Yondering. Jack Dann

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.

      “Lady, we’ve just come up in the runabout. You can’t lecture us about high standards. We know these guys. We’ve got the measure of them.”

      “I’m talking about the officers’ mess. 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