your calcium supplements, we’d have your muscular and skeletal system up to Earth normal in about two months. But you’re handling the stress just fine. Now-go and have fun.”

“Doctor’s orders?” Married, he was. Just testing “Doctor’s orders.”

She pushed herself up and tested the knee carefully, walked over to the campfire by the side of the spring.

There had been plenty of driftwood available for a fire, much to nobody’s surprise. In Dream Park, the Gods provided. The Adventurers circled the bonfire, clapping, drinking fruit juice, and finishing their dinners. Two paid special attention to her approach: Hippogryph/Marty, and Snow Goose/Gwen.

Gwen’s face lit up. She asked, “Is Ollie all finished with you?”

“So he says.”

“Good. Kevin?”

Kevin had been keeping an eye on the spring, watching Trianna and Johnny cavorting. Those two climbed out of the water now. They dried each other primly, but shared the same towel. Johnny wound it into a rope and snapped the tip at Trianna’s bottom. She squealed and ran jiggling to the firelight.

Gwen said, “Kevin?”

“Oh… yeah?”

“Have you got the verses?”

He was a little sad, but forced some jollity into his thin voice. “Sure. You go ahead.”

Gwen kissed Kevin on the cheek, and ran off to join Ollie. Kevin swung into the next verse:

“ You see I met this crazy Arab, And he showed me his book.

I thought it couldn’t hurt me just to take one little look. But though I couldn’t read the language. It did something to my mind. Now I’m searching for something

I’d rather not fiiind!”

Charlene kneed Hippogryph in the shoulder. He made a contented grunting sound and scooted aside to make room for her. He had been trying to sing, but the poor darling couldn’t carry a tune if it had handles. He was trying hard to be a Gamer, but just wasn’t quite fitting in.

“How’s the knee?”

“Nice,” she said, and extended her leg, flexing it a couple of times. “Feel?”

Hippogryph probed it gingerly with a forefinger. A little light went on in his eye as he carried the probe down to the meat of her thigh.

She flexed unobtrusively, she hoped. She had worked long and hard to put firmness there. Too many of the women of Falling Angel never put in their full time on the treadmills and climbing racks. They had rubbery, gelatinous thighs in spite of countless posted cautionary notices and the imposition of penalty points.

There was even a fashion movement to suggest that it was more attractive, sexier somehow, to be flabby. Ridiculous. Charlene screwed up her courage, and asked: “You like?”

Hippogryph tried to slap his professional mask back down. “Lady..”

She reached over and touched her forefinger to his lips. “I’ll tell you what. You take a walk with me, tell me all about it?”

“I don’t know about this.” His face was darkly humorous. He was attracted to her, no questioning that. But duty was calling.

“Of course, if you don’t want to, I’ll just stroll outside by myself. Maybe I can find a nice terrorist to keep me company.”

Marty levered himself up. “Truly, whither thou walkest I must walk too.”

So she walked him over to a quieter corner of the cave. Her bedroll was already out, and a plate of fruit was nearby, just in case. As a girl she had been a Moon Scout. Charlene believed in being prepared.

Marty squinted. “I’m being seduced, yes?” He sat down, and offered his arm for support. “Oh, well!” A thick black-furred arm as solid as an angle iron.

They sat together in the shadows. Marty put his arm around her ribcage, and sighed. “I wonder if I can be fired for this.”

“Bushwah. You’re supposed to be a bodyguard. So, guard my body!” His wide neck was in the crook of her elbow; her fingers played in the thick fur of his chest. She leaned her cheek against his scalp. His hair still smelled a little of good clean sweat from his match with Max. She giggled.

“What now?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about watching you throw Max around. He’s a lot bigger than you. You really did well.”

“Yeah,” he growled, “but they’re the ones off celebrating.”