What joy then, when two properly certificated individuals presented themselves and signed the articles! Maggie B. and Bill Tirasi interviewed the one—his cert named him Kalim DeMorsey—and judged his skills acceptable for system tech. Nagaraj Hogan examined the second man—one Ringbao della Costa—but this consisted mostly of verifying that he could lift or move objects of the required mass. Little more was required of a deckhand, and it gave his mate, Malone, someone to look down on.
“The berths are only for this one transit,” January warned the two with his cherubic smile. “But good work, Ringbao, can earn you the berth regular. Be here—awake—at oh three hundred Sixday morning, or else.”
Or else New Angeles could not depart on time; but January judged that such a threat would have little leverage over either man, and so he left the consequences ominously unspoken.
Once outside the hiring hall, Little Hugh spoke up. “So it’s a common laborer, I’m to be?”
“Deckhand,” the Fudir told him. “Or do you hide skills under your bushel?”
“I’m a schoolteacher.”
“Wonderful. Wide scope for that on a tramp freighter.”
“And I do a fair job at running a guerilla campaign.”
“Same objection. What’s your complaint? This will sneak you back to New Eireann without fanfare.”
“No complaint. I’ve done scut before. But I noticed you wound up as a deck officer.”
The Fudir shrugged. “I prayed to Shree Ganesha and was answered.”
Hugh snorted in derision. They turned their steps down Greaseline Street along the Spaceport’s boundary fence. At the far end of the Port, nearly to the horizon, a heavy lifter was pushed skyward on a pillar of light. Nearer by, a crew in dark green coveralls and straw terai-hats struggled over a balky tug pulling a ballistic commuter flight toward the passenger terminal. “Put a little more prayer into it!” the crew chief exhorted them. “Line it up, line it up. Insert the pin…Oh, God bless it! Back it up and let’s try it again, my brothers…”
The Bar stood at the corner of Greaseline and Chalk. From the outside, the black building was broad, featureless, and multistoried (in both senses of the word). Behind it, the Terran Corner lay like construction debris left over from the Bar’s erection. Dwelling upon dwelling filled the low land and jostled up the slope of Mount Tabor—despite its name, a steep but unimpressive ridge. “I never knew that about Terrans,” Little Hugh said, pointing to the hodgepodge of buildings. “That they lived in such wretched conditions.”
The Fudir grunted. “Oh, you didn’t.”
“No. There was no Corner on New Eireann…”
“Even we aren’t crazy enough to want to live there.”
O’Carroll said nothing until they reached the doors of the Bar. There was no sign to mark it. The Elders reasoned that for those who knew, no signs were needed; while for those who did not, the lack might save them from falling into evil ways. “Are all Terrans like you?” O’Carroll asked as he grasped the door handle.
“Kalim DeMorsey is from Bellefontaine on Redmount Araby. We eat Terrans for breakfast there.”
“No, I’m meaning in truth…”
The Fudir gripped him by the arm and his hand was like a vise. The other door swung open and a skinny, pale-faced man in green spiked hair staggered out, glanced at them incuriously, and went his way. “When you wear a mask, boy,” the Fudir said when they were alone, “that is the truth. And ditch that flannel-mouthed accent of yours for the duration.”
Little Hugh pried the Fudir’s fingers off his arm. He bowed from the shoulders. “So sorry, signor.” And he brushed his chin with his fingertips.
Inside the Bar, talk still raged over the unknown fleet that had passed through Jehovah Interchange a few days earlier. As in all such cases, the very lack of information manured the conversations (in both senses), and the number of origins, destinations, and purposes of the fleet had increased until it exceeded the number of speculators. The Fudir approached the Bartender, who bore the unlikely name of Praisegod Barebones, and passed him a Shanghai ducat. “Greet God, friend ’Bones. Private room 2-B?”
“God bless you,” the Bartender replied. “Not 2-B; it’s taken. You can have 3-G.” He glanced at Little Hugh. “So. Changing anatomical preferences?”
“It’s not like that—and you never met me before today.” Another ducat appeared by magic, and disappeared the same way.
“Would that I never had.”
“We need a wake-up call for an oh three hundred departure.”
“So. Is the Transient Hostel filled?” ’Bones passed him the key to the room. “At least, you leave Jehovah’s World a better place than you found it.”
That puzzled the Fudir and he paused before leaving. “How’s that?”
“Why, by leaving it, God willing, you improve it.”
The Fudir laughed and gave the Bartender another ducat “for the widows and orphans.”
He led Hugh to a small room on the fourth floor of the building. “This isn’t a hotel, strictly speaking,” he told him. “But public drunkenness is a crime—they call it a ‘sin,’ but it amounts to the same thing—and they provide rooms to ‘comfort the afflicted.’ They think of it as a sort of hospice.”
The corridor was dimly lit; the doors anonymous save for the number inscribed on each. From behind one door, they heard a woman’s voice crying, “Oh, God! Oh, God! Don’t stop!”
“She must be praying,” Little Hugh suggested.
Room 3-G was small, containing only a bed, a small stool, and a table. They threw their carryalls on the bed, which complained at the sudden weight. The floor was swept, however, and the walls were clean and brightly colored and decorated with tranquil scenes depicting sundry Jehovan provinces. Little Hugh looked around. “Not what I expected.”
“Why?”
O’Carroll did not answer. He pulled the curtain aside from the window. “Ah so. Lovely view of the Corner,” he remarked. “So picturesque.” He studied the slum for a moment longer. “And have those people no pride in themselves?”
“No, sahb,” the Fudir answered, sitting on the bed and then leaning back with his hands locked behind his head. “We very lazy fella. You much buddhimān to see so.”
Little Hugh let the curtain drop. “You can turn that blather on and off whenever you want. Why can’t they?”
“Don’t make assumptions to suit your conclusions.”
The younger man returned no comment, but explored the room. As the room was only two double-paces each way, and most of that was occupied by the bed and the writing table, this was accomplished by no more than turning his head. He sat on the stool and opened the drawer. Inside he found a tablet with letterhead embossed with a hologram of the building and reading, Greetings from the Peripherally Famous Bar of Jehovah! A rather grim illo for such a cheery salutation. “So who gets the bed; or do we take turns?” He found an envelope of condoms underneath the tablet.
“These rooms weren’t planned with double occupancy in mind,” the Fudir said.
Hugh held up the condoms. “Weren’t they? What hypocrites.”
“You’re letting your assumptions outrun your conclusions again. What do you know of Jehovan doctrines? As it happens, they celebrate beauty as the greatest good, and hold the human body as beautiful. God is Love, they say. It’s irresponsible procreation they regard as a sin.”