Orchid in the Void

By Steve Whitting

Peter "Pete" Soñador made a decent living writing scripts for the popular streaming serial, "Out to the Void", but frequently fantasized about living the life of a real independent spacer. After Pete inherits a large sum of money from his late, long-absent father, his "best friend" John takes him on a drunken celebration that culminates with Pete awaking the next morning as the new owner of a considerably less-than-state-of-the-art "candle" (i.e., space ship) named "Orchid" that Pete apparently purchased at auction the previous evening. With his inheritance gone, Pete finds himself forced into the very life that he's been making a living writing about. He quickly discovers that the real life of an independent spacer isn't exactly like his space opera scripts, though. It seems that real candles don't have artificial gravity that you can turn on-and-off with a switch, faster-than-light drives, or bottomless fuel tanks.

Accompanied by his friend and pilot John, his new girlfriend and "genius mechanic" Cat, crafty trader Lo Phat, and Lo's daughter/legal assistant/body guard Tuesday, Pete and his crew lift-off from their Martian home world and head for distant Ganymede with a cargo of so-called "luxury items" (including institutional grade toilet paper) that's supposedly worth more than its weight in gold on the frozen frontier moon. That's when things start to seem more like one of Pete's "Out to the Void" scripts.

"Orchid in the Void" is a rollicking space adventure set in Earth's Solar System centuries in the future that combines hard science-fiction with pulp detective story intrigue and comic interludes. You'll find it hard to put it down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Whitting
• Release date: Aug 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463728604

Steve Whitting

Geologist, cyclist, home brewer, and author all describe Steve Whitting. His formative years were spent in Fayetteville, Arkansas building model rockets, stargazing with his friends, and reading science fiction. Graduating with a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Arkansas in 1978, he had aspirations of becoming the first Geologist to visit the planet Mars. When that didn't pan out, he began writing short fiction in his spare time. Over the years those story concepts grew and eventually coalesced into his first novel, "Orchid in the Void". When he isn't busy pursuing his profession as an Environmental Geologist, he can be found aboard his beloved bicycle cruising along Alligator Bayou Road near Prarieville, Louisiana, concocting ales in his home brewery, or working on his next novel.

Book preview

Part I.

CHAPTER 1

can·dle \ ‘kandl\ noun 1. a space vessel that lifts off and lands vertically on its tail 2. a rocket 3. a cylindrical mass of tallow or wax containing a loosely twisted linen or cotton wick that is burned to give light.

* * *

The short version of this little narrative goes something like this: My long-absent father passed away and left me a serious load of bitcreds[1]. My ‘best friend’ John offered his sincerest condolences on my loss and then promptly insisted we go out and celebrate my newfound wealth. I got really, really drunk and don’t remember anything that happened afterward, but apparently I had a busy night.

I woke up with a monster hangover to the noise of metal banging on metal and what sounded like John swearing. I didn’t know what time it was or where I was. There was an odd flowery smell and I could see curving walls with what looked like conduit and wires snaking along them. I was in a bunk and there was a dark-haired girl next to me. From what I could tell, she was good-looking and we were both naked. Okay, so maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

She opened her brown eyes, smiled at me and lazily slurred, Good mornin’, Captain. Then she passed out again.

Uh, I’m not a ‘captain’ of anything. I write space opera for a living. If you’ve ever watched Out to the Void, then you’ve probably seen some of my stuff. I’m listed as ‘Peter Soñador’ in the credits, but most people just call me ‘Pete’. Admittedly it’s not my best work, but between the editors and the censors it gets a fair amount of ‘polishing’. At least my material is somewhat grounded in reality since I always bounce my ideas off of John, who grew up on Ganymede and is an ‘unemployed spacer’. More on that later.

Rise-n-shine! echoed John’s voice from out of my field of vision. We’re burnin’ daylight and there’s a lot o’ fixin’ to do if this ol’ candle’s ever gonna be space-worthy again.

Now I’m really confused. I hear footsteps clanking on decking and then John is standing beside my bunk with a grin on his face. His favorite and well-worn ‘Real Spacers Drink Beer’ tee-shirt that I’d once given him as a gag gift was all grimy and sweaty.

Good mornin’ sleepy heads, John said a little too loudly and cheerfully for my pounding head.

John, where the ‘eff am I? I muttered.

"You’re on board Orchid," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Ah, what’s Orchid? And please don’t talk so loud."

The candle you bought at the auction last night.

"What . . . you mean I bought a space ship? Uh, how much did I spend?"

Well, you had enough left over for quite a few rounds for the crowd at the Black Hole afterward. You’re real popular with the other spacers right now.

As my great-grandmother used to say, ¡Pero qué puta mierda![2] I just totally ‘effed up and spent my entire inheritance on a used candle that apparently needed repairs and multiple rounds of drinks for people I don’t know at a less-than-reputable drinking establishment.

John, I asked slowly, "Why the ‘eff did I buy a candle?"

Well, you was always sayin’ you wished you could ‘live the life’ instead of just writin’ about it. You was sayin’ that again last night, so I took you to the auction and you bought yourself a used transport. She wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I’ve been lookin’ her over and she’s not such a bad little candle. Needs some work, but between Cat and me, we ought to be able to fix her up just fine.

I’m unpleasantly reminded of an old saying, Be careful what you wish for, because it may come true.

Who’s Cat? I asked John.

"She’s Cat, John said as he pointed at the sleeping brown-skinned girl beside me. She’s the genius mechanic you hired at the Black Hole last night."

Like I said, I obviously had a very busy night.

John fetched my clothes and helped me to my feet. Cat or whatever-her-name-was rolled over and started snoring. Some ‘genius mechanic’ I’d hired.

After I’d finished puking my guts out, John proceeded to give me the grand tour of my ‘new’ candle from bridge to cargo hold while explaining Orchid’s various attributes along the way. I wished I wasn’t feeling like death warmed-over so that I might have better appreciated what all he was telling me. According to John, Orchid was a knock-off of a General Astronautics Triplanetary-class transport. She flew on water and was cheap to operate and maintain. He thought she’d been manufactured at least 50 years ago on Mars or maybe one of the big asteroids, so some of her tech wasn’t exactly the latest. John said that wasn’t such a bad thing at all because a candle like her was easy to fix using scrounged and improvised parts. I supposed that he should know.

What’s that flowery smell? I asked.

I’m guessin’ it’s from the orchids, said John. Story is that the former crew had orchids growin’ all over the candle. Auctioneer said they were those ‘horny orchids’ from Penitence – you know - the Jovian prison moon? Anyway, they was s’posed to have all been cleaned out before the auction.

Horny orchids?

They call ‘em the Night Goddess. They was a terraformin’ accident. Word is that they make gals so horny that they’ll sex with just about anythin’ with a pole, so the Commonwealth banned ‘em. That just made everybody want ‘em even more.

This candle smuggled them?

Crew didn’t mean to. They was just a bunch of gals escaped from Penitence who done brought ‘em along when they stole the candle. That’s how the story goes anyhow.

Can this get any worse? Now I’m the owner of a candle with a checkered past.

Wait a minute. If this candle was stolen, then why didn’t the Space Guard recover it? I asked.

"They did, but it needed fixin’ up and anyways it was obsolete, so they just let it go to auction.

So, are those ‘horny orchids’ why Cat ended up in the sack with me? I asked as I felt what little was left of my self-esteem draining away.

"Nah, she seemed to be mighty smitten with you before we ever boarded Orchid. John replied. She was a bit likkered-up by then, though."

[1] Common slang for Interplanetary Monetary Unit (I.M.U.)

[2] Spanish curse equivalent to, What the hell?

CHAPTER 2

It had been almost three months since the crew of the newly-christened transport Orchid had escaped from Penitence. They were lucky that Orchid was the space station’s only deep space transport and that the station’s orbital taxis lacked the delta-v[3] to intercept the fleeing vessel. Once they’d outrun the pursuing taxi, they’d altered their course for neighboring Ganymede. They’d spent the better part of a month on the frozen moon making various modifications to their ship. DJ and Tinker had managed to corrupt the transport’s transponder signal so that any Space Guard patrol candle would (hopefully) not immediately recognize Orchid as being stolen from the Penitence space station. They’d scraped-off the candle’s old markings and then used red paint that they’d appropriated from the guard tower to emblazon ‘Orchid’ on the side of the transport below the cargo hatch. DJ hoped that with hundreds of other transports like theirs navigating the void, the Space Guard would have a hard time finding a ‘needle in a haystack’.

Some of the supplies they’d acquired from the guard tower were traded on Ganymede for food and clothing. During the roughly two years they’d been stuck in the prison camp on Penitence, DJ and her crew had gotten used to running around ‘butt naked’ and as a consequence preferred going nude shipboard. Parading around in your birthday suit wasn’t normally socially acceptable dirtside or when there were passengers aboard, so they’d had to acquire suitable clothing for those occasions. Their ‘borrowed’ prison guard uniforms weren’t exactly welcomed on the moons of the outer planets and would have probably gotten them arrested if they were boarded by the Space Guard, so they’d combined homespun from Ganymede with various uniform parts to create suitable ‘spacer’s garb’ for those instances when clothing was necessary.

When it came to the day-to-day running of the ship, DJ and Marla worked together quite well. DJ knew she’d been elected captain because of her popularity and that Marla’s military experience probably made her the better leader, but Marla recognized that DJ’s outgoing personality and natural charisma made her the better ‘front man’. Besides, in addition to being first mate Marla had appointed herself head of ship’s security.

As far as the rest of the crew was concerned, Prissy’s piloting skills were a little rusty (if they’d ever been that good at all) and Tinker’s impressive knowledge of things mechanical was mostly intuitive and self-taught. Julie on the other hand was a damn good cook and professed to have graduated fourth in her class from the prestigious Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts. However, DJ did find it a bit disconcerting that their cook claimed her unfaithful husband had accidentally died of ‘food poisoning’.

The one position that they still needed to fill was that of ship’s medic/doctor, which was presently desirable and would become essential if they were going to carry passengers. DJ was less worried about carrying passengers and more concerned about avoiding the Space Guard and any strangers who might be connected to the Commonwealth - or willing to turn them in for a reward. Orchid provided them with shelter – they just needed bitcreds for food, fuel and other expendables. That meant they’d either have to haul freight to pay the bills or do something less legal to keep flyin’ . . .

* * *

Orchid shuttered like the candle was about to fall apart as we climbed up through Mars’ thin atmosphere. I’ve ridden on shuttles up to Phobosport before and was accustomed to the occasional bumpy ride, but this was a teeth-rattling, white-knuckle, piss-your-pants experience that had me thinking we were all going to die any second now. Between the roar of the rocket motor and the scream of the air rushing over our hull, I could barely hear myself think let alone enjoy the ‘launch music’ John was playing over the intercom. Lights flashed erratically on the archaic-looking control panel in front of me and I was sure that they were telling me something bad was happening.

I glanced over at John, who was seated in the pilot’s seat. He had a huge grin on his face like a kid who was having the time of his life riding a T-Rex in a sim at his birthday party.

Yeah, she’s a good ol’ candle! he shouted happily over the din. You done well pickin’ her out!

I don’t remember picking her out! I yelled. Then I realized that I didn’t need to shout because it was suddenly quiet. The sky outside the front viewports was black and I could see Mars’ horizon curving below us.

We’ve done busted out of the atmosphere, announced John. Should be smooth sailin’ from here on out.

"Should be?" he said. I wasn’t so optimistic. In fact, I was just shy of terrified. I was travelling through a lethal combination of hard vacuum and radiation in a patched-together candle that from all appearances mustn’t have been much more advanced than the rockets our ancestors had first ventured into space in centuries ago. Yet John had assured me during the better part of the week while we were making repairs to Orchid that wires and plumbing were more dependable and a lot easier to fix in a jam than hi-tech virtual nano-whatevers. He claimed that you could repair a candle like this out in the Oort Cloud using duratape and parts scrounged from a washing machine. I hoped that I never had to find out if that was true or not.

A few moments later the motor cut out and we were in orbit. And weightless. Did I mention that I positively hate free fall?

This ol’ candle ain’t got a bottomless fuel tank, John explained, apparently sensing my discomfort at being weightless. We’ll only be in orbit a few minutes while we line up for our burn, then you’ll have your precious gravity back.

Is it that obvious that I don’t feel so well, I croaked, feeling rather embarrassed.

You’re looking a pale shade of green there, Pete. Might want to pop a nausatab before you start hurlin’. Cleanin’ up vomit in free fall ain’t no fun.

The pill worked quickly, and within a minute the stomach-churning sensation of falling was replaced by one of almost indifferent calm. I found myself actually enjoying being able to un-strap and float around the cabin. I gazed out one of the viewports at the ruddy red globe that was my home. Vast swatches of pale and darker green representing hybrid pine forests and lichen blooms covered her surface, slowly transforming the planet’s thin atmosphere into one that would eventually be breathable. Mars was a big planet, and terraforming it was taking a lot longer than it had on some of the small moons.

Interplanetary war had been both a setback and beneficial to terraforming efforts. The ‘planet-killer’ nuke that had devastated a good chunk of a hemisphere had liberated a large amount of subsurface water that now formed a vast, shallow frozen sea which would be one day be liquid once Mars warmed up. Scattered here and there were tiny, gleaming bubbles that marked the domed cities dotting the human race’s new home world.

I was leaving it all for a life in the void.

Hold on, it’s time to light ‘er up again, John announced after a few minutes. Abruptly our rocket motor kicked in, slinging Orchid out of Mars orbit and onto a trajectory that would take us to the distant Jovian satellites and our destination, Ganymede. This time, the artificial gravity produced by our gentle acceleration felt less than Mars’ normal gravity rather than the invisible-person-sitting-on-your-chest feeling I’d experienced during our lift-off. I wondered why nobody had figured out how to make artificial gravity that you could turn on or off with a switch like in Out to the Void.

Cat scrutinized her display and informed us that we were ‘all systems go’. I thought that would have been a good thing to know before we lifted off, but John just gave her a thumbs-up and returned to his controls. Hey, what do I know? I just write space opera for a living, after all. Or at least I used to. Now I’m the ‘captain’ of an independent transport headed for the Jovian moon Ganymede with a scrounged cargo of thrift store sundries that Lo Phat assured us would make us all wealthy when they were resold. I was wealthy once for a few hours, but then I bought this candle.

It seems that Lo Phat is our new ‘partner’. He floated the money we needed for our speculative cargo, since John and I were flat broke. Cat had managed to restore Orchid to a ‘space worthy’ condition using what little cash John and I had between us and parts she’d scrounged from a local salvage yard, but that left nothing for purchasing supplies or goods to trade. John claimed that he knew Lo from previous dealings and had bumped into him during our night of celebrations at the Black Hole. Lo had several things that John determined made him an asset to our crew: money, a nose for a good deal, and a rather pressing need to leave Mars due to an apparent ‘misunderstanding’ involving a recent business deal that, as he put it, ‘went off course’.

Lo came with a ‘bonus’. He’d brought along his daughter Tuesday, who served as his personal body guard and assistant. According to Lo, Tuesday was highly proficient in the martial arts as well as legal and financial matters and would prove to be an asset in our business dealings. I’d suggested to John that she couldn’t be too proficient or Lo wouldn’t have had to leave Mars in such a hurry, but he just scowled at me.

So here we all were, hurtling through interplanetary space toward distant Ganymede with a cargo of ‘luxury items’ that was supposedly worth more than its weight in gold on the frontier moon. I hoped that was true since institutional-grade toilet paper isn’t all that heavy.

Cat leaned over my seat, put her lips close to me ear and softly whispered, See you later, Captain. The she turned and scampered off the bridge.

She’s sweet on you, said John grinning.

"It’s got to be the ‘effin orchids," I replied. I’m not bad looking, but I’m no media personality either. I usually walk or ride my bicycle rather than take a cab or the train, so I suppose I’m in better-than-average shape. Women usually don’t come on to me, though.

Maybe it was the booze back at the Black Hole initially, but there’s something else going on here, I added.

"Pete, there ain’t no horny orchids left on this candle, John said shaking his head emphatically. Customs done scanned her from nose to stern and then irradiated her. The auctioneer told me that she was so sterile when they was done that you could’ve eaten of her deck."

"They could have missed parts. You told me Orchid has passive shielding in case the power plant goes down. Besides, we can still smell them."

You got me there. I s’pose they could be growin’ inside the air scrubbers, but so what? It ain’t like they’s hurtin’ anything."

You’re not the one suffering from sleep deprivation, I replied dryly.

[3] Velocity change, pronounced delta-vee.

CHAPTER 3

DJ didn’t know when or even how she’d been drugged, she only cared that she woke-up in one of the cages with a monster headache. The cages had been arranged in a semi-circle where she could see the rest of her crew similarly caged. Mr. Marx was seated in a folding chair in the center and standing beside him with a triumphant smirk on her face was . . . Boss! She gleefully laughed at the crew’s predicament and taunted them with descriptions of the awful punishments that awaited them once they returned to Penitence. Then she asked Mr. Marx to fulfill his end of the bargain and remove her exploding collar. Mr. Marx told her that the special removal tool was in a package waiting for her in his hotel room. He told Boss he would join her shortly as she waddled as fast as she could to the cargo basket and down into Heinlein City’s night air. A few minutes later he pushed a button on a small remote control and DJ heard a familiar ‘pop’ followed by confused shouts and a woman’s scream in the distance. Then Mr. Marx informed the crew that they had two choices: they could work for him and get paid honest wages; or they could live out the rest of their short, miserable lives doing hard time on Penitence. Under other circumstances DJ might have argued the terms, but this one seemed like a no-brainer.

In short order Mr. Marx – a.k.a. ‘Kid’ - released the crew from their cages and then took them back to his hotel for a private, after-hours ‘no-hard-feelin’s’ gourmet dinner that made-up for the early less-pleasant events of the evening. Over a selection of after-dinner craft beers that included expensive Rare Earth dark ales, Kid informed them that he’d recruited Boss to help him locate DJ and her companions but didn’t trust Boss as far as he could piss. Boss had been released into Kid’s custody under the strict condition that she’d be eliminated once her usefulness was at an end. Kid insisted that he wasn’t the cold-blooded killin’ type, but he’d recognized that Boss only cared about herself and would have turned them all over to the Commonwealth if she got half a chance. Boss had known too much about DJ and her crew, so Kid simply gave her what was coming to her anyway.

In retrospect, DJ decided that everything had seemed ‘righter’ under the influence of the alcohol she’d consumed. Even still, Kid’s offer really was too good not to pass up and DJ figured she could overlook their new patron’s subterfuge as long as the he kept the bitcreds comin’ and the Commonwealth goin’ away.

* * *

Ganymede was a natural choice for our first speculative trading venture. Being a distant Jovian satellite, inexpensive everyday Martian items such as toothpaste and shaving cream were considered luxuries there. We’d also brought along staples such as flour, salt, sugar, some basic lo-tech tools and a few inexpensive higher-tech goodies. Our goal was to trade our stuff for gold, silver and other precious metals that were abundant on Ganymede and mined by the locals. Ganymede came with another plus: We could refuel for free by siphoning snow into our fuel tank.

Nine years ago, a restless young miner named John Tanner had traded a small satchel of gold nuggets for a ride off Ganymede on an independent transport much like ours. He’d quickly taken a liking to the spacer’s life and stayed with the candle, learning the ropes and working his way up to a seat on the bridge. He had fast reflexes and a natural instinct for navigating and earned himself a reputation as a skilled pilot. Then something had ‘gone off course’ as he put it and he found himself stranded and jobless on Mars. John never told me what happened, but I suspect the glass eye he wears may have had something to do with it.

When I met John, he was doing odd jobs at Olympus Spaceport, Mars’ largest spaceport. I was a fledging freelance writer who knew only slightly more than the average person about space travel and was looking to add authenticity to the scripts I was pedaling. Despite being down-on-his-luck, John was a friendly, cheerful man who was all-too-willing to share his knowledge and experiences with me for a beer or two. I would pitch my ideas to him and he’d tell me what would really work and what wouldn’t. I credit my becoming a regular contributing writer on Out to the Void to his helpful assistance. John and I soon became best friends and then roommates.

Now John was coming home to Ganymede as the pilot of the independent transport Orchid and my business partner. I wondered what his people would think of him. John didn’t seem concerned and in fact set us down on a flat stretch of ice just outside his old settlement. He reasoned that this would make us more welcome on clannish Ganymede where communities spring up around claims and tend to be very close-knit and suspicious of outsiders.

John had been stingy with our fuel, so it had taken us over a week to reach Ganymede. I’d used the time to read up on our destination, and Ganymede’s odd origins were interesting. The moon had a liquid iron core which gave it a protective magnetic field, a gravitational pull only slightly less than Luna’s, and a crust of ‘dirty ice’ and silicates 100 kilometers thick that surrounded a deep ocean of salt water. It was the ‘dirty ice’ which attracted attention after early expeditions discovered that the crust was littered with anomalous metallic nodules consisting of gold, silver, platinum and other precious metals. This made Ganymede a prime candidate for mining, except that robotic mining machinery tended to break down very quickly in the super-cold environment which made large scale exploitation uneconomical. Terraforming was promptly initiated, and massive fusion-powered, water-cracking oxygen generators provided a breathable oxygen atmosphere and warmed the moon from a frigid -157C to a survivable -35C. Then the Interplanetary War broke out and plans to further terraform the moon were abandoned.

After the war there had been several attempts to finish terraforming the moon, none of which were particularly well-financed and had fallen short of succeeding. The result was a partially terraformed world with a thin but breathable atmosphere where the temperature never got above freezing. The harsh conditions dissuaded further large-scale attempts at mining, leaving the settlers to eke out a living on their individual claims.

We’d landed in a blizzard, which John informed us was ‘normal weather’. When the cargo bay doors opened the in-rushing air was so cold that I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath for a few moments. I’ve never felt cold like this before. It was a good thing we’d all bought heated snowsuits before we left Mars.

A few dozen locals had already assembled just beyond our landing gear. They stood there silent and motionless, bundled against the cold holding flashlights and lanterns, intermittently obscured by the gusts of blowing snow. John motioned for me to accompany him and we rode down on the cargo basket, which was already covered with a thin layer of snow. We reached the ground and John raised and waved his hand in greeting.

Hello folks, I’m John Tanner! he shouted. I’m the son of Barry and Circe Tanner. I’ve come with my friends and we’ve brung along gifts for you and plentiful goods for trade!

I remember you, Johnny! shouted a voice from the crowd. A moment later a short, stocky man pushed his way to the front and extended his elbow.

Ezra Betters, he said as he touched John’s elbow[4]. I’m your cousin and I was your pappy’s friend when you was just knee-high.

I’m your cousin Jerry Lee, said another man stepping forward. Within a few moments, about a half-dozen relatives and family friends had stepped forward.

One person slowly stepped forward and stood in front of John. He didn’t extend his elbow, but simply said, Hello big brother.

John hesitated for a second as if he’d lost his voice, then he finally replied, Hello Paul.

Never thought I’d ever see you again, Paul said. His voice was a flat monotone.

Where’s Pap and Mom and George and Ringo? John asked.

They’s all dead, John. Cave-in got Pap and George and Ringo seven years ago. Mom passed away the following year. Would’ve got word to you if we’d known where you was.

I’m . . . sorry, John muttered and hung his head.

Well, you’s home now and that’s all that matters, interjected Ezra. C’mon, let’s get inside and we can all get re-acquainted.

With the ice apparently broken (figuratively speaking), we were escorted through the blowing snow drifts to the settlement’s cavernous central structure that served as the town hall and village tavern. Once inside we followed the local’s lead and stripped off our snow suits, hanging them on hooks that lined the walls that were adorned with hand-painted portraits of what we were informed depicted the ‘gone-but-never-forgotten’ members of the clan. We were motioned to seats near the head of a long metal table at the front of the great room and were subsequently served large mugs of steaming hot liquid that John informed us was a locally brewed concoction typically consumed after a hard day in the mines. Sacks of black mineral briquettes were added to long fire pits on three sides of the hall and stoked to roaring blazes. Spits were loaded with great rolls of rabbit meat. Our arrival was apparently a cause for celebration.

It seems the prodigal son has returned, I half-jokingly suggested to John, but he didn’t say anything. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous, as if the recent encounter with his younger brother had un-nerved him.

The banquet lasted for hours and culminated with dancing to music played on fiddles and guitars. Despite living an isolated existence on the frozen moon, the locals apparently listened to contemporary music because the band played a few polkas and line dances that were popular on Mars. The H&D Stomp was a particular favorite and was played multiple times. When they struck up Night Fever, Cat and I joined in and our footwork earned approving nods and smiles from the other dancers. Okay, so maybe they were actually laughing at us because I’m a lousy dancer unless I’ve had a few beers, and then I’m still lousy only I don’t realize it.

The festivities abruptly ended, and the locals began to bundle up for the trip back to their homes through the frigid night. Paul and several other men who composed the clan’s village council motioned for us to linger.

You said that you had goods to trade, said Paul. Tomorrow’s a work day, so we’ll finish up our dickerin’ now if that’s alright.

No problem with that, right Captain? John said turning to me.

Uh . . . sure, why not? I answered. What else was I supposed to say under the circumstances? If you’d like to come aboard, then you can view our cargo and see what you want to trade for.

About 30 minutes later we were all standing in Orchid’s cargo hold, staring at neatly sorted rows of . . . stuff. Lo had anticipated the impending transaction, and he and Tuesday had cleverly arranged our cargo for ease of viewing and product selection. At this point the village’s ‘selection committee’, consisting of Paul, a stern-faced middle-aged woman and two muscular looking men, went to work. They diligently scoured the rows of goods, whispering to one another but picking up nothing. Then, just when I thought that our trip out here was a complete bust, they suddenly began grabbing certain items and placing them on the empty pallets that Lo had staged near the cargo hatch. I was surprised at some of the things that weren’t being selected, but I was glad that other items were flying off the stacks. (Who would have ever thought that pick axes wouldn’t sell in a frontier mining settlement?) The packets of recreational simtabs that Lo had brought along all sold out, but I suppose if you spend your life digging through ice that the vivid memory of a tropical vacation on old Earth must be pretty attractive. I never have understood the desire to have a false ‘feel good’ memory, even if the effects are supposedly benign.

Another half-hour later the pallets were full, and Lo, Tuesday, Paul, and the middle-aged woman began to discuss our compensation while John and I stood by and watched. Their negotiations went on for quite a while and became rather heated at times. At one point, Lo stamped his foot angrily and the woman threw up her hands in frustration. Just when I thought the deal was going to burn up on re-entry, elbows were touched, and Paul and another man left to retrieve our payment.

That wasn’t so bad, I whispered to John who just nodded blankly in response. Something was obviously bothering him, but I couldn’t guess what it was.

We waited a long time for Paul and the other man to return, but they finally staggered up to the cargo basket with obviously