“The sweater looks good!” she said. “I knew Amity was being too critical of herself.”
“I love the sweater,” he said. “Which is why I’m asking for your help. I want to make her something.”
“Crochet?” Her antennae stood straight up. “I guess I can teach you… I can teach anybody.”
“No, a sofa. I’m going to build her a sofa. I need help with the cushions. I don’t want to ask her because it’s a surprise.” He’dcalculated his credits, budgeted for expenses, and determined he would have a modest amount left over for discretionary purchases. “I can pay you to do the cushions. It might have to be on an installment plan.”
“What kind of sofa are you making?”
“Basically, an extra-wide loveseat.” The cabins were small and wouldn’t accommodate anything much bigger. “I’m considering a hard platform base with a solid back or a wooden frame with a rope base and back.”
“Like the beds.” She nodded.
“Yes.”
“Or maybe a hybrid. Platform base, rope back. I need to sketch out some ideas. Do you have time to do the cushions—and avoid letting her know what you’re doing? And how many credits would it cost?”
“Tell you what, I’ll take it out in trade. I’ll do the cushions for your sofa, if you’ll make a sofa frame for me.”
“Deal!” He grinned.
“Get me the measurements, and I’ll get started right away.”
“I’ll sketch out a design and get you the dimensions. I wish there were blueprints or examples I could follow.”
“You might find some on the HyperSphere or even on the Refuge intranet.”
“I don’t have a way to access it.” He’d left his MCD behind on Terra Nova to prevent Dark Ops from tracking him.
“Lucento!” she expelled her husband’s name on a huff. “What else did that man forget to mention! There are terminals in the library for resident use.”
“That’s perfect!” He’d try to get over there this afternoon before meeting Amity for dinner. The sooner he got started, the sooner he could present her with a sofa.
A loud howl pierced the background din.
“What the hell?” He darted out of the break room, Darmaine right behind him.
“My hand! My hand!” Tailless jumped around, holding his wrist. Some of his words sounded like gibberish, and Marshall suspected the curses didn’t have direct translations.
“What happened now?” Chartreuse rushed over.
“I was hammering a peg, and I missed and hit my hand.”
“Let me see!” the foreman demanded, and they all clustered around the injured man.
The alien held out his hand. Two fingers had already begun to swell. They were visibly throbbing. “You smashed ’em good.” Chartreuse sighed.
“My wife is gonna kill me,” Tailless said.
“If she doesn’t, working here will,” Chartreuse said. “Go to the infirmary and see the doc.”
Darmaine opened the door for him, and, clutching his injured hand to his chest, he scurried out.
“Tailless might get a new name—Fat Fingers,” Zhara said.
Marshall and Bragg snorted.
“It’s nothing to joke about,” Chartreuse said, but the corner of his mouth quirked for a second. “The man is a walking accident.” He shook his head. “His wife probably will kill him. She likes it here at Artisan’s Loft. We’re running out of jobs to give him. They transferred in from another settlement. He started here in the mess hall, but he got the meals mixed up and poisoned a whole line of people.”