Элизабет Мун - Moon Flights

Joyce said, “He’s the President of your Chamber of Commerce,” in a tone of voice that implied Sarah was too far down the list to know that, and I saw Sarah stiffen.

The giant behind me read the name off my presidential seal and said, all too loudly, “I think someone’s looking for you, Mr. Carruthers.” And grinned at me. His gimme cap was from Holey Bey, and that figures. Troublemakers, that’s what they’ve got over there. Perverted humor.

I stepped out of line and went forward as if I hadn’t seen Joyce. When she turned around, I had a big smile ready.

“You came,” she said, as if she really wanted to see me. “I didn’t know if you’d find time…” But for once it didn’t sound accusing.

“Had to check on you,” I said genially, trying a smile on the kids. The girl, Cynthie, was looking around with some interest.

“What is this place?” asked the older boy.

“It’s a storage bay,” I said. “We make it a campground for Wheel Days.”

“It’s big,” said the girl. “We don’t have things like this in Central Station One.”

“We’re all built up,” said the boy. “This is great. I hope our tent is a long way across.” He pointed. Harris, that was his name, and the younger one, presently examining his toes, was Elliot.

“Andy, I hate to bother you,” began Joyce. “It’s about Ernest…”

“I’ll be with you in a second,” I said, “but I have to ask Sarah about something first—just came up on the way down.” Joyce nodded, collected the children, and moved off a few feet. Tactful of her, I thought, and then launched into a very fast précis of the Jinnits problem for Sarah. She folded her lip under her upper teeth, and hummed… a sound known to strike terror into the hearts of opposing attorneys. When I finished, she nodded once, and pushed back her chair.

“I’ll take care of it,” she promised. That was that. One did not ask Sarah how she planned to do things; she was not a committee sort of person. I went back to Joyce and the kids, and (for no good reason other than the manners I was brought up with) picked up her travel bag and led them toward their bubble. I should have been somewhere else, but what could I do?

To my surprise, the kids continued to show a livelier interest in the Campground than they ever had in our place. A strolling juggler chucked Cynthie under the chin and gave her a momentary crown of dancing colored balls, then moved on; she was delighted, and flushed, and altogether not the same girl who had demanded a different brand of breakfast cereal and insisted that our house smelled funny. Harris came to a halt outside one of the bubbletents, eyes fixed on the logo hanging from a snatchpole.

“That’s… that’s John Steward’s First Colony badge,” he said, breathless with adolescent awe.

“Some of the pioneers hold a reunion here,” I began, but he wasn’t listening. Steward himself had ducked out the door of his bubble and paused, finding himself impaled on Harris’s gaze. He nodded to the boy, gave me a half-wave, then ducked back inside. “He doesn’t talk to strangers much anymore,” I said, softening the blow. Harris didn’t notice.

“He nodded to me. Mom, he nodded to me. John Steward!” Then he turned to me. “You know him?”

“Not really,” I had to admit. “The oldtimers stick together pretty much. But I’ve listened to him at the Tall-Tales contest, and bought him a drink once or twice.”

“I didn’t know you knew John Steward,” Harris said. “I wish we came here more often. Does Gordie know him?”

“Probably better than I do,” I said, relaxing. The kids weren’t as bad as I’d thought. “John does a program for the Scout troops every year.”

Harris subsided, newly impressed with his cousin. Elliot had acquired a spring in his step, which indicated that things weren’t too bad for him, either.

“About Ernest,” Joyce began again. I tensed. “He’s in jail,” she said. “And I wondered…”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and started explaining about the wheels and the festival jail.

“I understand,” she said. “But it’s not that jail. It’s a real jail.”

“Ernest?” My mind fogged.

“It’s—I hate to explain—” She looked away. I glanced around, and saw that we were nearly at their bubble. Pointing it out and settling them into it distracted us both. Then she sent the kids to the nearest foodstand for a snack, and went on. “It’s not what it sounds like,” she began. “I met this musician…”

Lights flashed in my mind. “Conway?” I asked. “Of the Jinnits?”

She blushed. “How did you guess?” she asked. I couldn’t have explained, and nodded for her to go on. “Well, anyway, he was sad and lonesome—his wife had just run out on him with another man, he said. And I suspected that Ernest was having an affair.”

“With—?” I had a glimmer, but it seemed wildly improbable.

“I didn’t know, then. Someone younger, blonder, whatever. I thought maybe I could make him jealous, and Conway was so sweet, so… pathetic…” Her lashes drooped, and I felt a rush of sympathy. “Then… we were just relaxing together, there in the sauna, and in rushes this blonde viper!” Joyce’s voice had thinned and hardened; I could imagine it making holes in steel. “She grabbed my arm and threw me out, and screamed the most terrible things at us… threatened to tell Ernest…”

“Did she?”

“Not that I know of. Anyway, I went home, and Conway shipped out that night. And I was glad we were coming here, because I knew the Jinnits would play, and I might see Conway. Not anything serious, but… but he doesn’t think I’m too old…”

“Of course not,” I said gallantly, but worriedly.

“So when we got here, Ernest was—well, frankly Andy, he wasn’t too happy with this—the idea that you’d stuck us out here in the Campground. I tried to tell him you’d probably done it for the children—much better than a crowded hotel, where they wouldn’t have many people their own age. He kept insisting it was only because you hadn’t bothered to find us a place until the last minute.” I tried to look innocent as she glanced at me, then she went on. “We stopped on the way down to have something to eat. That’s when I saw the blonde—Conway’s friend or ex-wife or whatever she is—sitting up at the bar with two of the biggest black eyes I’ve ever seen. Frankly I was glad: she left bruises on my arm when she yanked me around. I wanted to hurry Ernest out of there, but he caught sight of her too… and he left me sitting there, just walked off, to go up to her.”

“Mmm.” Joyce had tears in her eyes when she looked at me.

“That’s right, Andy. She was the tart he was having an affair with. Ernest demanded to know who had blacked her eyes, and a spaceship captain across the room yelled ‘That bastard Conway,’ and Ernest—” She paused, looking down. “You know, Ernest really doesn’t get along with lots of people.”

“Who hit him?” I asked, not surprised at that revelation.

“He told the captain to mind her own business—he really doesn’t like women in authority—and she said it was her business since it happened on her ship. By this time she’d come up to the bar, and she said that the blonde—whatever her name is—”

“Zetta,” I said.

“I never knew,” said Joyce. “Anyway, that she—Zetta—was too enslaved to admit it was a man who hit her, and was trying to blame it on a woman. And Ernest said it was probably the captain, since she looked like the type, and she swung first, but he got in a couple of blows before he fell down. She filed charges, and he filed countercharges, and they’re both in jail.”