Элизабет Мун - Moon Flights

“I told you. Ingredients. What you make cheese out of, milk and coagulant and salt. The local cheese factory went out of business, some kind of legal problem; I bought up their raw materials for a lot less than cheese would’ve cost.” She looked entirely too cheerful for someone who had clearly just lost her mind.

“But we don’t know how to make cheese—”

“I have it all right here.” She held up a data cube. “It shouldn’t be hard at all. Environmental’s all about cultures and cleanliness, right? If I can’t make better cheese than was in the market, I’ll be very surprised.”

“Does the captain know—?”

She pursed her lips. “Well… not exactly. I didn’t see any reason to worry him with the details. He’s always said you were his detail man. Now if you and Arnie will just go down there and open the cargo hatch…”

Being the designated “detail man” meant that he was the one who had to tell Stavros they had no cheese, just the ingredients for making cheese.

“Baris said she could do it,” Gerard said, watching his brother’s eyelid twitch. He had insisted on talking to Stavros in the captain’s cabin. One interruption by a helpful crew member and his brother might say something unfortunate. “She seems very confident.”

“Baris—” Stavros began. Then he dropped his head into his hands. “This is the worst voyage anyone ever made. Neither of us will ever make permanent captain—and Helen—”

“It’s not over yet, Stav,” Gerard said. “We have three ten-days before we get to Corland Station. Maybe Baris will make good cheese, maybe the Gumbone will give it the perfect flavor… or maybe we’ll come out of jump in a star and never have to worry about anything again.” That had been the final chance their father listed every time they’d faced a difficulty, from being lost in the hills behind Corleigh Town to a feeling of panic when faced with asking a girl to a dance.

Stavros snorted and shook his head. “Gerry… I could almost wish for that collision with a star, right now.”

“I know. The thought of facing our father if we don’t come back at least even-money scares me, too. But the crew’s on our side. They’re not stupid, even if we were—”

“I wasn’t stupid… not exactly. I swear to you, it looked like a legitimate jeweler’s. Everything seemed to check out. But really—cheesemaking on a spaceship? And we still don’t have any certification. How can we sell a food product we’re not licensed to make?”

“Ah,” Gerard said. “That’s the real question. We can’t pretend we have the license; they’d find out. We can’t pretend it’s someone else’s product; they’d find that out, too. So it’s really a marketing problem.”

They sat staring at each other a long moment. Then Stavros shifted in his seat. “Wait… What if it’s something that’s never been exported before? Experimental or something?”

Gerard felt the hair rise on his arms as an idea leaped into his mind. “Something that hasn’t been exported—so it doesn’t have to be on the manifest—because it’s not for sale.”

“Not for sale? But the point is to sell it—” Stavros looked confused.

“Oh, we’ll sell it. But we’ll have to be persuaded… we don’t want to sell it—”

“Of course we want to sell it!”

“Wake up, Stav,” Gerard said. He saw the whole plan now, clear as the figures in red and black. “We can’t sell it legitimately—we have to have an angle. That’s the angle. Call it our rations or something. Not for sale. But we let the right person get a taste of it—”

Stavros’s face lit up. “Gerry, that’s brilliant! If Baris can make the cheese—”

“We can make the sale,” Gerard said. “And the profit.”

Corland Station’s Customs & Immigration team came aboard to check out the consigned cargo. “Something sure smells good,” the inspector said, as Gerard signed the datapad to indicate that they had nothing further to unload.

“Lunch,” Gerard said. “Want to join us?”

“I can’t,” the inspector said. “We’re not allowed—but what is it?”

“Nothing special,” Gerard said. “You know, cheese and sausage and bread.”

“Mmm. Ever consider selling some of it, whatever it is?”

“No. It’s just crew rations,” Gerard said, shrugging. “Nothing to get excited about.” Across dockside, he saw two men lift their heads and sniff, their reaction completely unlike his to the undiluted Gumbone.

“How long will you be here?” the inspector asked, sniffing again. “If I stopped by when I’m off-duty…”

“We have to wait for the local sales agent Vatta works with,” Gerard said. “I think there’s something for us to pick up here—at least, our captain’s trying to find us cargo to replace what we’re dropping off. Polly ’s a nightmare to trim with the load this unbalanced. If we can’t find cargo, we’ll have to move things around…”

The inspector finally moved away. Gerard pulled out the platter of cheese, sausage, and bread Arnie had placed on a hotplate in front of the ventilation blower, and the two of them sat down to eat in plain sight of dockside traffic.

“When’s the company agent coming?” Arnie asked.

“Another hour,” Gerard said. “That went well, didn’t it?”

“Baris is a genius,” Arnie said, and took a bite of ship’s biscuit spread with Baris’s cheese roll mixture and a slice of sausage.

Gerard took a mouthful and nodded. Never mind the suspense of those days when it seemed the cheese wouldn’t be ready in time or that Baris would never find the right proportion of Gumbone to the cheese she’d made. It had worked out in the end and the flavors in his mouth were proof of that. Better even than the fume-flavored CraigsHollow Premium.

Several of the people walking by paused, sniffing, turning to look. One of them, after a hesitation, came nearer. “What’s that you’re eating? Smells good, but nothing like I’ve had before—”

“Just lunch,” Arnie said. “Why?”

“I’m off Morroway , Bissonet registry, dock seven. Where’d you buy it?”

“Didn’t buy it,” Arnie said, taking another bite. “It’s off our ship. Rations.”

“Vatta feeds you that well? That’s got to be Gold Level—”

“It’s not,” Gerard said, earning a look from Arnie. The whole act was going as planned. “It’s homemade.”

“Can—can I have a taste?”

“Sure,” Gerard said. Arnie shook his head.

“Better not. We don’t know what you’re allergic to. It’s got chopped nuts in it, and dairy—”

“I’m not allergic,” the man said. “Just a taste—”

Gerard and Arnie exchanged looks. “Well, if you fall over dead, don’t blame us,” Arnie said. He smeared a round of ship’s biscuit with the cheese and laid a sausage slice on it. “There you go.”

The man took a bite, and his face changed to the blissful expression Gerard expected.

“This tastes even better than it smells. Sure you won’t sell us some?”

Arnie laughed. “And not have any for ourselves? You’ve got to be kidding.”

With a last longing look at the platter, the man finally went away. Gerard stuffed another bite in his mouth, to have some reason for the triumphant grin he was sure was spreading over his face.

“Act Two,” Arnie said. “Word’s going to spread fast.”

Gerard left Arnie lounging in the cargo hatch opening, and went upship to set the stage for their next visitor, this one expected.

“What is that heavenly aroma?” the sales agent said as Stavros led him past the galley.

“Just ship rations,” Stavros said. “It’s only a cheese roll.” He glanced at the table, where a cheese roll, haggled at one end, lay on a cheese-smeared plate with an open tin of ship’s biscuit beside it. “Gerry, weren’t you supposed to clean up the galley after lunch?”