“My first time on Earth. I’m meeting some people here today and I hope it’s not as hard for them to find the fairgrounds as it was for me.”
“As long as they’ve been here before they’ll know about the map thing, and who hasn’t visited the space elevator? It’s also the main transportation hub on the East Coast.”
“That’s why I picked it,” Ellen said. “I was told that all roads, rails, and sub-orbital flights lead to the space elevator. Is that spot next to you open?” she added, pointing at a patch of artificial grass. “I only brought what’s in my pack.”
“Make yourself at home,” the trader said. “I’m Marshall, and the fairground charges six creds a day for a blanket rental.”
“I have a blanket,” Ellen said, shrugging her way out of the bulky pack and then kneeling to undo the main flap. “Right on top here. See?”
“I meant they charge six creds a day to spread your blanket. That’s why I called it a rental.”
“What do we get for the six creds?”
“Left alone. The collector bot wanders through every half-hour or so, and if you refuse to pay, it sprays you and your goods with water-based paint. Nobody messes with it.”
“Are you sure the bot works for the elevator authority and not some bright kid who put it together to extort rent from traders?”
“What difference does it make? Everybody has to pay somebody, and six creds a day is reasonable enough. Are you here with your ship?”
“It’s in Lot K,” Ellen told him.
“The ETA didn’t tell you about the long-term lot for traders?”
“The who?”
“Elevator Transit Authority. They handle all of the incoming traffic for the elevator.”
“I spent a few days at some little town upstate and then flew here without returning to orbit.”
“The long-term lot is sponsored by EarthCent, and in addition to being half the price, you get all of the hookups, like a campground. It’s a little farther out, but there’s a monorail.”
“Thanks. I’ll move my ship there this evening.”
Ellen spread her blanket and began setting out the goods from her pack. For the sake of maximizing value at a manageable weight, she had brought ten disposable Dollnick stunners in retail packaging, plus a half-dozen large tablecloths woven with a proprietary Frunge semi-metallic process.
Marshall let out a long whistle and commented, “Pricey. The stunners might sell for twenty creds, but you won’t see many shoppers who can afford those tablecloths. That’s boutique stuff on Earth.”
“I paid thirty creds cash for these stunners on Union Station, and that was direct from a wholesaler.”
“They used to go for fifty around here, easy, but lots of traders started showing up with them a month or two back and the price collapsed. I stick with the basics when I come to Earth.”
Ellen took a minute to go over and study her helpful neighbor’s offerings. She saw that he was selling alien drama series in a variety of storage formats, a selection of blank Horten holocubes which she suspected were factory seconds, and hundreds of bubble packs of pills labeled in Farling.
“The local authorities don’t give you grief about selling meds?” she asked.
“Nobody comes around to check, and besides, everybody knows the Farling stuff works as advertised. Anti-hangover pills are my biggest seller, and I traded for those green ones just before coming to Earth. They’re supposed to cure the common cold.”
“How about anti-intoxication pills?”
“You want to drink alcohol and not get drunk? Are you a card sharp?”
“I just have a little trouble stopping once I get started,” Ellen admitted.
“I’ve heard that the Gem sell nanobots that could do the job, but they probably cost a fortune and they can’t last that long in the body. A Farling doctor could probably fix you up, they’re supposedly the best in the galaxy, but I don’t know where you’d find one. In the meantime, take a pack of these anti-hangover pills, on the house.”
“And they’re your biggest seller?”
“Paid my blanket rental ten minutes after I got here,” Marshall asserted, tossing her a bubble pack. “Maybe I was wrong about those tablecloths, it looks like you have a prospect.”
Ellen turned back to her own blanket and saw a couple of well-dressed women crouching on their heels to examine one of the tablecloths.
“What lovely fabric,” the older woman remarked. “How much is it?”
“Those are genuine Frunge-weave, from the colony on Tzeba Four,” Ellen launched into her pitch. “You can see that it’s woven from individually dyed threads, not a print, and the—”
“Price?” the younger woman interrupted.
“In a boutique on Union Station, these tablecloths sell for over a hundred creds.”
“We aren’t on Union Station and there’s a trader with a whole load of them at the other end of the fairgrounds selling for forty-five creds.”
“Forty-five? That doesn’t make any sense. Wholesale on these is forty-eight to fifty, depending on the pattern, and there’s only one source.”
“So your usual mark-up is a hundred percent?”
“I was going to offer one to you for eighty creds,” Ellen said. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to operate as a solo trader? My mortgage—”
“Isn’t our problem,” the older woman cut her off. “Good luck finding some shoppers with more money than sense. Are those the new cold pills?” she continued, turning to Ellen’s neighbor.
“Straight from Farling Pharmaceuticals,” Marshall confirmed. “Six creds per pack.”
“That’s so reasonable,” the younger woman enthused. “I’ll take two.”
“And I’ll take three,” her companion said.
Ellen watched as the other trader handed over five bubble packs and collected thirty creds. He gave her a wink, and then she jumped like a startled rabbit when something began vibrating her right butt cheek.
“Stupid cell phone,” she growled when she realized what it was, and then almost
