“Mr. Dekker, that ship was here. I’m not finding any record of it. Just a minute.”
A long wait while he sipped his beer and his heart pounded.
“Mr. Dekker?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure that ship hasn’t gone out?”
He was on the edge of crazy now. He said, “I’m an owner-operator. No, it hasn’t gone out. It shouldn’thave gone out. Try Refit.”
“I’ll check.” The operator sounded concerned. Finally.
The barman was looking at him. A bunch of military drifted in and took his attention. He hadn’t seen them on Rl. But they were customers. He was glad of the distraction. He was in no mood for a bartender’s questions.
The bartender served the other drinks. The hold continued. The soldiers settled in at a table. The barman signaled him: Refill?
He slid the empty mug down the bar, still waiting, still listening to inane music.
“Mr. Dekker?” the phone said.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to put my supervisor on. Please hold.”
He had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling. The beer came sailing back to him, and he stopped it and sipped at it without half paying attention.
“Mr. Dekker?” A different voice. Older.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Dekker, that ship’s number was changed. I’m looking at the record right now. You’re Mr. Paul E Dekker. Would you confirm with your personal ID, please.”
“12-9078-79.”
“Yes, sir. That title was transferred by court order. It was claimed as salvage.”
He couldn’t breathe for a moment. He took a drink of the beer to get his throat working downward again.
“Mr. Dekker?”
“Did the guy who claimed it—happen to be named Bird? Or Benjamin-something?”
“I’m not supposed to give out that information, Mr. Dekker. I can give you the case number and the judge’s name. If you have a question, I’d suggest you go to the legal office. We don’t make the decisions. We just log what they tell us. I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah.” He was having trouble with his breathing. He didn’t have his card to take the note the Dock Office was putting in. He didn’t want to involve the barman to get it. It went wherever it went when you didn’t key a Capture. “Thanks.”
“Good luck, Mr. Dekker.”
The Dock Authority hung up. He pushed the flasher, keyed up Information and keyed into Registry. Took the 1 choice this time and asked the robot for M. Bird.
Bird, Morris L.: 2-29-Tberth 29 and 2-210-Cin Refit.
He signed Registry off and keyed up information on Morrie Bird. It gave a can-be-reached-at phone number.
He called it. The voice that answered said: “ Black Hole?”
“Is this a sleepery?”
“Sleepery and bar. Help you?”
He hung up. He drank a big gulp of beer and picked up his. sacks off the bar. He asked the barman: “Where’s The Black Hole?”
“About three doors down. Something the matter, mister?”
“Yeah,” he said.
And left.
CHAPTER 10
HEAVY time was, for a very major thing, a desperate chance at all the vids you’d missed, at food that Supply Services hadn’t blessed, at faces you wouldn’t see day after day for three months, and at the news you didn’t get out there where Mama’s newscast was the only gossip you got, telling you crap like, Gas production in R2 is up .3%; or: There was a minor emergency in core section 12 today when a hose coupling came loose, releasing 10,000 liters of water—
The mind conjured intriguing images—but they were thin fare to live on. Heavy time was real life: the reviews Mama radioed you out in the deep Belt of vids in the top ten only let you know what was a must-see when you got back. A stale rehash of handball scores was no substitute for seeing the interdivisional games, and electronic checkers with your shipmate was damn sure no substitute for sex.
Heavy time was anything you could afford besides your hours in the public gyms and your socializing in the sleeperies and bars and your browsing in junk shops—precious little you could buy except consumables and basics, because a miner ship had no place to store unusefuls, and mass cost fueclass="underline" but experience didn’t mass much except around the waistline—so those were the kind of establishments you tended to get on helldeck, those that catered to the culturally, sexually, and culinarily deprived.
And if a couple of your partners turned up absent since quitting time into supper, with a sudden lot of credit in the bank, you knew it was probably one of the above.
Evenif it left you doing the supply shopping and handling the guys wanting a lease, you couldn’t blame him too much, and Bird didn’t: Ben had never been inclined to do it, Ben had worked hard on the legal stuff and the filings, and Ben had finagled a deal with a company repair crew to get the tanks installed.
But leaving him with the phone calls…
The regular lease crews wanting a piece of Trinidador Way Out—those you could explain to. They weren’t overjoyed, but they understood. It was the horde of part-time unpartnered would-be’s, most of whom you wouldn’t trust to find their way up the mast and back, who called up every time a ship went on the list; and who, finding out that Trinidad, newly on the list, wasn’t to lease, argued with you; and, worse, that a brand new ship, Way Out, was already first-let to one Kady and Aboujib, of less seniority and a certain reputation—
Well, it told you that you sure didn’t want to lease to those hotheads anyhow. He said to the latest such to call, “Screw you, too, mister. Hell if you ever get any ship I’m handling,” and hung up.
After which he walked past the looks from the other tables, back to the table by the door and the figures he was working with Meg—bills and bills, this week, pieces and parts of Way Out, mostly. He sat down and shook his head.
“Another fool,” he said, and punched up the Restore on the slate beside his plate, trying to recall his previous train of thought, and wishing to hell they still gave you paper bills, instead of damn windows on a slate that caught the glare from the ceiling lights. “Wayland Fleming. I never let to that son of a bitch and right now I’m damn glad.—Where in hell’s Ben and Sal off to, anyway?”
“Vid, I think.”
“Spending money.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s got into Ben.”
Meg looked up with raised eyebrows and said, “Now, Bird, you knowwhat’s got into Ben.”
No, he honestly hadn’t had it figured until Meg said that—and it somewhat upset his stomach. Ben and Sal? Cold, cool Ben?
With Sal Aboujib?
“You didn’thave it figured?” Meg said. “Come on, Bird.”
That they were sleeping together, hell, yes—going at it non-stop, absolutely, but that was youthful hormones. What Meg implied was something else. A guy like Ben, who’d saved every penny all his life, out spending it on a woman?
Ben, his best-ever numbers man—being courted by Kady’s? And advising him who to lease to, against his better judgment?
Meg had toted up the expense figures while he was at the phone: she had a better head for bank balances than he did, she was damned pretty, and sometimes, looking at her, even if an old blue-skyer’s eyes had to get used to fire-red hair shaved up the sides and bangles up the ears, it was the likes of Meg that could keep a man interested in living.
But what was he doing suddenly sleeping steady with Meg Kady, when there were whole stints ashore he’d spent without a woman so much as looking at him? And what was Ben doing spending his money on Sal?
He was afraid he did have the answer to that, and maybe he ought by rights to be mad. Maybe he ought to throw Meg Kady out on her scheming ear and rescue Ben from Sal’s finagling.