She poked him right back. “Don’t go calling me ‘woman.’ ”

“What should I call you, then? ‘Girl?’ ‘Sweetie?’ Or how about ‘honey bunny ducky downy sweetie chicken pie li’l everlovin’ jelly bean?’ ”

“Chicken pie?” she asked dubiously.

“Hey, I’m quotin’ literature here. Don’t blame me if it don’t make sense.” He pulled into the vacant parking spot and the two of them climbed down to the pavement. Trent almost never locked his pickup, but this time he waited until Donna was right in front of it, then he clicked the remote. The sharp squeal of the alarm activating was almost as loud as her squeal of surprise.

“Beast!” she said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He held out his arm and they strolled into the brew pub like royalty.

The place was busy, but there were a few tables free in back. Their waitress sat them down next to one of the big stainless steel brew kettles that stood in a row down the middle of the pub. Trent picked up the beer menu and tried to remember which beer was closest to Budweiser. Most of the stuff they served here was way too thick and dark for his taste.

A bright yellow flyer fell out of the menu. It showed a picture of a stream running out of a forest, and the caption said, “The fishing is excellent, too.” He flipped it over and saw the title: “Alpha Centauri, Land of Opportunity.”

“Samizdat,” Donna said.

“Gezundheit.”

“I said ‘samizdat,’ dummy. That’s what it is.”

“I know.” The Russian word sounded strange coming from a blonde Wyoming girl, but Trent supposed it was the the best term to describe the recruitment ads and political tracts that people kept passing around in defiance of the United States’ ban on all things interstellar. The Russians had developed an entire industry around banned literature back when they were trying to get the truth out past the socialist stranglehold on the press. Trent was embarrassed to think that such a thing had come to the U.S., but the government pissed him off on such a regular basis anymore, it was hard to work up much of a lather over it.