Not the crew’s. I am glad to say that the crew’s mess is entirely self-service, and no intoxicating beverages whatsoever are available. Your recent companions on the runabout have had the last drink they are going to have for a very long time. A very long time indeed.”
“So what’s the price of moonshine in this tub?”
There was a moment’s tense silence. You could tell that Ned had got it right: The Delegate was well served with illegal hooch stills. I broke the silence by telling the woman that I was sure I could handle the requirements of the officers’ mess.
“Good,” she said. “And I hope Malley here can handle the duties of a washer woman.”
Ned burst out laughing. “A what?”
“We have reason to believe that there will be a vacancy in the Ultra-c Accelerated Drive Tunnels Maintenance Detail—a dedicated group of men and women known colloquially as ‘the washer women’—both genders.”
“These would be the guys most likely to jump ship?” Ned said. “We’re talking zero job satisfaction here?”
“We believe there may be at least one vacancy.”
“Well, it will have to do for a start, won’t it?” Ned said.
* * * *
Ned Talking
The ambassadorial quarters were a bit mean, a bit cramped. Em and I each got a spin dryer to live in. They were in a bank of spin dryers stacked up three high along both sides of a narrow corridor. The corridor curved around the circumference of the ship. You were always at the bottom of the hill, and however much you tried to climb the hill, you stayed at the bottom. Not that it was hard work, it was just like walking on level ground. But you felt you were a rat on a treadmill. The spin dryers were clean and shiny, and once you got through the door, the hatch, there was enough room to lie full length or to sit up—but that was all. Us ambassadors weren’t going to do much pacing around our spacious suites. At the far end of the spin-dryer was a small telly screen and a few drawers to keep stuff in. Not that Em or I had any stuff.
I climbed out of my dryer and stood in the corridor. Em climbed out of hers.
“Roomy,” I said. “The spacious elegance of a Scott-Wok mansion.”
“You’re not wrong, Idiot-boy,” she said. “This whole bloody ship is a palace.” She wasn’t joking.
“Compared to what?” I said.
“Compared to the smugglers’ rat-trap that Harri and I came to Earth in. What do you think?”
“Depends what you’re used to,” I said. “Let’s go and find the mess. I’m starving.”
“I just want a shower and then sleep.”
“OK,” I said, “see you in the morning.”
* * * *
The crew’s mess, when I finally located it, was bleak. The crew was bleak. But what could you expect?—they were all hung over. Not really feeling up to solid food. There weren’t many present, and those that were were sitting around with their heads in their hands—groaning quietly. I didn’t reckon the kitchen staff were going to be run off their feet with demands for second helpings. Not that there were any kitchen staff in evidence. All the food came out of self-service machines. You just spoke your order and a tray appeared out of a slot with the required tucker onboard.
I said, “Bowl of seaweed soup and a double helping of nine spice rolls with piquant sauce.” Then, just to be nice to the dumb machine, I said, “Please.”
The dumb machine whizzed and groaned and the tray appeared. The food looked quite good, smelt good. And I wasn’t hung over, I was keen for a feed. I took the tray to a table and sat down.
There was no cutlery—neither on the table nor on the tray. I went in search. I could find none. I tapped a hungover dude on the shoulder.
“Hey, mate. About spoons and forks. You know, knives.”
“There aren’t any,” the guy said without looking up. “The officers have got them all.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Someone flogged the silver.”
“What silver?” I said.
The guy took his head out of his hands and looked at me through bloodshot eyes. “You new?” he said.
“Yep,” I said.
“Earthling?”
“Yep.”
“You poor sap. You’re shipping out on a Newharp spacetub?”
“Yep.”
“Well listen, yeppster. What you’ve got to understand is that anything that isn’t nailed down walks.”
“This happens on Earth as well,” I said.
“Yeah, but on a spacetub, once stuff has walked out onto a planet, it can’t be replaced until you hit the next planet, get it?”
“Yeah, I reckon I’ve got it. Somebody took all the knives and forks and sold them on Earth.”
“No,” said the guy, “not all the knives and forks. Just all the knives and forks from the officers’ mess. You know, the real silver and gold stuff that they use every day. Whoever it was also took the ceremonial stuff with the precious stones and the rare metals and the inlays and all that crap. Fetch a packet on Earth. Those primatives’ll buy anything flashy—beads, tomahawks, blankets, brightly colored cloth….”
“Thanks,” I said.
“No offense meant, yeppster. But it’s your greedy Earthling mates who’ve left us with no eating irons.”
“I thought you said it was only the officers’ stuff that got flogged.”
“That’s what I said.”
“So how come…?”
“Well, the goddamned officers aren’t going to eat with their fingers, are they?”
“They’ve gone and stolen the crew’s utensils?”
“Stolen? You’ve a blunt way of speaking, yeppster. The officers don’t steal, they requisition, they commandeer, they reallocate, they.…”
“So how are we meant to eat?”
“Fingers. Rusty nails. Toothpicks.”
“All bloody voyage! You seriously reckon we’ll be eating with our fingers until we reach Skyros?”
“We could give up eating. I can’t say I feel very peckish myself at the moment.”
“Gentlemen,” said a voice at my shoulder. “I couldn’t help overhearing your mournful discourse.”
