I waited. “Remember me?” I asked finally. His tattoo was a knife and fork—no promotions since I’d been here last. In his own good time he looked up briefly and down again.
“Ai,” he said.
“I have another package.”
He seemed uninterested. Still looking at the bowls, he said, “Sixty.”
That kind of bargaining always made me uncomfortable. I felt vulnerable where my mail was concerned. “I don’t pay you,” I said.
“If you don’t pay me, who does?” he inquired, in the nasal Baret accent I was beginning to dislike.
“How should I know who pays you? But not me.” I had a list of names and places, given to me before I left home. Who paid whom and how it was managed, not to mention how my packages got sent, were details that interested me rather less than computing all the digits of pi. I just wanted the mail to go through.
The spooner of potatoes was silent. I said, irritated, “You want to keep getting a fee? I can send word through someone else about what a dead loss you’ve become.”
He spooned out two more bowls, and said, “You got it on you?”
I reached into my jacket and he went into a seizure.
“Not here, not here! Around the side.” He gestured to the end of the counter, and I passed it to him out of sight. I sincerely doubted anybody cared what a techie from the Diamond did with her mail, except for Tal, and he was busy elsewhere.
“That’s all for now,” I said. “You don’t think you’ll have any trouble?”
“Why should I have trouble?”
“Beats me.” I turned and walked away. Outside the cafeteria I considered how long I had to play before return transport to the Diamond, and decided to find a saloon. Preferably one patronized by a higher order of life.
Tourist Information listed three possibilities, and I took the easiest to reach. As I walked I occupied myself by analyzing the ethics of dealing with my potato-spooner. He was, of course, sludge; because living up to one’s agreements was what life was all about … still, anyone who was a bottom-rung cafeteria worker for that many years probably needed an extra sixty. This sort of charitable excuse went strictly against the Code, but having just offloaded my mail, I was in an excusing mood. I was, in fact, practically glowing with the knowledge that my letters would soon be in the hands of real, beloved people, people who didn’t require constant analysis, who understood what was real and what was transient. Sean and Janny and Uncle Bram … and they’d see Father knew I was all right. I smiled.
The Ginza Bar was well-located, well-padded in plush cushiony booths and chairs with soft arms and backs, and with eight different holowalls. I sat against the one that simulated the space around Baret Station, since I thought it deserved something for faking reality best.
Two shots of straight whiskey later, my thoughts began taking on a different tinge. Sean and Janny and Father …
There I was, Keylinn O’Malley Murtagh, first-rank Graykey, occasional killer, the hero and disgrace of Nemeter Training School, sniffing back a threatening sob and feeling my eyes well up.
When was I going to get to go home?
It was three hours later and I was moderately drunk as I strolled along the corridors of Baret Station. I enjoyed the sensation; it had been a long time. I would never have ordered the two extra whiskeys had not my contract- holder been far, far away from any demands of duty.
It was a matter of pride, however, that nobody know I was drunk; and apart from the flush that I felt like a warm dishcloth on my skin, I sincerely hoped that nobody guessed the way the walls moved gently out of kilter as I walked.
I was partway to the docking area when a man’s voice came booming mechanically through the corridors.
“Attention. Attention. This is a level-three emergency. This is a level-three emergency. A ship has turned back to us, coming in without docking ability. All transport shift-supervisors report to the docking area; all blue-team medical personnel report to your stations; all media personnel wait for further news. No media personnel will be allowed in the docking area at this time. I repeat, no media personnel will be allowed in the docking area at this time. Any media personnel blocking corridors between the docking area and medical areas will be held for possible later airspace termination. End of message.”
I found I had frozen. It was like being hit by cold water. They didn’t say the name of the ship, I told myself. But how many ships had left the station in the last few days? If it had been a Cities transport, it would have tried to make the docking at Opal or Diamond. No Baret Two ships had left in the past ten days. So what did that leave?
Suddenly I was running down the corridor.
The docking area was blocked off. The sight of armed guards did not stop me from trying to enter anyway—first with faked casualness, alongside a medical team, and then by brute force.
Within minutes two Baret Station security guards held me against a wall. They were-firm but courteous, for although station security would “terminate airspace” without any hesitation, they were expected not to annoy paying transients. Not until they were told to, anyway.
“I’m sorry, Mynher Diamond,” said one of the blankfaced pair. “No one may enter without authorization.”
“All right, all right! Put me down. Where do I get authorization?”
They released me. “The governor of Station,” recited the man, “or the emergency measures supervisor, or the docking area supervisor, or the medical team supervisor provided you’re a licensed health dispenser.”
Right, who were all very busy right now. I said, “Look, just tell me one thing. What ship is it?”
The uniformed hulks regarded me silently.
“Come on, how big a secret
