The Human Division #9: The Observers Read Free Page A

your quarters?”
    “They suck,” Lowen said. “And Luiza already claimed the bottom bunk.”
    “It’s a hard life you lead,” Wilson said.
    “If people only knew,” Lowen said. “Speaking of which, who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?”
    “Fortunately, no one,” Wilson said. “There’s an officers lounge three decks down. It offers a regrettable selection of terrible light beers and inferior spirits.”
    “I can fix that,” Lowen said. “I travel with a bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig in my case.”
    “That’s not necessarily healthy,” Wilson said.
    “Relax,” Lowen said. “If I were genuinely an alcoholic, I’d take along something much cheaper. I brought it on the off chance I might have to butter up one of you folks and pretend to be friendly and such.”
    “Thank God you didn’t have to do that, ” Wilson said.
    “Before we arrived, I thought I might ask Ambassador Abumwe if she’d like a drink,” Lowen said. “But I don’t really get the sense she’s the sort to appreciate a good buttering up.”
    “I think you’ve accurately assessed the ambassador,” Wilson said.
    “You, on the other hand,” Lowen said, pointing at Wilson.
    “I am all about the buttering, Dr. Lowen,” Wilson assured her.
    “Wonderful,” Lowen said. “First stop, the crawl space you folks laughingly call officers berths on this ship. Second stop, officers lounge. Hopefully, it is larger.”

    The officers lounge was larger, but not by much.
    “Does the Colonial Union have something against personal space?” Lowen asked, hoisting the Laphroaig onto the very small table. The officers lounge was empty, except for Lowen, Wilson and the Laphroaig.
    “It’s an old ship,” Wilson explained while selecting a pair of cups from the lounge’s cupboard. “In the old days, people were smaller and appreciated a good snuggle.”
    “I am suspicious of the veracity of your statement,” Lowen said.
    “That’s probably wise,” Wilson said. He came over to the table and set down the cups. They made a click as they connected with the table.
    Lowen, puzzled, reached for one of the cups. “Magnetic,” she said, lifting the cup.
    “Yes,” Wilson said. “The artificial gravity doesn’t frequently cut out, but when it does it’s nice not to have cups floating about randomly.”
    “What about the stuff in the cups?” Lowen asked. “What happens to that?”
    “It gets slurped frantically,” Wilson said, picking up his own cup and waggling it in front of Lowen. Lowen eyed Wilson sardonically, opened the Laphroaig, tipped in a finger and a half and gave herself an equal amount. “To artificial gravity,” she said, in a toast.
    “To artificial gravity,” Wilson said.
    They drank.

    Drink two, some minutes later:
    “So, is it easy?” Lowen said.
    “Is what easy?” Wilson asked.
    Lowen waved at Wilson’s body. “Being green.”
    “I can’t believe you just went there,” Wilson said.
    “I know,” Lowen said. “Jim Henson and several generations of his descendants are now rolling in their graves, many dozens of light-years away.”
    “It is a funny joke,” Wilson said. “Or at least was, the first six hundred times I heard it.”
    “It’s a serious question, though!” Lowen said. “I’m asking from a place of medical curiosity, you know. I want to know if all those so-called improvements they give you Colonial Defense Forces soldiers are actually all that.”
    “Well, start with this,” Wilson said. “How old do I look to you?”
    Lowen looked. “I don’t know, maybe twenty-two? Twenty-five, tops? You being green messes with my age sense. A lot younger than me, and I’m thirty-five. But you’re not younger than me, are you?”
    “I’m ninety,” Wilson said.
    “Get out,” Lowen said.
    “More or less,” Wilson said. “You’re out here long enough and you eventually lose track unless you check. It’s because as long as you’re CDF, you don’t actually