state your name and crew number,” an automatic voice demanded from a concealed speaker.
“Emceesquared Gonzalles della Harpenden,” I said. “I have no crew number.”
“Please remain where you are, Ms. Harpenden. Will the other access-denied person please identify him or herself.”
“I am the Ambassador for Yoof on Earth, Edward Malley, aka Ned. My number is twenty-two million, six hundred thousand, and thirty-four and a half. And like the guy said, let us in.”
“Your Excellency will please remain where your Excellency currently is. An authorized admissions officer will contact you soon.”
“It seems polite enough,” Ned said to me.
“Don’t get smart,” I said. “The last thing we want is to be sent back to Earth. You know that.” We retreated to a row of chairs against one of the walls. Nothing happened for a while. For the first time in hours we were in complete silence.
“This joint’s a bit light on for windows,” Ned said, waving at the walls.
“It’s a spacecraft, for pete’s sake. Windows would be a design fault. And anyway, even if there were windows, they’d have to be in the floor. We’re in a spinning drum, remember?”
“You make us sound like balls in a lottery.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
A flustered officer walked through the door. She was wearing a crisp uniform and was perfectly sober. She looked at us, looked around the muster room as if she was in search of someone else, and then walked over to us.
“I take it one of you young whippersnappers claims ambassadorial status.”
“We both do,” Ned said. “We are the Special Ambassadors for Yoof.”
“How did you get onto the runabout?”
“Sue-Ellen Harrison drove us there.”
“Oh, her,” said the officer. “Ms. Sue-Ellen Harrison is an official translator provided by the Earth authorities; she is not Crew Recruitment.”
“She’s great mates with Ulrike Lewis,” Ned said.
“It is true that Her Excellency Ulrike Lewis is the most revered and honored member of this ship’s company,” said the officer. “But Her Excellency is not the captain of the ship. And she is no more in charge of crew recruitment than Ms. Harrison is.”
“Lewis wants us to carry messages of youthful peace and good will to the Skyroans and Kovalevs,” Ned said. “We are prepared to shoulder that burden.”
“Who taught you to speak Newharp?” the officer snapped.
“She did,” Ned said, pointing at me with his thumb.
“Well, she hasn’t done a very good job,” the officer said. “It is customary in polite Newharp discourse to use the terms of address and honorifics to which a person is entitled by virtue of his or her rank and social standing. Do I make myself clear, young man?”
“What’s this old goat on about?” Ned said to me in English.
“She wants you to refer to Lewis as Her Excellency,” I said in English.
“Oh, god, one of those,” Ned said. Then he switched back to Newharp and said to the officer, “I’m sure Her Imperial High Majesty Ulrike von Lewis is most anxious that her Special Ambassadors for Yoof be given every assistance as they settle into the life of this esteemed spacecraft.”
The officer looked as if she was going to give Ned another lecture, but she checked herself and said very primly, “If—and I stress if—you are permitted to remain on board The Delegate, you will be required to diligently discharge your duties.”
“Sure,” Ned said. “We’ll be tip-top ambassadors, crash hot diplomats.”
“The nature of the ceremonial duties you will be required to perform once we arrive at Skyros will be a matter for Her Excellency. However, while the ship is in flight you will perform the more mundane tasks allocated to you by an officer of this ship.”
“I take it you are severely understaffed,” Ned said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Half the crew have jumped ship.”
“It is possible that some vacancies may have arisen during our stay on Earth. We will only know this after the runabout has made its last shuttle flight. Now, what specialized work skills do you each possess?”
“I’m an organ salesman,” Ned said. “Em’s a waitress and language teacher.”
“An organ salesman?” The officer said, “You sell musical instruments to Christian churches? Hymns?”
“Body parts,” Ned said. “Kidneys, eyeballs, hearts, arteries, the odd pancreas, all sorts of bits and pieces. I sell them door to door. I’m a rep.”
“You will appreciate that there is no scope for your line of work on The Delegate.”
“That sounds like defeatist talk to me,” Ned said. “A good salesman never sleeps. He’s always making one last pitch.”
“We have a fully trained medical team on board. In cases where organ replacement therapy is indicated, the team can perform its duties without help from a salesman. Or rep.”
“What if trade’s slack?”
“It is not a trade.”
“A good transplant surgeon needs constant practice. Use it or lose it, I say. With someone like me counseling the troops, the surgeon guys will never be out of work.”
The officer shrugged and turned her attention to me. “Now, Ms. Harpenden, I understand from your companion here that you have waitressing skills.”
“Yes,” I said.
“In what sort of establishment have you practiced this profession?”
“The Dog and Harp,” I said. “An ethnic Newharp entertainment complex in Jackson’s Port.”
“And this is a high-class establishment? Top end of the market?”
“Yes,” I said.
Beside me Ned managed to turn a snort into a coughing fit. It was less than six hours since he’d burned the Dog to the ground, the whole greasy box of dice. The officer looked at Ned coldly but didn’t say anything. She returned her attention to me.
“Do you think you could handle the formalities of the officers’ mess on this ship, Ms. Harpenden? The standards required of the serving staff are high.”
“High!” Ned exploded. “High standards for that gang of bums?”
“Mr. Malley!” The officer said.
