was all still remote from here.
She heard the inside lock open again, heard someone coming. Two of the crew this
time, in nondescript, not military. Her heart beat faster and faster as she
watched them meet with the dock-chief, all the slow talk that usually went on.
More crew came down. More nondescript, nothing like a uniform, no family
resemblance either. She worked cold hands, got up from her wedged-in perch
between the girders and shook the feeling back into her legs, then put her hands
in her pockets and walked up to the latest couple off the ramp.
"You!" a dockworker called out.
But she ignored that. She walked up, nodded a friendly hello—it was a man on
rejuv and a woman headed there, both in brown coveralls, nothing flashy. Work
stuff. " 'Day," she said. "Welcome in. I'm looking. Got any chance?"
Not particularly friendly faces. "No passengers," the man said.
She touched her pocket where the letter was. "Machinist. Stuck here. Who do I
talk to?"
A long slow look, from a cold, deeply creased face; from a hollow-cheeked female
face with a burn scar on the side.
"Talk to me," the man said. "Name's Fitch. First officer."
"Yes, sir." She took a breath and slipped her hands back into her pockets, a
twitch away from parade rest. Damn. Relax. Civ. Dammit. "Name's Yeager. Off
Ernestine. Junior-most and they had to trim crew. Others got hire, but it's been
slim for about six months."
"Not particularly hiring," Fitch said.
"I'm desperate." She kept a tight jaw, breathing shallow. "I'll take scut. I
don't ask a share."
A slow, analyzing stare, head to foot and back again—like he was figuring goods
and bads in what he was looking at.
"Dunno," Fitch said then, and hooked a quick gesture toward the ramp. "Talk to
the Man."
She was half-numb from standing in the airlock, in the kind of dry cold that
froze up any water vapor into a white rime on the surfaces and left the knees
locking up and refusing to work when she stepped over the threshold into Loki's
dim gut. The knees had gotten to the shaking stage when she got through into the
ring (there looked to be only one corridor) and did a drunken walk down the
narrow burn-deck. There was one light showing, one door standing open, besides
the hatches that were probably the downside stowage.
She reached it, saw the blond, smallish man at the desk. Plain brown jumpsuit.
The gimbaled floor made a knee-high step-up. She stood in the corridor and
called up, "Looking for the captain."
"You got him," the Man said, and looked down at her from the desk, so she
stepped up by the toehold in the rim of the deck and ducked to clear the door.
"Bet Yeager, sir." Fitch's name had gotten her inside. Now she was shivering,
her teeth trying to chatter, not entirely from the cold. "Machinist. Freighter
experience. Looking for a berth, sir."
"Any good?"
"Yes, sir."
A long silence. Pale eyes raked her over. A thin hand turned palm up.
She reached to her pocket and pulled out her papers, trying not to let her hand
shake when she put the folder in his hand.
He opened it, unfolded the paper, read it without expression, looked on the
back—everyone did, the last few signatures. And folded it again and gave it
back.
"We're not a freighter," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"But maybe you're not spacer."
"I am, sir."
"You know what we are?"
"I think I do, sir."
A long silence. Thin fingers turned the stylus over and over. "What rating?"
"Third, sir."
More silence. The stylus kept turning. "We don't pay standard. You get a hundred
a day on leave. Period. Board-call goes out ten hours before undock. My name's
Wolfe. Any questions?"
"No, sir."
"That's the right answer. Remember that. Anything else?"
"No, sir."
"See you, Yeager."
"Yes, sir," she said. And ducked her head and got out, off the deck, down the
corridor, out of the ship, still numb.
She thought about going to the Registry. She wanted a drink, she wanted to go
out on the docks with a little in
She heard the inside lock open again, heard someone coming. Two of the crew this
time, in nondescript, not military. Her heart beat faster and faster as she
watched them meet with the dock-chief, all the slow talk that usually went on.
More crew came down. More nondescript, nothing like a uniform, no family
resemblance either. She worked cold hands, got up from her wedged-in perch
between the girders and shook the feeling back into her legs, then put her hands
in her pockets and walked up to the latest couple off the ramp.
"You!" a dockworker called out.
But she ignored that. She walked up, nodded a friendly hello—it was a man on
rejuv and a woman headed there, both in brown coveralls, nothing flashy. Work
stuff. " 'Day," she said. "Welcome in. I'm looking. Got any chance?"
Not particularly friendly faces. "No passengers," the man said.
She touched her pocket where the letter was. "Machinist. Stuck here. Who do I
talk to?"
A long slow look, from a cold, deeply creased face; from a hollow-cheeked female
face with a burn scar on the side.
"Talk to me," the man said. "Name's Fitch. First officer."
"Yes, sir." She took a breath and slipped her hands back into her pockets, a
twitch away from parade rest. Damn. Relax. Civ. Dammit. "Name's Yeager. Off
Ernestine. Junior-most and they had to trim crew. Others got hire, but it's been
slim for about six months."
"Not particularly hiring," Fitch said.
"I'm desperate." She kept a tight jaw, breathing shallow. "I'll take scut. I
don't ask a share."
A slow, analyzing stare, head to foot and back again—like he was figuring goods
and bads in what he was looking at.
"Dunno," Fitch said then, and hooked a quick gesture toward the ramp. "Talk to
the Man."
She was half-numb from standing in the airlock, in the kind of dry cold that
froze up any water vapor into a white rime on the surfaces and left the knees
locking up and refusing to work when she stepped over the threshold into Loki's
dim gut. The knees had gotten to the shaking stage when she got through into the
ring (there looked to be only one corridor) and did a drunken walk down the
narrow burn-deck. There was one light showing, one door standing open, besides
the hatches that were probably the downside stowage.
She reached it, saw the blond, smallish man at the desk. Plain brown jumpsuit.
The gimbaled floor made a knee-high step-up. She stood in the corridor and
called up, "Looking for the captain."
"You got him," the Man said, and looked down at her from the desk, so she
stepped up by the toehold in the rim of the deck and ducked to clear the door.
"Bet Yeager, sir." Fitch's name had gotten her inside. Now she was shivering,
her teeth trying to chatter, not entirely from the cold. "Machinist. Freighter
experience. Looking for a berth, sir."
"Any good?"
"Yes, sir."
A long silence. Pale eyes raked her over. A thin hand turned palm up.
She reached to her pocket and pulled out her papers, trying not to let her hand
shake when she put the folder in his hand.
He opened it, unfolded the paper, read it without expression, looked on the
back—everyone did, the last few signatures. And folded it again and gave it
back.
"We're not a freighter," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"But maybe you're not spacer."
"I am, sir."
"You know what we are?"
"I think I do, sir."
A long silence. Thin fingers turned the stylus over and over. "What rating?"
"Third, sir."
More silence. The stylus kept turning. "We don't pay standard. You get a hundred
a day on leave. Period. Board-call goes out ten hours before undock. My name's
Wolfe. Any questions?"
"No, sir."
"That's the right answer. Remember that. Anything else?"
"No, sir."
"See you, Yeager."
"Yes, sir," she said. And ducked her head and got out, off the deck, down the
corridor, out of the ship, still numb.
She thought about going to the Registry. She wanted a drink, she wanted to go
out on the docks with a little in
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