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I closed my eyes and sighed. This was at least the thousandth time I’d heard this spiel.

“For those who are of legal age,” the taxi continued after waiting in vain for my reply, “the Henhouse offers a truly exhilarating and congenial entertainment experience.” There was a short pause. “They have a lot of nice girls.”

There were no windows in the taxi, as the tracks often passed through privately owned areas where prying eyes were unwelcome. So I sat in my seat looking straight ahead, offering the cab no encouragement at all. The ads were less obnoxious that way.

“The Henhouse was conceived by Beauregard Montclair,” the cab explained. “It’s based on a similar establishment that was once located just outside La Grange, Texas back home on Earth. It became the most famous establishment of its kind in its day, a place where range-weary cowboys could come for a little rest and relaxation from time to time. There was once even a major Broadway play made about it. Mr. Montclair and his staff are determined that today’s spacefaring cowboys should be able to find similar opportunities for rest and recreation located conveniently near Lagrange station.”

I rolled my eyes. The Henhouse was a bordello, pure and simple. We had a bar, yes, but the girls were our bread and butter. Prostitution was illegal in Lagrange Station, but the Lagrange Board of Aldermen was only empowered to regulate a sphere of space a hundred clicks in radius. The Henhouse orbited precisely one hundred and one kilometers out at all times. Part of my job was making damned certain that we never, ever drifted any closer. As things stood, the Aldermen could only stare at us spinning outside their portholes and fume impotently as their more adventurous sprits spent every spare credit just beyond their legal grasp. Beauregard was becoming very rich, very quickly. And the girls themselves weren’t doing too badly, either.

“The cover charge is only a hundred credits,” the cab continued. “This amount covers your transfer fare both ways aboard the newly-refurbished pod Aphrodite, and two complimentary drinks. More exotic pleasures are available at reasonable charges.”

Much more exotic pleasures, I thought to myself. Much, much more exotic.

The cab began to slow. “I hope that you’ll take the time to sample the truest pleasures of life, sir,” it admonished me as we came to a smooth stop. “Dock Sixty-Nine. Be sure and tell them that the Lagrange Cab Company sent you and get a third drink free. We wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought as I piled out, tossing my school computer over my shoulder. Be sure that your company gets its percentage of the take, you mean. Beauregard preferred to keep his patrons well lubricated; they would get that third drink for free regardless. Drunken johns were far more generous with their wallets than were sober ones.

As always, the Sixty-Series docks were among the busiest in Lagrange. Reserved for orbit-to-orbit pods only, they handled perhaps a third of Lagrange’s total traffic. Dock Sixty-Nine was located all the way out at the far end of things. It was usually a far longer walk to Aphrodite than mere distance would seem to dictate.

“Hello, Marvin!” one of my fellow pilots called out as I passed Dock Sixty-Two, moving just as quickly as I could with my head held low. It was Jacob Fox, an acquaintance of long standing. “Been out scratching up some new business?” He laughed, and so did most of the others standing around with him. Sixty-Two was home to Excalibur, which shuttled at high boost between Lagrange and Armstrong Station, our newer and smaller twin located over at L-Four. Excalibur catered strictly to the carriage trade, ferrying men and women to whom time was far more valuable than money. Conning Excalibur was a very cushy job, one virtually guaranteed to move Jacob quickly up the incredibly competitive piloting ladder. He was piling up kilometers and making important contacts, while I was running the whorehouse tram, logging a miserable hundred clicks on each circuit.

And his boss hadn’t made him get himself made over into a chicken as a condition of employment, either!

“Hi, Jacob!” I called back, trying not to admire Excalibur’s sleek lines through the ports. “I’m afraid that we’ve already got all the business that we can handle.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jacob replied. “The Fleet’s in, after all.” Everyone laughed again.

I felt myself blushing under the feathers. The mining Fleet was in; that was how Commodore Tottson happened to be available to come speak to my class. Even worse, it was also payday for the construction riggers who were working massive overtime to expand our South Pole extracting facilities. The Henhouse would be full to overflowing tonight.

“The working girls get no rest when the Fleet’s in,” Jacob repeated nastily. “Maybe you’ll have to help them out? What with all those feathers, a man could get confused. One hole’s as good as another if you’re drunk enough.”

I stopped in my tracks and clenched my fists angrily, then began walking again as the laughter died away behind me. I was still a very new and green Pod pilot, and I knew it. Having a fistfight on my record was no way to earn a prestigious, dignified deep-space run someday, not when there were plenty of other qualified pilots out there without criminal records who would line up three-deep to take the job. In fact, I was rather beginning to suspect that I held the only piloting job in the known universe that certified pilots would not line up three deep for. No wonder Beauregard had hired me despite my inexperience. No one else had been desperate enough to apply.

A few johns were already sitting around drinking in Aphrodite’s waiting area when I arrived. This was fairly normal; most of our clientele spent weeks saving up every penny for a trip out to the Henhouse, only to blow every last credit they owned and begin the cycle again. Most of the men were wearing deep-space coveralls; they were from the Fleet. A few were dressed in civilian attire, however, ranging from inexpensive casual shorts to full formal tights and doublets. Three of the private rooms were already spoken for, I could see. The private rooms were a royal pain in the butt for my crew and I; they were provided (at a price) for those who wished to remain anonymous. Arnold was working the bar when I walked up. “Hello, Marvin!” he greeted me as I stepped up to the rail. “How’s tricks?”

“Don’t ask,” I replied as my fellow Henhouse Staffer poured me a non-alcoholic cola to drink. If Beauregard had been around I’d have had to pay like everyone else, but at the moment he was Earthside trying to sweet-talk his investors into backing an expansion. “Thank you,” I said as he pressed it into my hand.

“Don’t mention it,” my coworker replied with a very friendly smile. Arnold had originally been recruited as Talent, not Staff. In the beginning the Henhouse had catered to the gay crowd as well as the straight, and Arnold had been remade into a Nordic-looking muscleman as part of the effort. The experiment had simply not worked out, however, and the Henhouse had gone hetero-male only. That left Arnold with a huge morphing bill and no easy way to pay it off. So Beauregard had kept him on as Staff, even though he was probably paying far too much for him. My boss might be a cheapskate in some ways, I knew. But in other ways he was genuinely a man of honor as well. I would have really liked Arnold if he hadn’t so obviously had the hots for me. It was the feathers, he’d explained once. The feathers made me irresistible.

So I didn’t linger at the bar, instead carrying my drink with me as I began my preflight inspection. Aphrodite floated in solitary splendor outside the Dock Sixty-Nine windows, her violently pink paint glowing warmly in the sunlight. I took a moment to visually inspect her hull, which encompassed the first items on my checklist. There was no visual damage, check. No extra mooring lines affixed, check. No workers present, check. Lurid big-breasted cartoon-chicken murals spread out for all the world to see, check…