''Check with the pharmacy,'' Kris said, coming to look over his shoulder. Yep, half of Warehouse 3 was out-of-date junk. ''Probably was expired when it was donated.''
''By what, a week? Someone's using us for a dump!''
''No, someone's using us for a tax break for their generous donation,'' Kris spat.
''My old man probably suggested the scam,'' Spens growled. ''And he wonders why I don't want his job.''
Kris scowled at the printout with its indictment of the world she'd joined the Navy to get away from.
''Hey, look what the cat drug in,'' came cheerfully from behind her.
''I'd hoped for a somewhat better introduction than that.''
Kris turned to see Tommy grinning and Henry Smythe-Peterwald the Thirteenth, arms folded, standing in her doorway. The finely sculptured handsomeness of him was a lot easier to take without Mother hanging on his elbow. Today he wore field dress, finely tailored and expensive. Kris remembered being similarly decked out by her mother for her hikes in the Blue Mountains back home.
She quickly swallowed a scowl at the memory, lest her visitor think it intended for him. ''You don't have a visitor's badge. I'll take you over to the HQ and get you checked in,'' Kris said, falling back on standard procedures to give her brain a chance to catch up. ''You'll want to see Commander Owen. He's in charge, since Colonel Hancock's out on a relief run.''
''Can't we avoid all that? I can see paper pushing without leaving home,'' he said with just a hint of a scowl.
''What do you want to see?'' Tommy asked, giving Kris a sidewise glance that yelled, Besides a certain boot ensign.
''Anything but my old man. What are you doing out here, Kris?'' Henry quickly sidestepped Tommy.
''Whatever the Navy wants me to do, Henry. Joining the Navy looked like the best way to give Mother an early heart attack.''
''Ah, our dedication to our parents' coronary health.'' He chuckled dryly. ''So, we do have much in common. And call me Hank. Dad has a pretty solid lock on Henry.''
''Sounds fine by me. Mother will love to hear of it.''
''Your mom throwing you at me like my dad is throwing me?''
''With all the force of an asteroid catapult.''
''Then I probably owe you an apology.'' Hank smiled softly.
''Given, taken, and returned,'' Kris said, offering her hand. He took it; for a moment she thought he might kiss it, but no, he just shook it firmly. No first impressions, Kris shouted to herself. She would let this man define himself, not take him on his parents' past history, Mother's illusions, or, for that matter, Auntie Tru's suspicions.
''So, what can we do for you?'' Tommy said, bringing the handshake to an early halt.
''I think the idea is for me to do something for you. At least, that was how I talked Dad out of sending me off to run a plant start-up on Grozen. ‘If we get our faces in the media for doing good, let's do it right,' I told him. So I have this ship full of various things we thought might come in handy.''
''And when it's unloaded…?'' Kris asked.
''Then I go on to Grozen.''
''How long do you think it will take to unload?'' Tommy asked.
''How long do you think it will take me to figure out what's aboard it that is useful here?''
''A few hours,'' Tom said as Kris answered, ''A few days.'' Tom threw her a quizzical glance.
Well, no one said this young man was out to kill me. ''Spens here came across some interesting stuff this morning.'' Kris watched Hank's face while her accountant filled him in on the scam of the morning. When Spens was done, the visitor tapped his commlink.
''Ulric, we have any medical supplies in our cargo?''
''Several tons, sir.''
''Send the data on them down here, including expiration dates to, what's your name?''
''Spens, sir.''
''I have that address, sir.''
''Good, Ulric. Make the Smythe-Peterwalds proud.'' He turned to Kris. ''That should handle that.''
Kris nodded. If there was a scam, that should put an end to it for at least today. ''So, what would you like to see?''
''What your average day is like.''
''That could get messy,'' Kris said.
''Or dangerous,'' Tom put in.
''I heard about yesterday. A real Wild West shoot-out.''
''Something like that,'' Kris evaded.
''Why don't I show you where we rebuild trucks?'' Tom put in.
''Not a bad place,'' Kris agreed. It would give her a chance to get her thoughts in order while Tom and Hank did that male bonding thing. More like male bashing, as Tom did his best to show the rich kid how little he knew.
***
''You've never stripped an engine?'' Tom said fifteen minutes later, wiping oil from his hands.
''Never been close to one with its top off.''
''Even a car engine?''
Hank stared out the garage door at nothing. ''My chauffeur took care of that. Didn't yours, Kris?''
Kris read the Help me, there but wasn't about to throw Hank a line. ''I helped our chauffeur change the oil, tune up the limos all the time.'' Well, twice when Mother wasn't looking.
''It helps when you get shipped trucks just this side of the junkyard,'' Tom put in.
With a huge sigh, Hank tapped his commlink. ''Ulric, what's the usage on those trucks we have aboard?''
''Highest is fifteen point three kilometers, sir.'' Hank tapped off with a satisfied smile. ''I doubt if any of the thirty trucks I'm delivering will see the inside of this shop for a while. What else is on my tour of the seamy underside of relief work?''
Tom looked sorely distressed at being bested. His grin actually faltered for a full three seconds before it popped back to full force.
Kris stepped in before someone got hurt. ''Let me show you my ware yard.'' That moved the center of attention from Tom to her and gave her a chance to show off what she'd done. As Kris walked Hank around, she found him easy to talk to. Well, it was easy talking about what she was proud of, how she'd blended the warehouse workers she'd inherited, volunteers she'd acquired, and the handful of Navy guards she used to keep the place safe. In her life, she'd straightened up plenty of other people's campaigns or volunteer programs that one of Mother's friends had dreamed up but couldn't organize to save her life. This yard and the people it fed was her show.
It also gave her plenty of chances to point things out to Hank. And while he looked, she studied him. There was a wariness about the eyes in his perfectly sculptured face, but they were wide and expectant as he took in her work.
The walk-around also gave Kris a chance to compare the two men presently in her life: one boyish in his eagerness to make sure the other was no threat, the other self-contained and seemingly oblivious to anything but Kris's words, listening intently, never interrupting, always asking good questions that got her talking again when she ran out of things to say. A guy like this was easy to have around.
They finished up at the seawall, watching an unmanned drop ship on final approach. It splashed down, sending froth and spray flying into the pouring rain. A tug glided away from the marine railroad as soon as the supply ship came to a bobbing rest. ''That's one of mine,'' Hank pointed out, ''loaded with a something called famine biscuits. Each two hundred gram bar has a day's allotment of protein, vitamins, and minerals. Nice thing about them is that with water they expand in the stomach to make you feel like you've had a real meal.''
''That will be a nice break from rice and beans,'' Tom agreed.
''What you doing with the landers when they're empty?''
That was a question for Kris. ''We're recycling the air jell hulls,'' she pointed to where bales of the shredded stuff was stacked. ''The engines we're reducing to carbon powder. In most rescue missions they'd be recycled into the economy, but Olympia hasn't got any economy to talk of, so I guess we'll just leave them here until something comes up.'' She shrugged.