"First name?" I asked. She paused. "What is your first name?"
She looked at the carpet. "Snow," she said softly.
"For real?" I said. "Like with the dwarfs?"
She nodded, as one who'd been over the same conversational ground many
wearisome times in the past. "Mother was a Walt Disney fan, back in the
Age of Movies."
I shook my head, and rang for the steward again. "I think we both could
use a drink."
Later, the puzzled steward departed for the dining salon to return the
steak knife which Snow had "accidentally" picked up. We sipped our
drinks in mutual silence for a minute or two, regarding one another
over the rims of our tumblers. To me, Snow was looking better by the
minute. I even had a momentary thought of flashing the Amnesty at her
to see if those red velvet lips could fulfill in a tactile way the
promise they made visually.
But instead, I said, "Tell me, do you always attack Amnesty-bearers
with the nearest weapon you can lay hold of?"
Snow laughed musically, shaking her head. "I didn't mean to come in
at full threat, Jery," she said softly. "I just wanted some sort of
defense in case--Well, Amnesty-bearers think they can ask _anything_
of a person, and--"
She left the explanation unfinished, but I found myself glad I hadn't
tried pulling rank for a fast romance. "I'm very curious to know just
what you did come in here for, Snow. Or did you just want a peep at the
Amnesty? I saw you react when Baxter let it slip back at the spaceport."
"Is that who that was? Chief Baxter, of International Security?" she
exclaimed.
I realized I was blurting things, and sighed, "Damn, I'm talking too
much."
Snow's eyes gave me the once-over, and she tilted her head to one side,
curiously. "You know, Jery, you don't look like a government official.
You seem to be just an average man."
I thought of my dossier and frowned. "Not quite average, I'm afraid. I
can be hopelessly confused by women."
Snow digested this, then shrugged. "Like I said, you seem to be just an
average man."