"That sounds good. Do you by any chance have dealings with my partners Martee and Roger, who came in that little grey ship I see parked over there?"
Fist looked oddly at him and grinned. "Not since they landed, but I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding them. I understand they live just outside town now."
"Then why don't I introduce you to our, uh – Loadmaster. Not sure of your word again and she can do all that for you. It's part of her job."
That seemed to satisfy Fist, who didn't offer a hand to shake, or a palm for tip, so Josh just called Chris down from the ship, but stuck around and introduced her to the fellow. Most of Chris's training was learning a little Todu and how to balance out a load on top of her accounting skills.
"Please find out everything you can from Mr. Fist that we should know, Chris." He didn't want to be bothered with the details.
Chris was doing fine with Fist, fingers briefly playing across a virtual keyboard in the air in front of her. She keyed her mike and ordered someone to snatch the manifest from the printer and bring it out to them. Josh decided he didn't have to stand and pretend to be looking elsewhere, while eavesdropping. Fist looked a bit surprised at the ease of communications and that a manifest could be printed on request so quickly.
Josh touched his own com switch. "Gil you can drop to one man at the hatch for security, with a Taser as primary equipment. Anybody not busy who wants to come out it's fine. He hadn't really paid any attention to the other cart that came up, as it was hanging back. He figured it for a local hack and turned to see about a ride.
The cart was longer than Fist's. There were eight big soft leather captain's chairs, with seatbelts and cup-holders off the arm rests. The canopy had a fringe of tassels and there was the sound of soft music from it. It was painted in mint green and crème and on a side panel there was lettering that said "The Lodge". In Todu it was a very old word, that implied a hunting camp. The script was bracketed by silhouettes of pine woods in a deeper green. The whole logo surrounded by a double pin stripe oval and in small script below it said ‘Courtesy Shuttle – Martee and Roger your hosts'.
The driver appeared to be pouring some wine for them and putting out cheese and crackers, on little trays by the cup-holders.
"Damn..." Joshua said, blinking at the sight. "I'm so glad I got out here. They must be struggling under terrible hardship."
Chapter 34
"Martee, the ship has been sitting out there on the field since last fall. It's spring, Martee," Josh pointed out, again. "It has grass growing under it, like an old car in a hillbilly's yard. It's starting to embarrass me. I'll go with you, but you should come and do the paperwork. Or if you want Roger to go with you, I'm sure he would when he gets back from this Earth run. Word has to get back to them eventually where it is and I don't want them to think we stole it."
"I'll take it back. It just we've been so busy. I don't want either of you along. I can sweet talk somebody, when either of you would just respond with guns blazing. If I play my cards right we can get enough free advertising to make up for the late fee, on the ship. How much cash do you have in the vault now, anyway?"
* * *
"Trishal Control, I need clearance and auto-guidance to land at the Sinth District Spaceport please. If you'd direct me to the Vehicle Rental Association, parking I'd appreciate that." She didn't really have time for this trip, but she wasn't a thief and Roger had started to get on her case about returning the ship. She'd approached several starships to detach a crewman and return it for her, but nobody wanted anything to do with it when they heard the story. She wouldn't let one of the boys come along, knowing just the sight of them would make the authorities give her a hard time.
The controller didn't sound excited at all, but the Martee knew somebody down there would be stirred up by now, once her transponder was pinged. She placed an audio only call to the news services and asked to speak with a writer, to report an interesting story.
"Talimom Tist here," said a masculine voice. "What sort of a story do you have for us?" He didn't sound interested at all.
"Tist, I'm a professor of history who has been absent on vacation for far more than the twenty-day I scheduled. I'm returning just shy of two years late and I'm turning in a space rental, which was originally signed out on an eighteen day contract for twenty-two thousand, three-hundred, seventeen Pid. I'm betting they are going to be most stern with me and I thought you'd like to be there to write the story. It's very important you have a camera crew with you, if you want the best possible coverage."
There was silence and then hysterical laughter.
"Lady you have more style than I've seen in a long time. I hope you had one pritchen sweet vacation, because they are going to throw the book at you and have you sweeping streets and weeding parks, until you are too old to remember how it happened. Still, it's just the sort of thing a lot of people dream of doing, just to show their bosses what they really think of them. I just have to ask – Why did you come back? Most people who dream of doing something crazy like this, figure they will drop on some paradise planet and never come home to face the music."
"That's the twist to the story," Martee assured him. "If you aren't there, you can be sure they will cover it up and nobody will ever hear what happened. I should be landed in about a half-twentieth, so you might have to hurry."
"Oh, I'll be there, don't worry. We're right by the port and I'll be down there with two photographers. You know the Association of Propriety is going to have their own photo crew. They'll be making an instructional video, to show the public what happens to a serious defrauder, who steals so much more than their fair share."
"I certainly expect it. But I predict you will have the only footage to air. Look, I have a couple other calls to make now, so see you at the port," and she disconnected. A brief call to her building supervisor, established her apartment had been cleared and the things put into storage, until such a time as she was declared dead. She made sure she didn't owe them anything and wrote down where the storage was located.
A call to her former supervisor at the University was accepted and she explained she was going to be on planet again and she'd like to speak with someone from the administration about endowing a new department of Earth Studies at the University. This call didn't go as well. He thanked her for the interstellar mail, advising them she had quit her post, assured her the University did not wish to be associated with her in any fashion and hung up.
There were two stern-faced uniformed officers waiting for her outside the landing square, where the computer control lowered the ship to the pavement. As the newsman had predicted, there was a plain-clothes unit standing back recording, but she saw another camera man standing back also, who had to be associated with the news bureau. It was probably the reporter she'd talked to standing beside him, unburdened by any equipment.
Martee rolled the hatch back and emerged pushing a two-wheeled cart, with four pieces of luggage on it. She was wearing an elegant white Sari tunic and pants with elegant gold embroidery and pearls. It had a long sheer wisp of a scarf as an accessory and even by Trishan standards it was very modest. She wore enough high karat gold jewelry to make the huge yellow diamond just a bright note, on a field of rich yellow metal. As soon as she reached the blue stand-back line, a uniformed officer stepped forward and announced she was being arrested.
"On what charges officer?" she asked pleasantly.
"Fraud by failure to pay a rental contract," he scowled.
"I haven't gone to the desk and terminated my contract. At the moment I'm simply late turning a rental in which is not a crime. If I am kept from turning in my rental and paying off my contract, the law is very clear that I am not liable for the fees and they fall upon the party obstructing me from performing my contract," she said, waving the document. "I'd think very carefully if you wish to do that, because I doubt if your Association will pick up the fee for you, as an official act of duty."
"Fine," he said, angry at her lac
k of submission, "go in and make an even bigger fool of yourself with the clerk. We're watching and you aren't going to sneak out some side door, or lose us without being taken into custody."
Martee ignored that statement and wheeled her baggage in to the counter, where the clerk looked shocked to see her still free. The police and outside news camera crew followed and there was another news camera man inside, who panned her entry and got her image from another angle at the counter.
"I have a standard four-seat, on an eighteen-day contract that is late. I'd like to turn it in and pay you off. You might also send a maintenance man out to inspect it. We had to temporarily install some equipment and there are some screw holes in the instrument panel and a couple brackets mounted you will have to remove. I'll pay any reasonable amount for the damages."
The clerk looked alarmed and took the contract sheet, pecking some numbers in the computer. Pretty soon there was a supervisor at her elbow.
"Ma'am," the clerk said, "your account was charged with the base fee at the end of your contracted period and there were not sufficient funds. We reported the loss to our Association and filed a complaint of fraud. Are there funds in the account now to satisfy the contract?"
"I have an interstellar letter of credit for two-million Pid, if we can have a courier take it down to the bank, they can deposit and verify it. I have to complain you really got ahead of yourself, filing a complaint before I returned. I may file a counter complaint of false accusation before this is over."
"Ma'am," the supervisor spoke up. "Fees are due on arrival and we don't intend to have people camp out at our counter, waiting for financial institutions to send couriers and verify documents. If you can't pay now, as far as we are concerned you are in default and we stand by our complaint." He curled his lip up and his tone of voice changed completely. "As far as I am concerned, they need to make an example of people like you, more than we need the money." He nodded at the policeman like he was through and they could haul her away.
"Not so fast big ass," Martee stopped him with a raised hand and popular slur. "I suspected you might have an attitude like that. Give me a payoff number and I have the means to pay you off right now."
The sneer on his face was something to behold and the news camera man was getting it in glorious profile.
"Your bill comes to one-million-six-hundred-thousand, pritcha, let us skip making me recite the small numbers and penalties and call it a million-six and end this farce, so we can all go about our business."
"OK," Martee agreed. "Here is the one million." She set the top suitcase aside, lifted the next on the counter and unzipped the side cover. Inside were neat rows of hundred-Pid notes in bundles with tape around each. "You can keep the suitcase, since it's such a mess to handle loose."
The rental people didn't know what to do. They didn't even make a move to count it. Martee doubted that they had a cash drawer, or company procedures to accept cash payments and deposit them.
The civilian cameraman was hanging over the side of the counter, panning in on the open case. The reporter with the other cameraman was crouched down to fit in the view and she could hear him saying, "Live from Sinth District Spaceport, this bizarre story of a History professor, who overstayed her vacation, more than a little!"
"Here we go," Martee said setting the next case from the stack on the counter and opening it. The bills inside were arranged in neat blocks of shrink wrap. That wasn't a common way to package things in Trishal. She pulled six of the ten out and pushed them across the slick counter top. "I'd like a cancelled copy of my contract and I need to rent a ground car to go into town."
"We don't want you as a customer." The manager hissed. His eyes narrowed and he turned quickly to the uniformed officer.
"I want this woman held until we can verify this is legitimate script and she got it legally."
The cop stopped and thought about that, eyeing the other two suitcases warily.
"Are you Tist from the news association?" Martee asked the fellow beside the cameraman.
"Yes, ma’am, thanks for your call."
"Here, why don't you take some of this," she said handing him a smaller bundle of cash. "I'd appreciate having an impartial third party determine if it is properly issued script, or funny money I printed up myself. Liñool has proper controls on printers, just like Trishal." She didn't mention Earth.
"I not comfortable with that," he said pulling a single bill off the bundle. "I don't want to look like I was bribed. But I'll sell you a ride into town since you seem to be stranded." He offered the rest back.
"I will arrest the woman on your complaint," the uniformed officer offered finally after much thought. "I have no authority, or reasonable suspicion that your complaint is valid. If it turns out to be a false complaint of a crime, it's your responsibility not mine." Satisfied his butt was covered he asked, "So, do you still want to make a formal complaint?"
"Not to you," the manager waved him away, angry. "But I'm going to complain to your superior officer about you," he threatened the officer.
"Make it a formal complaint, a criminal charge and you'll make my day," the cop told him. He looked like he wanted to say more, but the cameras held him back. "I have no further business with you, Ma'am," he told Martee.
"I've got limited time to be on Trishal," Martee informed the reporter. "Could we get on into town now?"
"Certainly, could you tell our viewers while we ride, what you've been doing and what the source of your sudden wealth is?"
"Oh, I'd love to. I've been to Earth and Liñool mostly and I've been having so much fun," she said taking his elbow and heading for the door. "I met an exotic barbarian, who wants me to marry him and his friend and we have had such adventures and we started a resort on Liñool. It's this huge log building on a ridge, looking over the capitol city and we have Earth style food in the restaurant and music like you've never heard…" Thus Trishal was surreptitiously introduced to the infomercial.
Chapter 35
Donny was running out of time so he ate faster, closing his phone, because reading the news would slow him down too much. It was lunchtime but the diner served breakfast all day long. He could see why, looking over the crowd who patronized the place. Not many tourists came in here. They didn't come to Las Vegas, to go to a diner that would be at home in Chicago or Detroit. There were however plenty of customers just like him, with that squinty eyed look that said they'd just rolled out of bed and were struggling to get fully awake before they started work.
They were all sucking down the bitter, strong coffee, as fast as the waitress would bring the pot around. Their clothing marked them as casino workers, croupiers, lesser pit bosses, security types, even a few lowly workers from housekeeping. They either didn't have the money to eat where they worked, or were saving their money for other things.
Some clubs he knew, discouraged the workers from mingling off shift with the paying customers, especially if they were dressed for work. Once, long ago, he'd expected a room and his meals comped, as part of his contract. He could still remember the first time his agent had offered him a contract with no room. He'd been insulted and objected, to no effect. But he'd been a few months without a gig, so he took it. It hadn't been long before that agent had dropped him and the agent he had now he'd had to approach, instead of her being the supplicant.
The breakfast here was better than most room service, not fancy, but filling and steaming hot. It just didn't have the same status as the house comping you. He frugally left a single dollar tip, weighed down with his empty coffee mug and the exact change on the counter at the register. The ticket just had scrawled spec / cof on it, but he'd been paying the same ten dollars and thirty-five cents every day for months.
It was a pleasant early November day. The temperature was pushing seventy and he'd be able to quickly change for his act without a shower. All summer he had walked to work through the heat of the day, after selling his car. The natives praised the heat as dry, but a few blocks in it le
ft Donny wilted and exhausted and he had to allow time to recover before his act. The few thousand selling the car gave him in reserve was nice, but mainly it was the expense of insurance and a decent tip to the valet at the casino every day that was just killing him.
The Caddy was five years old and if he hadn't replaced it pretty soon it would have become an object of humor with the staff, as much as if he had to cut back on tipping the valet. When he'd been making the big money he'd always dropped a twenty on the kids, for running his car around. When you couldn't afford something like that anymore, was when the staff started laughing behind their hands at you. He'd rather walk than amuse them.
The security man in his booth at the staff parking glanced up and gave him a little wave. At the door there was no guard nowadays, just a card reader to swipe and let yourself in. As pleasant as it was out, it was still noticeably cooler inside. He didn't have a private dressing room anymore, just a locker in the common room with the dancers and minor acts.
He had to pick an open slot at the dressing tables and mirrors, that ran the length of the room. The early act would be slow, so he picked an outfit he didn't care for very much. He wouldn't feel so bad, when it got worn too badly to pass inspection from the tables. He hung it and his private make up kit on a roll-along and wheeled it across to an open seat.
It was mid-week and afternoon. Later, he'd do some openings for other performers in the evening, who would have a crowd. There were a cluster of dancers getting ready down the line, but none acknowledged him. They were a little older and moved a little slower, part of the afternoon 'B' team just like Donny. The stage crew would turn the lights down a bit for them.
There was a flat screen bolted to the wall by the exit and he glanced at it to confirm in which room he was scheduled. Then he hurried up the dim hallway, cluttered with equipment and props. His announcer Bernie was waiting to make sure he'd show, before he committed to stepping out from behind the curtain. He looked relieved to see Donny, because it was down to the last minute and he'd have to file a report if an act didn't start on time. He straightened up, put on his stage face and stepped out.
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