Элизабет Мун - Moon Flights

“Oh,” was all I could think of to say.

“I’m sorry,” said Joyce. “I guess I knew we shouldn’t come. We always seem to be in your way, somehow, and you’re awfully busy. I know you have important things to do. It’s just…”

“Oh, that’s all right.” It wasn’t all right, but for some reason the tight knot of apprehension that had bothered me since I read Ernest’s note was loosening. Ernest in jail—a real jail, and for brawling in a bar—was something I felt I could handle. Suddenly I wished Peg were there with me. I wanted to see her face when she heard that holier-than-anyone brother Ernest had started a fight in a bar.

“I’m really sorry,” said Joyce again. “I know we’re causing you a lot of trouble, and at the worst time. If it hadn’t been for me wanting to see Conway again…”

“Don’t see why not,” I said, suddenly reckless. Running any festival is a matter of dancing tiptoe on a tightrope with people throwing waterballoons at you. Crazier ideas than the one that came to me then had worked for others. “I can’t get Ernest out immediately,” I said, “not if he’s really assaulted someone. And in the meantime, the Jinnits tell me Conway isn’t playing up to his level because he’s lonesome.”

Her eyes began to sparkle. “I couldn’t… I mean, to seriously—”

“No, not seriously, but you certainly could go to the core dance tonight. After maybe eating dinner with the band. Couldn’t you? It would solve a big problem for me.”

“But the kids—”

I grinned at her. “Harris is crazy about oldtimers, right? I’ll bet he’d be glad to sit in on the first round of the Tall-Tales Competition, which is just three aisles over, where that big teepee is.”

It was not really that simple, of course. It never is. But anyone who can organize the annual festival of a growing community which is going to deserve to be called the hub of the industrial center of the solar system can finagle or squinch or maneuver his way past a few difficulties. With Joyce radiantly at his side (in a silver-lamé suit she’d borrowed from Zetta, after a tearful reconciliation), Conway didn’t even glance at Peg when she and I whirled past the Main Stage, with every curve of hers showing in her new scarlet hotsuit, Jinnits had never sounded better… and they’d already renewed their contract for next year, because, as the lead singer said, “I guess Murray’s not the only friend we’ve got on this colony.” Ernest would be out on bail the next morning; he had been pitifully grateful for my visit and promise of help, once he found that his Company legal insurance wasn’t good in our jurisdiction. And when we finally escorted Joyce back to the bubbletent, in the short end of Nightshift, we found four cheerful and excited youngsters—her three and our Gordie—who had been invited to share snacks with the oldest of the oldtimers, John Steward himself.

If I do say so myself, it was a good start to Wheel Days.

“They cheated us!” Stavros Vatta glared at his younger brother Gerard. “They cheated us and you didn’t catch them.” He gestured at the open canister. Under a double layer of expensive—very expensive—CraigsHollow Premium Choice cheese shaped into neat round wheels, seven per layer, were irregular, messily wrapped lumps of very cheap and very smelly Gumbone cheese, already demonstrating why no shipper would handle it unless it were flash-frozen at source. That rendered it stringy, but at least it didn’t stink.

“All the telltales were good,” Gerard said. “I used the sniffer, everything—”

“Everything but your brain,” Stavros said. “You didn’t unpack every carton.” He transitioned from glare to glower.

“You didn’t want to wait, remember?” Gerard glared back. “You didn’t want to risk missing that early-delivery bonus on the run to Allray. I’m not taking all the blame. It’s as much your fault as it is mine.” He swatted idly at Moro, the ship’s cat, whose fascination with the containers in question had led to the discovery of fraud. “And these CraigsHollow cheeses, we’ve got to move them to separate containers and hope the mold or whatever it is hasn’t gotten into them.”

“I’m sure it has, after five days.” Stavros chewed his lower lip, then sighed. “Better try, though. Get Arnie to help—”

“Me? There’s forty containers—why not you?” It was not the first time Stavros had expected him to do all the cleanup by himself.

“Because I’m captain, remember? And I have other duties, such as figuring out how to make a profit on this run even though we’ve just found out our private cargo—that you chose—is worthless.” Stavros turned away. Gerard glared at his back, but wasted no time calling Arnie, their senior cargo handler.

Arnie Vatta, older by decades than Stavros and Gerard, shook his head as he came into the hold. “I told you, young sir—I told you to watch out for last-minute bargains.”

“Yes, you did,” Gerard said, as graciously as he could. Arnie, like the rest of Polly ’s experienced crew, had offered far more advice than he wanted; by the time they’d reached Gum, he’d been tired of being treated like an apprentice. Arnie being right was worse than Stavros being angry. “You’re right; I didn’t watch hard enough. Now, though—”

“That stuff really does stink,” Arnie said. “Best tell Baris, in Environmental, before any spores get into the cultures. She’ll want special filters… ”

One thing after another. He could just imagine Baris’s reaction; she had little patience and a formidable temper. Gerard called her, with the result he expected. She cut off the intercom before he’d finished explaining the problem and was at the hold hatch in less than two minutes.

“What have you done—oh, spirits of space, you idiot. That stuff’s just this side of toxic!” She smacked the hold’s environmental control panel and shut off air circulation. Immediately the smell intensified. “There’s enough oxygen in here for you to work six or seven hours—I’m not turning circulation back on until you have that stuff under wraps again. And I strongly suggest a hard vac or flash-freeze.”

“But Baris—it’s getting thicker. Can’t we—?”

“No. Put on masks. Or suit up, if you want to; I don’t care. I’m not having that stench—or more of it—all over the ship. And don’t open the hatch until you’re done.” With that she was gone, shutting the hold hatch behind her as forcibly as the mechanism allowed. Gerard looked at Arnie, who shrugged and turned towards the hold lockers.

“I’m suitin’ up, Gerry. If I stay in here with no circulation, I’ll be pukin’ in no time. And the smell will be in my clothes and hair and… ”

Gerard sighed and got another suit from the lockers. This was not the way he’d imagined his first real trading voyage. He didn’t mind having his older brother as captain and his boss; Stavros had always taken the lead when they were children. Handling backup, any pesky details, had always been Gerard’s job. He’d expected to do the same this time. After all, he’d negotiated several tik-production contracts under their father’s supervision. He’d thought he would make a good cargomaster.

And now he’d failed. Not just failed, but put Stav’s future as a Vatta captain in doubt. Coming home with a contaminated ship, unsalable cargo, in the red? That promised to keep both of them off the list for a long time. “Let’s get at it,” he said, once he’d sealed the protective suit. “Any ideas for how to clean up the good stuff and store it so it’ll be salable?”

“Get it all out fast and into fresh containers—we got any empties?”