The Only Neat Thing to Do

' No, correction, negative on Ace's Landing. Last depot established was on a planet at seventeen-fifty north, fifteen-thirty west, RD Eighteen.' The voice repeats. 'That's far out in Quadrant Nine B-Z, out of commo range. They were proceeding to a new system at thirty-twenty north, forty-two-twenty-eight west, RD Thirty.

'All ships within possible range of this course will maintain a listening watch for one minim on the hour. Anything heard warrants return to Base range. Meanwhile a recon ship will be dispatched to follow their route from Ace's Landing.'

The announcer repeats all coordinates; Coati, finding no tablet handy, inscribes the system they're headed to on the inside of her bare arm with her stylus.

'If they were beyond commo range, how did they report?' she asks the Fuels chief.

'By message pipe. Like a teeny-weeny spaceship. They can make up to three c-skip jumps. When you work beyond range, you send back a pipe after every stop. There'll soon be a commo relay set up for that quadrant, is my guess.'

'Depot Resupply 914 B-K,' says the fuelsman. 'That's Boney and Ko. The two boys who — who're — who aren't — I mean, they don't have all their rivets, right?'

'There's nothing wrong with Boney and Ko!' The Fuels chiefs flush heightens. 'They may not have the smarts of some people, but the things they do, they do 100 percent perfect. And one of them — or both, maybe — has uncanny ability with holocharting. If you go through the charts of quadrants they've worked, you'll see how many B-K corrections there are. That work will save lives! And they haven't a gram of meanness or pride between them; they do it all on supply pay, for loyalty to the Fed.' She's running down, glancing at Coati to see if her message carried. 'That's why Exec took them off the purely routine runs and let them go set up new depots up north. …The Rand twins have the nearby refill runs now; they can take the boredom because of their music.'

'Sorry,' the fuelsman says. 'I didn't know. They never say a word.'

'Yeah, they don't talk,' the chief grins. 'There, kid, I guess you're about topped up, unless you want to carry some in your ditty bag. Now, how about the food?'

When Coati gets back inside Base and goes to Charts for her final briefing, she sees what the Fuels chief meant. On all the holocharts that cover the fringes of 900's sector, feature after feature shows corrections marked with a tiny glowing 'B-K.' She can almost follow the long, looping journeys of the pair — what was it? Boney and Ko — by the areas of richer detail in the charts. Dust clouds, g-anomalies, asteroid swarms, extra primaries in multiple systems — all modestly B-K's. The basic charts are composites of the work of early explorers — somebody called Ponz has scrawled in twenty or thirty star systems with his big signature (B-K have corrected six of them), and there's an 'L,' and a lot of 'YBCs,' and more that Coati can't decipher. She'd love to know their names and adventures.

'Who's 'SS'?' she asks Charts.

'Oh, he was a rich old boy, a Last War vet, who tried to take a shortcut he remembered and jumped himself out of fuel way out there. He was stuck about forty-five standard days before anybody could get to him, and after he calmed down, he and his pals kept themselves busy with a little charting. Not bad, too, for a static VP. See how the SS's all center around this point? That's where he sat. If you go near there, remember the error is probably on the radius. But you aren't thinking of heading out that far, are you, kid?'

'Oh, well,' Coati temporizes. She's wondering if Charts would report her to Exec. 'Someday, maybe. I just like to have the charts to, you know, dream over.'

Chans chuckles sympathetically, and starts adding up her charges. 'Lots of daydreaming you got here, girl.'

'Yeah.' To distract him she asks, 'Who's 'Ponz'?'

'Before my time. He disappeared somewhere after messaging that he'd found a real terraform planet way out that way.' Charts points to the northwest edge, where there's a string of GO-type stars. 'Could be a number of good planets there. The farthest one out is where the Lost Colony was. And that you stay strictly away from, by the way, if you ever get that far. Thirty-five-twelve N — that's thirty-five minutes twelve seconds north — thirty-forty west, radial distance — we omit the degrees; out here they're constants — eighty-nine degrees north by seventy west— that's from Base 900, they all are — thirty-two Bkm. Some sort of contagion wiped them out just after I came. We've posted warning satellites. …All right, now you have to declare your destination. You're entitled to free charts there; the rest you pay for.'

'Where do you recommend? For my first trip?'

'For your first trip… I recommend you take the one beacon route we have, up to Ace's Landing.

That's two beacons, three jumps. It's a neat place: hut, freshwater lake, the works. Nobody lives there, but we have a rock hound who takes all his long leaves there, with a couple of pals. You can take out your scopes and have a spree; everything you're looking at is unexplored. And it's just about in commo range if you hit it lucky.'

'How can places be out of commo range? I keep hearing that.'

'It's the Rift. Relativistic effects out here where the density changes. Oh, you can pick up the frequency, but the noise, the garble factor is hopeless. Some people claim even electronic gear acts up as you really get into the Rift itself.'

'How much do they charge to stay at the hut?'

'Nothing, if you bring your own chow and bag. Air and water're perfect.'

'I might want to make an excursion farther on to look at something I've spotted in the scope.'

'Green. We'll adjust the chart fee when you get back. But if you run around, watch out for this vortex situation here.' Charts pokes his stylus into the holo, north of Ace's Landing. 'Nobody's sure yet whether it's a bunch of little ones or a great big whopper of a g-pit. And remember, the holos don't fit together too well—' He edges a second chart into the first display; several stars are badly doubled.

'Right. And I'll keep my eyes open and run a listening watch for that lost ship, B-K's.'

'You do that….' He tallies up an amount that has her credit balance scraping bottom. 'I sure hope they turn up soon. It's not like them to go jazzing off somewhere. …Green, here you are.'

She tenders her voucher-chip. 'It's go,' she grins. 'Barely.'

Still suited, lugging her pouch of chart cassettes, Coati takes a last look through the great view-wall of the main corridor. She has a decision to make.

Two decisions, really, but this one isn't fun — she has to do something about her parents, and without giving herself away to anybody who checks commo. Her parents must be signaling all over home sector by now. She winces mentally, then has an idea: Her sister on a planet near Cayman's has married enough credits to accept any number of collect 'skips, and it would be logical— Yes.

Commo is two doors down.

'You don't need to worry,' she tells a lady named Paula. 'My brother-in-law is the planet banker. You can check him in that great big ephemeris there. Javelo, Hunter Javelo.'

Cautiously, Paula does so. What she finds on Port-of-Princes reassures her enough to accept this odd girl's message. Intermittently sucking her stylus, Coati writes:

'Dearest Sis, Surprise! I'm out at FedBase 900. It's wonderful. Will look around a bit and head home stopping by you. Tell folks all O.K., ship goes like dream and million thanks. Love, Coati.'

There! That ought to do it without alerting anybody. By the time her father messages FedBase 900, if he does, she'll be long gone.

And now, she tells herself, heading out to the port, now for the big one. Where exactly should she go?

Well, she can always take Charts' advice and have a good time on Ace's Landing, scanning the skies and planning her next trip. She's become just a little impressed by the hugeness of space and the chill of the unknown. Suppose she gets caught in an uncharted gravity vortex? She's been in only one, and it was small, and a good pilot was flying. (That was one of the flights she didn't tell her folks about.) And there's always next time.

On the other hand, she's here now, and all set. And her folks could raise trouble next time she sets out. Isn't it better to do all she can while she can do it?

Well, like what, for instance?

Her ears had pricked up at Charts' remark about those GO-type suns. And one of them was where the poor lost team was headed for; she has the coordinates on her wrist. What if she found them! Or — what if she found a fine terraform planet, and got to name it?

The balance of decision, which had never really leveled, tilts decisively toward a vision of yellow suns — as Coati all but runs into the ramp edge leading out.