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“It wasn’t that bad,” John said.

“The transport pod broke down,” Aeryn began.

“Not my fault.”

“The boys sang that bottles of beer thing.”

“My fault.  I taught them the song.”  He waved the door to their quarters open.

“We missed the festival, it rained, the food made Ian sick, there was nothing to do for three days,
the boys quarreled, no one got any sleep --”

“You’re right.  It was a fiasco,” John admitted.

She turned to face him.  “How soon can we try again?”

He stared at her for several microts, then smiled.  “I love you.”  

“You owe me.”  


                                                        
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