Cutler's heart was still pounding double-time, and she'd had nothing to do during the alert. In fact, she had just gone back to her quarters when Mayweather had contacted her. "Now I'm hungry," he said. "Can we play while I have dinner?" "If the others agree," she had said. Apparently they had, because she had set up the table for the second time that night. Anderson, Novakovich, and Mayweather had their padds ready. Mayweather was eating some sort of sandwich he'd concocted out of the leftovers that the crew was allowed to dig in. It was huge and dripping with various multicolored juices. She recognized pickles, a white cheese, and some kind of tomato, but nothing else looked familiar. She hoped the thick brown slab in the middle was meat, but she couldn't tell from this distance. To his credit, Mayweather turned and took bites off the sandwich away from the playing table. Anderson, who had taken a cookie while Mayweather was making his sandwich, was chomping away merrily, getting crumbs all over the towel.
