Zetta had already filed for divorce, but apparently she still considered Conway her property, because she had sent the brunette away in tears. Then on the voyage across, she had started a row with Conway in the ship’s bar, expressed herself in highly colored terms on the subject of his ancestry, his anatomy, and his eventual destination, and finally had thrown his own drink in his face. That’s when he hit her, but actually it was Shareen (the tangerine female) who blacked her eyes, because Zetta had elbowed Shareen in sensitive places and said “nasty things” about Shareen’s lover, who worked backstage. “Zetta deserved it,” said the band leader, and everyone else nodded.
“I was drunk,” said Conway, sadly.
“She deserved it anyway,” said the band leader, and everyone nodded again. “But this damn captain…” Seems the captain, as a Neo-Feminist, considered any female who wouldn’t file charges when assaulted to be in need of protection at best and permanent reeducation at most. She wouldn’t believe that Shareen had blacked Zetta’s eyes, and assumed that Shareen was another of Conway’s lovers, trying to take the rap for him. Zetta didn’t like being hit, but she liked even less being treated like a nincompoop. Shareen was furious because she’d never had an affair with Conway—she was gay, and proud of it. And now the captain was going around LaPorte-Centro-501, telling everyone that the Jinnits were a sexist band that no self-respecting Neo-Feminist would listen to, and the band was under a peace bond order (guaranteed by the Chamber, as their employer) and couldn’t fight back.
“I could kill that bitch,” said Shareen, looking me straight into the eye until I nodded agreement. “But it would break the bond, and our contract both, and you’d have no lead band, and we’d have no gig.”
And besides (third problem) there was Conway, who was depressed and miserable, and needed a girl to cheer him up so he could do his best. Nothing else would do, and brunette was preferable. Somebody (they all looked at me, intently) had to do something to stop that captain from ruining their reputation and their business, and somebody had to get Conway cheered up so he could play. Then they patted my arms and told me they’d be in their suite when I got it all straightened out.
I started by calling the Chamber offices and arranging to have the porta-potties moved. The captain hadn’t sounded very understanding on the radio, and I wasn’t at all sure how I could deal with her. We do have laws about libel, and also about inciting a riot, but what with the way colonies depend on spacers, you just can’t afford to alienate the people who run the ships. And for all I knew she’d claim it fell under religious freedom or something. I looked up Sarah Jolly Hollinshead, the Chamber’s top lawyer, on the schedule. She had volunteered to handle Campground registration this year. This was too important for a calclass="underline" I’d have to go myself.
The Campground was already filling up. Colorful bubbletents sprouted from the storage bay floor. Sarah had a line maybe seven families long, and I knew better than to break in, even though she caught my eye and nodded to me. Justice must be seen to be done, as she keeps telling us. I stood there catching my breath after the droptube ride, and admired Sarah’s organization. She had two gofers with her, and really kept things moving along without seeming to hurry anyone. I moved up behind the family in front of me (by their T-shirt designs, recently from Teacup 311’s “Tea for Two Days”).
It wasn’t until I heard Joyce’s voice that I realized she was two families ahead of me in the line. I peeked. There was the back of her smooth dark head, looking very much as I remembered the back of her head looking, and there were the three kids (one niece, two nephews), some inches taller. They all held small travel bags. She was asking Sarah where to find Aisle 26, Lot X, as they had a reservation (which Sarah checked, before handing them a map), and then she asked where she could find me.
“Mr. Carruthers?” asked Sarah, as if she hadn’t heard that name before, but she said it loud enough for me to hear, in case I wanted to.
“My brother-in-law,” said Joyce. I started to back up and bumped into someone behind me, someone who turned out to be large and solid.
“Andrew Carruthers?” asked Sarah. I think she was trying to give me time to escape.
Joyce said, “He’s the President of your Chamber of Commerce,” in a tone of voice that implied Sarah was too far down the list to know that, and I saw Sarah stiffen.
The giant behind me read the name off my presidential seal and said, all too loudly, “I think someone’s looking for you, Mr. Carruthers.” And grinned at me. His gimme cap was from Holey Bey, and that figures. Troublemakers, that’s what they’ve got over there. Perverted humor.
I stepped out of line and went forward as if I hadn’t seen Joyce. When she turned around, I had a big smile ready.
“You came,” she said, as if she really wanted to see me. “I didn’t know if you’d find time…” But for once it didn’t sound accusing.
“Had to check on you,” I said genially, trying a smile on the kids. The girl, Cynthie, was looking around with some interest.
“What is this place?” asked the older boy.
“It’s a storage bay,” I said. “We make it a campground for Wheel Days.”
“It’s big,” said the girl. “We don’t have things like this in Central Station One.”
“We’re all built up,” said the boy. “This is great. I hope our tent is a long way across.” He pointed. Harris, that was his name, and the younger one, presently examining his toes, was Elliot.
“Andy, I hate to bother you,” began Joyce. “It’s about Ernest…”
“I’ll be with you in a second,” I said, “but I have to ask Sarah about something first—just came up on the way down.” Joyce nodded, collected the children, and moved off a few feet. Tactful of her, I thought, and then launched into a very fast précis of the Jinnits problem for Sarah. She folded her lip under her upper teeth, and hummed… a sound known to strike terror into the hearts of opposing attorneys. When I finished, she nodded once, and pushed back her chair.
“I’ll take care of it,” she promised. That was that. One did not ask Sarah how she planned to do things; she was not a committee sort of person. I went back to Joyce and the kids, and (for no good reason other than the manners I was brought up with) picked up her travel bag and led them toward their bubble. I should have been somewhere else, but what could I do?
To my surprise, the kids continued to show a livelier interest in the Campground than they ever had in our place. A strolling juggler chucked Cynthie under the chin and gave her a momentary crown of dancing colored balls, then moved on; she was delighted, and flushed, and altogether not the same girl who had demanded a different brand of breakfast cereal and insisted that our house smelled funny. Harris came to a halt outside one of the bubbletents, eyes fixed on the logo hanging from a snatchpole.
“That’s… that’s John Steward’s First Colony badge,” he said, breathless with adolescent awe.
“Some of the pioneers hold a reunion here,” I began, but he wasn’t listening. Steward himself had ducked out the door of his bubble and paused, finding himself impaled on Harris’s gaze. He nodded to the boy, gave me a half-wave, then ducked back inside. “He doesn’t talk to strangers much anymore,” I said, softening the blow. Harris didn’t notice.
“He nodded to me. Mom, he nodded to me. John Steward!” Then he turned to me. “You know him?”
“Not really,” I had to admit. “The oldtimers stick together pretty much. But I’ve listened to him at the Tall-Tales contest, and bought him a drink once or twice.”