“They don’t want the best welders,” a burly, copper-skinned man told him while they both waited on a cold, wooden bench to be called into still another examining room. “They want the toughest welders.”
“No importa,” Flaco told him. “I’m a rigger.”
The other man laughed. “Riggers, too,” he said. “You can be the god-damnedest rigger on the face of the Earth. But you won’t be on the face of the Earth. They’d rather have a second rater who doesn’t get seasick than a top-notch guy who pukes in his spacesuit. Hope you’re not scared of heights!” He laughed again. “They’d rather have a guy who can think cool when it hits the fan than one who follows the practice to the letter—and then cites the paragraph number that proves he did everything right, after everything turned out wrong.”
Flaco grunted. “Sounds like they want me, then.”
The man chuckled and stuck out his hand. “Henry Littlebear, upstate New York.”
“Eddie Mercado, Washington Heights, Manhattan. Folks call me ‘Flaco’ ’cause I’m skinny.” They shook hands. Littlebear was bigger than any man he’d care to argue with, and nearly bigger than any two. “What brought you here?”
“Same thing as most, I expect. Pay. Adventure. The chance to drop a gob of spit a real long ways. I hope you don’t enjoy the weed too much, Flaco.”
It wasn’t anyone’s business what he ate, drank, or smoked, so he made no comment. Littlebear tilted his hand up to his mouth, with his thumb mimicking a spout. “And you better not love the firewater too much. See, my wife, she’s a med tech, so I know what some of these tests they’re running are for. ‘Weeding out the weed,’ so to speak.”
Flaco scowled at him. “What are you talking about, tonto?”
Littlebear grunted. “Unh! Keemo sabe. They no want-um potheads or alkies.” Then, dropping the act. “Or folks with vacuum cleaners for noses.”
Now Flaco grunted. He hadn’t meant tonto in that way, but explaining would not have improved things, and Littlebear seemed to have taken it good-naturedly. Flaco was silent for a moment. Made sense, what Littlebear said. It would cost O&P a bundle to lift a man to orbit and keep him there. They wouldn’t want drugs or alcohol to screw up his judgment. “Your wife ever tell you how long afterwards they can tell? I mean, if it was just a little bit?”
Littlebear grinned. “Nerve-wracking, ain’t it?” He leaned against the plaster wall behind the bench and rubbed his hands together “Wish I had me. a drink to get me through this.”
Flaco gave him a suspicious look, but the man was just grinning.
At five o’clock, the shuttle buses lined up in front of the building to take them to the hotels Pegasus had booked. Flaco stood in line with the rest and waited his turn to board. His hand stole to his breast pocket once or twice and patted the folded-up receipt that nestled there. Good for one more day, so either he had passed the tests or it took time to get all the results back. Not all the men in line wore the same grin he had. Some looked dejected; some, relieved. A few had an uncertain look, as if wondering what they had gotten themselves into.
A group of Pegasus employees had gathered in front of the administration building to watch. Civilian dress for the most part, though a handful were wearing colored coveralls. The pilot, DuBois, lounged against the cement column at the foot of the building’s entrance ramp, talking to a younger man with red coveralls and punk hair. Morris Tucker joined them and traded fives with the slacker. Noticing Flaco at the bus stop, Tucker waved. “Hey, Flaco!”
Flaco returned the greeting, and the man in line behind him said, “Looks like you got yourself some grease.”
Flaco shrugged. “Seen Tucker around. It don’ mean nothing, ’cause he don’ make the pick.”
“Yeah, well, having friends never hurts. Be a shame if someone got a slot outta special favors.”
Flaco turned and looked the man in the eye. “You know, ’mano, is a good thing you are already so ugly.”
The other man was heavyset and wore a big, curly beard. Intricate tattoos of eagles and hawks twisted up both his arms. His eyes narrowed, and he twined his fingers through his beard. “How come?”
“ ’Cause then when I rearrange your face, it won’ make much difference.”
A couple of the men in line laughed. Sepp Bauer slipped back in line a few spaces and stood next to Flaco with his arms folded. The bearded man grunted and his lips broke into a grin. “Well, Pancho, like the poet says, ‘A man’s reach should exceed his grasp.’ ” He offered his hand. “Name’s Bird. Bird Winfrey.”
Flaco almost asked if the bird in question was a buzzard, but there was no point in pushing things any further. Besides, they were about to board the bus and it would be a long ride into town. “Flaco,” he said. “I’m a rigger. What’s your game?”
“NDT technician. You guys put it all together; then I find all your screw-ups and make you do it over.”
“Not me, ’mano. You go talk to the welders, like Sepp here, or ‘Tiny’ Littlebear.”
“Takes all kinds,” the man agreed, now all amiability. “Takes all kinds.”
Flaco had never expected Ossa and Pelion to put up them at a Hyatt, so he was not surprised when the bus turned down Van Buren Street instead, and drove between rows of broken, flickering neon signs advertising hourly rates. Some of the men—the foreigners, mostly—muttered comments about saving money at their expense; but Flaco lived in Washington Heights, so this part of Phoenix actually looked a little upscale to him. Still, nothing prepared him for The New Kon Tiki. With its facade of bamboo and rattan and the tiki masks flanking the doorways, it was about as unlikely a sight to find in the southwestern desert as he could imagine. Still, it had a bar; so, after dumping his gear in his room, he headed there.
The Aku-Aku Room was dark, with spotlights flashing off a faceted globe in the ceiling. In the back corner, a fountain dribbled into a pool in front of a plaster Easter Island statue and a pixwall of swaying palm trees and waves breaking on a lazy beach. The color was a little dull and some of the pixels had gone dark, so the effect was like looking through a dirty window. Booths separated by wicker partitions lined the left wall and a bar with tall, bamboo-and-canvas stools stood on the right. The floor space between was packed with tables, just barely enough room between them for a skinny man like Flaco to squeeze through.
The waitresses wore grass skirts, halter tops and sandals, and did the hula when they walked through the room. Navel maneuvers. The barman wore a grass skirt, too, but he was big enough that it didn’t look like anyone was going to mention it. The decor was all Pacific Islands, except the CD-juke, which was wailing a capella “goofball” music with a Mexican beat.
A half-dozen women in spike heels and heavy makeup were making the rounds, wearing skirts so short it was hard to see why they’d bothered. They cruised from table to table, chatting up the guys, touching them, sometimes letting themselves be touched. Bird had cornered one by the waterfall and negotiations were in process. A blond with short-cropped hair draped one arm around the shoulders of one of the Russians and leaned over the table so the man’s companions could get a good look at her wares.