Finkle, Out of Sorts, Chapter 2
And again: the vicious direct questioning. She had missed her calling; she should have been a district attorney. Alan shifted in his seat, aware that he was beginning to sweat in the air conditioned office. His face felt warm; he knew he was blushing, and he knew she was making note of that as well. Like she did every week.
“I … ” He trailed off and shrugged. It was easier to be noncommittal.
Doctor Keller quirked an eyebrow upward. “Alan, please. We go through this every session.
Why do you feel you need to keep evading me? I’m not your enemy here, you know. I want to help you. But if you button yourself up inside yourself all the time, I can’t do very much. What do you think you’re hiding from?”
“Course laid in, Commander,” Finkle said.
Armstrong’s eyes blazed. “Well done. Prepare to execute on my mark.”
“Just a minute, Armstrong. What the skraax do you think you’re doing?”
“I happen to be saving our skins, Ambassador K’larr,” the Commander barked over his shoulder, without looking at the new arrival on the bridge. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a battle. And I don’t have time to listen to your nonsense. Lieutenant Finkle, prepare to execute maneuver—”
The skeletal, yellow-skinned Artaxian swept down from the lift and stood before Finkle. Her three eyes glittered at him, making him feel as always that she was somehow looking through him. “You’ll do no such thing, Lieutenant. Stand down and—”
”Belay that!” Commander Armstrong shouted. “Ambassador, you are here as an observer and have no authority on this bridge. Finkle, execute course n—”
“I have all the authority I need right here,” K’larr replied. Then one of her six arms dove under her robes and emerged with a synapse disruptor, pointed square at the middle of Commander Blake Armstrong’s broad chest …
“Hey, Mister. Mister! You’re home. Come on, I gotta go pick up my next fare.”
He paid the cabbie, tipped him an extra fifty cents for his trouble, and barely closed the door before the hack sped away. Alan stood on the sidewalk in front of his building watching the red taillights fade into the slightly misty evening, and stretched for a moment before heading for the brownstone steps. A group of children danced by, laughing, two of them fencing with branches either fallen from or broken off of some poor defenseless tree. Alan pasted on a nervous smile and tried not to flinch as they giggled their way past him, swinging their imaginary weapons.
He fished for his keys at the top stair, as he had done for the last two years, wondering as he always did why he never had the damned things ready when he got to the door. He opened the outer door while warily checking his surroundings—there had never been much crime in the neighborhood, but it paid to be careful. Then he made sure the door was firmly shut behind him before proceeding down the long hallway to his first floor rear apartment.
What do you think you’re hiding from? Doctor Keller’s voice echoed in his mind.
“Shut up,” he growled—then started at the soft sound of his own voice. He gave an involuntary look around to make sure nobody had heard him, but the hallway was empty, and dark—the light bulb in the ceiling had gone out again. He would have to talk to Mrs. Delacorte again. Or, more likely, waiting for someone else to talk to Mrs. Delacorte about it. As always.
Still daydreaming about being second fiddle?
”Stop it,” he muttered, then sighed. It was going to be one of those nights. He went to his door, unlocked it, took a deep breath, and entered his apartment.
