Dusty awoke to find the sunshine streaming in through a small porthole
and lighting the cabin cheerfully. The smell of fresh air was in his
lungs, a pungent, pleasant smell faintly of cinnamon or nutmeg but
not quite either. He recalled that he had folded out on the divan in
the salon, now he was in one of the cabins below the salon level. He
wondered how he had arrived.
He stretched his muscles, the cool sheets felt pleasant against his
back. Then he wondered who had undressed him and how anybody had been
gentle enough to do the job without waking him. He looked around the
cabin expectantly and as he looked, his door opened and a woman came in.
She was wearing white from cap to slippers and Dusty pegged her for a
nurse at once. She was wholesome enough, but neither her face nor her
figure would have stopped any traffic on Fifth Avenue. She carried a
book with a finger slipped between pages to mark her place and in
her other hand she held the Marandanian equivalent of a cigarette. A
pleasant curl of smoke rose from the lighted end.
"Hello," she offered brightly. "And how do we feel this morning?"
"We feel fine," grunted Dusty. "And we'll feel better after a shower, a
shave, and some of that smoke you're using. I'd also enjoy a change of
clothing."
"We took the liberty of having your uniform cleaned. The shower and
shaving gear is in the bath--there--and as for the cigarette, I can
offer you one right now."
"Give," said Dusty with a grin. She handed him a case and snapped a
lighter for him. He puffed and found that the stuff, while far from
tobacco, was tasty enough. He took a deep puff and let the smoke filter
out through his nose.