Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network, E. Foner [the unexpected everything txt] 📗

human community there made a deal with the Vergallians to offer free space elevator transportation for attendees. The Guild council thought it would be too rude to refuse.”

“Maybe I can get a story out of Rendezvous, though I’ll bet the Galactic Free Press is already sending somebody. Hey, I should contact them from our next stop and tell them I’m going. Maybe they’ll give me the assignment.”

“Did you have any luck with the squeeze tube cuisine story you submitted from Lorper?”

“I didn’t tell you? They bought it, and the message from my old editor was that she’d take all the Zero-G dining stories I can write, at least until I start repeating myself. But after we ate in your friend’s café on Lorper, I had an idea for a more cerebral series of articles about why people eat the way they do in different places. I’m going to title it ‘Food for Thought.’”

“I think the freelance life is starting to agree with you.”

“Me too. I can’t believe how fast I’m getting used to everything. This is only my third time on the exercise bike and it’s already gotten much easier.”

“Lesson two,” Larry said. “The dial with the numbers sets the resistance. It’s considered polite to leave equipment on the easiest setting when you’re sharing, so I turned it down after I used it.”

“Oops.”

“You didn’t know because I didn’t tell you. Later I’ll show you how to empty the toilet receptacle.”

“I’m fine with you doing it. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take over your ship.”

Nine

“Myort, you old lizard. I’ve been looking all over the station for you.”

“John,” the Huktra acknowledged. He set his mug full of some tarry black beverage on the bar and politely offered the trader a clawed hand. The human grasped the smallest of the three fingers, which was as thick as a child’s wrist, and gave it a perfunctory shake. Formalities disposed of, he climbed up the rungs of the barstool next to the alien and perched himself on the broad seat.

“I just got back from Earth and I brought you a little gift,” John said. He stuck his left hand into his jacket pocket, brought out a closed fist, and placed it on the bar. Then he opened his hand and let the acorn roll out. “Surprise!”

The Huktra slammed his own hand over the acorn so hard that his talons dug into the bar’s heavily scarred surface. The bartender glanced over at the sound, shook his head in disgust, and went back to polishing glasses.

“Are you insane showing that thing in here?” Myort hissed. He bared two rows of pointy teeth and took advantage of his sinuous neck to check their surroundings in three hundred and sixty degrees. “No sniffers. We lucked out.”

“I think my translation implant is glitching,” John said.  “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve traded in and around our space. Are you telling me you’ve never noticed that some of us have long snouts?”

“I’ve never seen a Huktra with a short snout.”

Myort shook his head in disgust, and then, with a quick movement, palmed the crushed acorn and tossed it deep in his mouth to where the molars started. He chewed for a few seconds, then took a swig of his drink and swished it around. “Not terrible, not great. How many do you have?”

“How many do you want?” John countered.

“Oh, so it’s going to be that sort of trade,” the alien said. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Do they have anything in here that won’t kill me?”

“We won’t know unless we ask. Gator!”

The alien bartender, who John would have described as a skinnier version of Myort, hung the glass he had just finished polishing from an overhead rack and cast a disinterested look in their direction. “What?”

“Got anything that won’t kill Humans?” Myort inquired.

“Water,” the bartender grunted. “I could put a little umbrella in it.”

“Never mind,” John said. “Why don’t you finish your drink, Myort, and we can go look at the merchandise.”

“Are you in a big hurry to unload your cargo?” the alien asked craftily, but he threw back the rest of the sticky fluid and employed his long tongue to lick out the mug. “I’m a bit short on cash at the moment, but I’ll look at what you have.”

“Look at what I have? I was talking about us taking a stroll to wherever your ship is parked and me checking out if you have anything I want in barter.”

“Barter is better,” Myort responded automatically. “All right, we’ll do it your way,” he said, rising from the barstool and tossing a coin to the bartender. “See you later, Gator.”

Gator barely nodded as the mismatched pair left the bar and made their way to the nearest lift tube. The corridor was lined with food booths, all of which seemed to specialize in selling grilled meat on sticks. There were also a few shops displaying woven egg carriers in the garish colors favored by young Huktra couples, who were much more likely to spend time on Stryx stations than their elders.

“Keever’s,” Myort instructed the lift tube, and looked down at John. “Got your nose plug filters?”

“They’re already in. The trick is remembering to breathe through them. Why aren’t you parked in the core bay for traders?”

“Getting a little work done on my ship. You’ll see.”

The capsule doors opened and the large alien led the way through a poorly lit corridor to a medium-sized docking bay. Even with nose plug filters, the air smelled of chemicals, and John could see flexible fume-hood tubing crisscrossing the space between the parked ships.

“What is this place?” he asked his companion.

“Keever’s hull shop, they specialize in custom paint jobs,” Myort explained. “Oh, now that’s just—Wrude!”

“You don’t have to shout. What’s rude?”