"Do the Russians feel that way, too?"
He nodded. "I think so."
Linda stood in front of him so close that they were almost touching.
"You know," Kinsman said, "when I first saw you on the base I thought you were the photographer's model, not the photographer."
Gliding slightly away from him, she answered, "I started out as a model . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"Don't stop. What were you going to say?"
Something about her had changed, Kinsman realized. She was still coolly friendly, but now she was alert, as wary as a deer in hunting season, and . . . sad?
She sighed. "Modeling is a dead end. I finally figured out that there's more of a future on the other side of the camera."
"You had too much brains for modeling."
"Don't flatter me."
"Why on Earth should I flatter you?"
"We're not on Earth."
"Touche."
She drifted, dreamlike, self-absorbed, toward the galley. Kinsman followed her.
"How long have you been on the other side of the camera?" he asked.
Turning back toward him, "I'm supposed to be getting the story of your life, not vice versa."
"Okay . . . ask me some questions."
"How many people know that you're supposed to lay me up here?"
Kinsman felt his face make a smile, an automatic delay- ing tactic. What the hell, he thought. Aloud he replied, tt! don't know. It started out as a little joke among a few of the guys . . . apparently the word has spread."
"And how much money do you stand to win or lose?" She was not smiling.
