“He’d better not even think it,” I warned. As far as I knew, Bilko had never actually stolen anything from any of our cargoes, but one of these days that insatiable curiosity of his was going to skate him over the edge.
“If he asks, I’ll tell him you said so,” Rhonda promised.
“If he asks, it’ll be a first,” I growled. “You just concentrate on getting us into space without popping any more preburn sparkles than you have to, OK? Sending a middle-aged scholar screaming to the lifepods wouldn’t be good for business.”
“At our end of the food chain, I doubt anyone would even notice,” she said dryly. “But if you insist, OK.”
I keyed off, and spent the next few minutes running various pre-flight checks. And finding ways to stall off the inevitable moment when I’d have to head back and talk to our music-master, Jimmy Chamala, about the details of our jump to Parex.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like the kid. Not really. It was just that he was a kid, barely past his nineteenth birthday, and as such was inevitably full of the half-brained ideas and underbaked worldly wisdom that had irritated me even when I was a teenager myself. Add to that the fact that the musicmaster was the single most indispensable person aboard the Sergei Rock—and we all knew it—and you had a recipe for cocky arrogance that would practically find its own way to the oven.
To be fair, Jimmy tried. And to be even more fair, I probably didn’t try hard enough. But even with him trying not to spout nonsense, and me trying not to point out what nonsense it was, we still had a knack for rubbing each other the wrong way.
Fortunately, by the time I finished the pre-flight—thereby running out of delaying tactics—Bilko called to say that the cargo was aboard and the hold secured. I called the Tower, found that our efficiency had gotten us bumped to three-down in the lift list, and gave the general strap-in order. Once we were in space, there would be plenty of time to go see Jimmy.
We lifted to orbit—without popping even a single preburn sparkle, amazingly enough—dropped the booster for the port tuggers to retrieve, and headed for deep space.
And now, unfortunately, it was time to go see Jimmy.
“Double-check that we’re on the Parex vector,” I told Bilko, maneuvering carefully past the banks of controls and status lights in the slightly disorienting effect of the false-grav. The fancier freighters with their variable-volume speakers and delimitation plates could handle some limited post-wrap steering, but we had to be already running in the direction we wanted to go. “I’ll see if Jimmy’s ready yet.”
“Right-o,” Bilko said, already busy at his board. “Be sure to remind him we’re running heavy today. Probably need at least a Green, maybe even a Blue.”
“Right.”
I headed down the corridor past the passenger cabin, noting the closed hatchway and wondering if our esteemed scholar might be having a touch of mal de faux-g. I could almost hope she was; in a Universe of oppressively strict class distinctions, nausea remained as one of the great social levelers.
Still, if she missed the bag, I was the one who’d have to clean it up. All things considered, I decided to hope she wasn’t sick. Passing her hatchway, I continued another five meters aft and turned into the musicmaster’s cabin.
I’ve already mentioned that Jimmy was a kid of nineteen. What I haven’t mentioned was all the irritating peripherals that went along with that. His hair, for one thing, which hadn’t been cut for at least five planets, and the mostly random tufts of scraggly facial fuzz he referred to, in all seriousness, as a beard. In a profession that seemed to take a perverse pride in its lack of a dress code, his wardrobe was probably still a standout of strange taste, consisting today of a flaming pais-plaid shirt that had been out of style for at least ten years and a pair of faded jeans that looked like they’d started their fade ten years before that. His official musicmaster scarf clashed violently with the shirt, and was sloppily knotted besides. His shoes, propped up on the corner of his desk, were indescribable.
As usual, he twitched sharply as I swung around the hatchway into view. Rhonda had mostly convinced me it was nothing more than the fact that he was always too preoccupied to hear me coming, but I couldn’t completely shake the feeling that the twitch was based on guilt. Though what specifically he might feel guilty about I didn’t know. “Captain,” he said, the word coming out halfway between a startled statement and a startled gasp. “I was just working up the program.”
“Yeah,” I said, throwing a look at the shoes propped up on the desk and then deliberately looking away. He knew I didn’t like him doing that, but since it was his desk and there were no specific regulations against it he’d long since decided to make it a point of defiance. I’d always suspected Bilko of egging him on in that, but had never uncovered any actual proof of it. “Did First Officer Hobson send you the mass numbers?”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy said. “I was thinking we ought to go with a Blue, just to be on the safe side.”
“Sounds good,” I grunted, carefully not mentioning that a Blue meant Romantic Era or folk music, both of which I preferred to the Baroque or Classical Era that we would need to attract a Green. It wouldn’t do for Jimmy to think he was doing me a favor; he’d just want something in return somewhere down the line. “What have you got planned?”
“I thought we’d start with the Brahms Double Concerto,” he said, raising his reader from his lap and peering at his list. “That’s thirty-two point seven eight minutes. Dvorak’s Carnival Overture will add another nine point five two, the Saint-Saens Organ Symphony will clock in at thirty-two point six seven, and the Berlioz Requiem will add seventy-six minutes even. Then we’ll go to Grieg’s Peer Gynt at forty-eight point three, the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto at twenty-four point two four, and Massenet’s Scenes Alsaciennes at twenty-two point eight two.”
He probably thought that throwing the numbers at me rapid-fire like that would have me completely lost. If so, he was in for a disappointment. “I read that as four hours six point three three minutes,” I said. “You’re six minutes overdue for a break.”
“Oh, come on,” he said scornfully. “I can handle an extra six minutes.”
“The rules say four hours, max, and then a half-hour break,” I countered. “You know that.”
“The rules were invented by senile old conservatory professors who could barely stay awake for four hours,” he shot back. “I did eight hours straight once back at OSU—I can sure do four hours six.”
“I’m sure you can,” I said. “But not on my transport. Change the program.”
“Look, Captain—”
“Change the program,” I cut him off. Spinning around, I strode out the hatchway and headed back down the corridor, seething silently to myself. Now he was going to have to find something else to fill in the last part of the program; and knowing Jimmy, he’d try to run it right up to the four-hour limit. Finding the right piece of music would take time; and in this business, time was most definitely money.
I was still seething when I reached the flight deck. “How’s the vector?” I demanded, squeezing past Bilko to my seat.
“Looks clean,” he said, throwing me a sideways look as I sat down. “Trouble with Jimmy?”
“No more than usual,” I growled, jabbing my main display for a status review. “How close to time margin are we running?”
He shrugged. “Not too bad—”
“Bilko?” Jimmy’s voice came over the intercom. “I’m ready to go.”
Bilko looked at me, raised his eyebrows. I waved disgustedly at the intercom—I sure didn’t want to talk to him. “OK, Jimmy,” Bilko told him. “Go ahead.”