Thread: Asking for Directions {darkangel76 & Alan23}

No, Ma'am, Galvie replied, matter-of-factly. I am by no means finding this means of transport to my liking. Nor the destination. Mind you, I'm not disappointed, for I expected little better. He stared at her, insolently, his gaze once again flickering to her eyes, her red lips, back to her eyes. Having fled to your supposedly civilized, freedom-loving country for political asylum, I've now had a taste of true Amerikan freedom and fairness. You might say that I've developed a certain cynicism about the phrase bring me your huddled masses. He leaned against the wall of his mobile prison, still sitting, and lighting a cheroot - a gift from the humane Trooper Dawson, who had developed a certain pity for the prisoner. And you, Ma'am? I trust you, at least, are enjoying the trip? Surrounded as you are by men who dare deny you no comfort, nor do anything but tiptoe demurely and hush their voices in your august presence? Not got travel stains on your fine, taxpayer-funded gown, nor suffered the indignity of windblown tresses or scuffed shoes? Secure in the pride you take in your humane treatment of captives, and sleeping securely, one trusts? And not run out of mascara nor lipstick, perish the monstrous thought? As he had been speaking in truth, deliberately goading her, for he had expected little better, giving his situation and his past he noticed her check her forward stride slightly, and pull up. Her fine patrician features took on a look of consternation which, surely, could not Galvie knew immediately be from sympathy at his plight. Had she suddenly been bitten by a copperhead? Surely, not this far North. Stood upon a sharp stone? Suffered a sudden pang of indigestion? Whatever her reasons, it must have been an acutely distressing situation for her, for she had come to a dead stop, and her look was one of a panicked deer caught in the headlights of a Teslamobile. So what's wrong, your excellency? he asked. Did you suddenly learn that the expedition has run out of caviar? Or does the brocade in your own luxurious chariot clash with your shawl? He could see, though, exactly the cause of her consternation. A brief glance down at her slim leg told him everything as the bunched mass of Nylon the new wonder material, like silk, but lasts ten times as long, as their slogan put it gathered around the lower part of her calf. The troopers that were escorting her at a respectful distance, of course both had to suppress chortles, one of them hastily clapping his hand over his mouth. Despite his resentment at his position, Galvie did have a certain sympathy. He knew the occasional propensity of garters - what, in his own country were called suspenders - to, occasionally, let their wearer down at awkward moments, usually at the most elect of social gatherings. Though he'd suspected a woman of her status, who, presumably, could afford the best Amerika's dressmakers could provide, to be above such indignities. Obviously not. This too, then, explained the clutching at her thigh on their previous meeting. It appeared that poor Andromeda Elizabeth Schaeffer Hammond was experiencing the traumatic situation of having garter trouble. Awkward, he was sure, at the best of times. And here, surrounded by rough men who hadn't seen a woman for some time, separated from their wives, sweethearts and haeteras... why, correcting the situation would be, he knew, somewhat damaging to her poise, here in public. And yet, given that it was her duty to at least make some pretense of attending to him, she could hardly run back to her coach - even if those shoes permitted such acrobatics. His first thought, and perhaps an unworthy one, was to tease her about it, make some lewd or demeaning remark, thereby ramping up her already obvious embarrassment. What stopped him was the remembrance that, in the psychological game he was playing, subtlety sometimes pays greater dividends than excess. Why use a meat cleaver when a scalpel cut deeper? Therefore, rather than remark upon her dishabille, or even stare openly at her leg with its forlornly sagging hosiery, he politely looked away, pretending to discover something of extreme fascination in the rivets on the inside of the tank's metal wall, though still regarding her through the peripheral vision of his keen eyes, for a lady in such discomfort was, somehow, endearing. He noticed that other troopers including others that had been milling around generally, performing the various tasks necessary in setting up camp had ceased their activity and were staring openly, nudging each other, and he even heard an anonymous whistle or two, which, he was sure, would do little to improve poor Ambassador Hammond's already deflated social poise. If you'd do me the honor of informing when I might again turn and hold discourse with you, Ma'am, he said, softly, as if they were in a drawing room in Houston or Chicago, I should be grateful. He knew damn well that flinging up her skirts and performing the complex task of reattaching the errant fastening - not to mention the unladylike though, paradoxically, highly feminine task of smoothing the stocking back into a snug fit, was not one that a person of her status could perform in public. Only a whore would do such a thing, and even then might have some delicacy about it. Against this, she was trapped where she was, in a state of semi-undress, a target for ridicule. She couldn't run, couldn't hide, couldn't repair the situation. He guessed that right at that moment, she hated the manufacturer of that garter more than she hated the entire nation of Annesland, himself included! Hey, you, he snapped at one of the troopers who were escorting her. Where on earth are your manners? Can't you see that there's a lady suffering an awkward situation? Well, for heaven's sake don't just stand there, gaping at her like a fish chewing gum! Take off your jacket and hold it before her, and save her the mortification of making a spectacle of herself before the whole camp. Honestly, if this is an example of the manners of an elite Amerikan cavalryman, I don't think much of it. At first, the trooper demurred - taking orders from an Anneslandian assassin was not what he'd signed up for! Realizing, however, that a refusal would be taken as an insult by the ambassador - the daughter of the president, no less - and that such opprobrium would not be calculated to advance either his military career nor, even, his prospects of staying out of the glasshouse - he whipped off his jacket and held it before the unfortunate Miss Hammond, ignoring the cries of anger that echoed from the less well-bred of his comrades. Galvie, meanwhile, kept his eyes overtly, at least firmly in another direction.