Tin Woodman Read Free Page A

interpreted individuals in terms of their personalities rather than their looks, he was not at all attractive on any level. The shock of smooth black hair to her was like a storm cloud settled atop his skull, flashing lightning bursts of self-involvement through cautious, ferret eyes. His nose was thin at the bridge but flaring at the nostrils; his teeth were even and white behind a sensuous mouth, which now smiled/scowled in perfect expression of the amusement, mixed with mean satisfaction, Mora could read in his mind.
    “You shouldn’t sleep with the intercom deactivated, Mora, You’re on bridge duty,” he said lightly. “Fifteen minutes late, in fact.” The man stretched his angular limbs with exaggerated casualness, dropping the list onto a chair in front of her. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
    Mora paced the room, shaking her head violently in a futile attempt to clear her mind. “Can’t be so soon,” she mumbled. “’I was just relieved . . .” Her gaze fell upon the partly empty container of stress pills on her bunkside dresser. Tamner noticed them too, signaling his understanding with an unpleasant smile.
    “Overworked, Mora?” he prodded.
    Without warning, Mora felt waves of sexual desire—Tamner’s, not her own—sweep through her. Still drowsy, caught off guard by the emotional and sensory assault, Mora staggered, nearly falling. Jin Tamner stood suddenly, reaching for her. “How about a little physical therapy?” he said.
    Mora hit him hard. Once.
    Tamner released her and backed away, still smiling, though feelings of hatred and contempt still pulsed in his mind. No wounded pride, however. That stung Mora in a way which all his hatred could not.
    How could she hurt his pride. She, who had none.
    “Get out,” she shouted, fighting off hysteria. “The next time you come here, you’d better have an EI from MedSec—” The feebleness of the protest embarrassed her. She watched silently as Tamner turned and left, the door sliding shut behind him with a hiss.
    Mora slid down onto the bed, reaching into the top drawer of the dresser for her nausea tablets. She took three and reclined against the cool solidity of the cabin wall.
    What a sadistic bastard, she thought, trying to dismiss the incident emotionally. Yet she knew that this was no good—Tamner was, for all intents and purposes, merely a little worse than other Normals, God protect her.
    Slowly, she regained sufficient composure to dress for duty-blue uniform leotards, gold slacks and sleeveless jacket, quarter-length boots. On the left breast pocket of the jacket glittered the stylized silver star-and-caduceus of the Space Service Medical Corps. It mocks me, Mora thought as she arranged her long wheat-colored hair in a semblance of order. Reaching for the intercom, she punched out the code for MedSec.
    “Ship’s Medical Service—Psychological Testing Section. May I help you?” the contralto of Head Nurse Vandez responded.
    “Shiplady Mora here. I overslept. I’ll be down in about five minutes—”
    “You’d best go straight to the bridge,” interrupted Vandez. “The ship’s still on a Class two alert, because of Tin Woodman. Command has buzzed us twice already, looking for you.”
    Mora swore softly. This was unusual. Most of the command crew resented her presence on the bridge—Captain Darsen most of all. She had hoped to put off bridge duty for several hours. “No other assignments?” she asked.
    “We have one mild depression, but we can handle her with drug therapy, I’m sure,” Vandez replied smugly. “Oh, and one who needs your full treatment. To augment the psych-machine sessions we’ve been giving him. The doctor in charge suggested it might help. But the subject’s not on active duty at the moment, so he can wait.” Vandez paused. Mora could detect amusement in her voice, though her emotions were unreadable over the intercom circuit. “It’s Scan Engineer Third Class Garth.”
    “Garth? Garth is the one