Yondering. Jack Dann

      “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.”

      “Oh god,” said the first guy, lowering his head into his hands again. “Bloody Doe.”

      “At your service,” said John Doe. “You will be pleased to know that I just happen to have at my disposal a limited—and I stress limited—supply of very serviceable knives and forks that I picked up in a flea-market on Earth. Some metal, some plastic. I may even be able to run to a spoon or two.”

      “It figures,” mumbled the first guy.

      “It pays to do your market research,” John Doe said. “That way the honest trader can be in a position to satisfy the pressing desires of his customers.”

      “Market research,” the first guy said, still looking at the table. “Insider trading, more like. It was you who flogged the officers’ stuff in the first place. So you knew the crew was going to have a shortage of eating irons.”

      “This is a gross slander,” John Doe said without any anger that I could detect. “I would no more dispose of the ship’s possessions than.…”

      “Save us the lecture, Doe. We’ve heard it before. Or, at least, I have.…”

      “Let us leave this cynic to his own delusions,” Doe said to me. “Come, our food is getting cold.”

      He led the way to the table where I had left my soup and nine-spice rolls. There was now a second tray on the table, heaped with food.

      “Let us dine,” Doe said, producing a knife and fork from his sleeve like a conjurer at a kids’ party. He sat down and started to feed his face. I sat down in front of my own food. Doe didn’t offer me any eating implements. I took hold of the soup bowl and raised it to my lips. For a while we ate in silence, Doe using his implements, me just drinking from the bowl.

      “You’ve got some on your chin,” Doe said. “Here, allow me.” He leaned across the table, a silk handkerchief in his hand. In a second the guy had wiped my chin and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “I always find spoons make things easier to control,” he said. “Show me soup and I’ll show you a certified spoon opportunity.”

      “Sounds a bit fancy-pantsy to me,” I said. “Show me soup and I’ll show you an opportunity for animal behavior.”

      “Spoons raise us above the level of the beasts,” Doe said. “Knives and forks also.”

      “How many of the things have you got?”

      “As I said, a limited number.”

      “If I don’t buy now, I might miss out. That your message?”

      “You’re a bright boy.”

      “Also skint.”

      “Skint?”

      “Broke. Devoid of cash.”

      “Credit can be extended.”

      “By the way,” I said. “What do you get paid on this ship?”

      “Not enough,” Doe said. “It’s an advantage to have a second source of income.”

      “I’m an organ salesman myself.”

      “Got any organs to sell?”

      “Not at the moment.”

      “You’d be better off in spoons. Here, have one. Also a knife and a fork. Pay me back next payday.”

      * * * *

      Em Talking

      The officers’ mess had all the charm of a leftover palace. It was ornate, covered in deep carpet, richly patterned; the tables, which curved with the curvature of the ship, were wooden, richly polished; hunting trophies adorned the walls; old flags of long dead intergalactics hung from poles that jutted out from the bulkheads. The lighting was subdued; there were silver candlesticks on the tables, and fresh flowers, most of which I recognized from Earth, but some from home. Did the ship have its own greenhouse? The cutlery was pretty ordinary: great solid clunky knives and forks made of stainless steel. Spoons like ladles. Tamara, the shift supervisor who was showing me around, said, “The officers aren’t too thrilled with these things; the proper stuff got stolen.”

      “Who by?”

      “It pays not to know.”

      * * * *

      Waiting on the tables wasn’t too hard once I’d learned the ritual. Anybody who could handle the Dog and Harp could handle this place. I didn’t get to wait on High Table, but I got to see Ulrike Lewis in person for the first time in my life. It was a bit of a shock. I knew she was old, but I was unprepared for the wizened crone who held court at High Table. Still, as far as I could tell, looking quickly sideways while purveying food to the junior officers, she managed to hold her own. The glittering, high-ranking officers at High Table all laughed at Her Excellency’s jokes.

      One of the regulars at a table I did wait on was the officer who’d allowed Ned and myself onto the ship. I suppose I was indebted to her, but I can’t say I warmed to her. She seemed to be in a constant state of suppressed fury. Her name was Flight Regulator Montesquieu. Her fellow officers addressed her as Monty. Usually she hardly acknowledged my presence. But one evening, after we’d been in-flight for about a week, she spoke directly to me while I was dishing out plates of battered darkfish.

      “You and Malley have an appointment with Her Excellency at 1600 hours tomorrow.”

      I was a bit flustered, but I managed to say, “Where?”

      “In her private quarters.” And then, barely managing to keep her voice level, Montesquieu added, “She’s invited you to afternoon tea.”

      “Thank you,” I said,