Corland Station’s Customs & Immigration team came aboard to check out the consigned cargo. “Something sure smells good,” the inspector said, as Gerard signed the datapad to indicate that they had nothing further to unload.
“Lunch,” Gerard said. “Want to join us?”
“I can’t,” the inspector said. “We’re not allowed—but what is it?”
“Nothing special,” Gerard said. “You know, cheese and sausage and bread.”
“Mmm. Ever consider selling some of it, whatever it is?”
“No. It’s just crew rations,” Gerard said, shrugging. “Nothing to get excited about.” Across dockside, he saw two men lift their heads and sniff, their reaction completely unlike his to the undiluted Gumbone.
“How long will you be here?” the inspector asked, sniffing again. “If I stopped by when I’m off-duty…”
“We have to wait for the local sales agent Vatta works with,” Gerard said. “I think there’s something for us to pick up here—at least, our captain’s trying to find us cargo to replace what we’re dropping off. Polly’s a nightmare to trim with the load this unbalanced. If we can’t find cargo, we’ll have to move things around…”
The inspector finally moved away. Gerard pulled out the platter of cheese, sausage, and bread Arnie had placed on a hotplate in front of the ventilation blower, and the two of them sat down to eat in plain sight of dockside traffic.
“When’s the company agent coming?” Arnie asked.
“Another hour,” Gerard said. “That went well, didn’t it?”
“Baris is a genius,” Arnie said, and took a bite of ship’s biscuit spread with Baris’s cheese roll mixture and a slice of sausage.
Gerard took a mouthful and nodded. Never mind the suspense of those days when it seemed the cheese wouldn’t be ready in time or that Baris would never find the right proportion of Gumbone to the cheese she’d made. It had worked out in the end and the flavors in his mouth were proof of that. Better even than the fume-flavored CraigsHollow Premium.
Several of the people walking by paused, sniffing, turning to look. One of them, after a hesitation, came nearer. “What’s that you’re eating? Smells good, but nothing like I’ve had before—”
“Just lunch,” Arnie said. “Why?”
“I’m off Morroway, Bissonet registry, dock seven. Where’d you buy it?”
“Didn’t buy it,” Arnie said, taking another bite. “It’s off our ship. Rations.”
“Vatta feeds you that well? That’s got to be Gold Level—”
“It’s not,” Gerard said, earning a look from Arnie. The whole act was going as planned. “It’s homemade.”
“Can—can I have a taste?”
“Sure,” Gerard said. Arnie shook his head.
“Better not. We don’t know what you’re allergic to. It’s got chopped nuts in it, and dairy—”
“I’m not allergic,” the man said. “Just a taste—”
Gerard and Arnie exchanged looks. “Well, if you fall over dead, don’t blame us,” Arnie said. He smeared a round of ship’s biscuit with the cheese and laid a sausage slice on it. “There you go.”
The man took a bite, and his face changed to the blissful expression Gerard expected.
“This tastes even better than it smells. Sure you won’t sell us some?”
Arnie laughed. “And not have any for ourselves? You’ve got to be kidding.”
With a last longing look at the platter, the man finally went away. Gerard stuffed another bite in his mouth, to have some reason for the triumphant grin he was sure was spreading over his face.
“Act Two,” Arnie said. “Word’s going to spread fast.”
Gerard left Arnie lounging in the cargo hatch opening, and went upship to set the stage for their next visitor, this one expected.
“What is that heavenly aroma?” the sales agent said as Stavros led him past the galley.
“Just ship rations,” Stavros said. “It’s only a cheese roll.” He glanced at the table, where a cheese roll, haggled at one end, lay on a cheese-smeared plate with an open tin of ship’s biscuit beside it. “Gerry, weren’t you supposed to clean up the galley after lunch?”
Gerard glowered. “Not my turn. Baris should have—”
“You sell them?” the sales agent said.
“Ship rations? No, of course not. Traditional food.”
Gerard, watching this, admired, Stavros’s tone of voice.
“But—but I must taste that—”
“If you want to,” Stavros said, sounding puzzled. “Gerry, cut him off a piece.” To the sales agent he said, “It’s just a cheese spread thing.”
Gerard sliced off a corner and put it on a plate. The sales agent took it eagerly, eyes alight. His eyes widened when the flavors developed in his mouth. “You—you don’t export this?”
“Wouldn’t be profitable,” Gerard said. “Labor-intensive, expensive to make.”
“Really…” The rep looked at the roll on the table. “That’s—it’s quite good. There might be a market for something like that.”
“But it’s our rations,” Gerard said. He cut off a lump, pressed it on a ship’s biscuit with his thumb, and took a bite. The rep shuddered slightly, but his eyes shifted back to the table. “Besides,” Gerard said, around the mélange of flavors in his mouth, “it’s not licensed provender. You wouldn’t want to buy something with no provenance.”
The man’s hand twitched. Stavros cut off a slice for himself, spreading it onto the round of biscuit with a knife, as a captain should. “Go ahead,” he said to the rep. “Help yourself. I always did say Auntie Grace made the best—”
Gerard nearly choked on the last of the biscuit.
“A relative made this?”
“Yes,” Stavros said, draped in honesty. Gerard admired his skill even more. That statement was true in all senses, but yet, in the conversational context, it was a plain lie.
“She makes fruitcake too,” Stavros went on. “And sausage.” He nodded at the sausage, which had indeed been a gift from Aunt Grace, but they had no idea if she’d made it herself.
“She’s a cook?”
Gerard inhaled a crumb the wrong way and had to cough.
“Not exactly,” Stavros said. “It’s more of a hobby with her. But she’s good at it, isn’t she?”
“If her fruitcake’s as good as this cheese—” The sales agent cut himself another slice. “Look, Captain, we’re hosting a summit conference between—well, I can’t give the names. Hostile powers, let’s say. It’s very, very secret.”
Gerard was tempted to tell him it was no secret on the docks; the loaders had talked about it as the cargo came off. Santanians and Berklundians. If they went to war and started throwing munitions at each other, four useful trade routes would be yellow-tagged for years, until someone cleared all the mess away. Instead, he licked the cheese off his fingers, playing hick to the hilt.
The sales agent went on. “We are tasked—I am tasked—with providing the food. It’s politically inexpedient that they know where the food is from—trade agreements on produce are a major source of the hostility. Something like this—something unique—is exactly what I need. Of course it would have to pass analytical tests, including testing against their allergen panels—”
“Allergen panels?” Gerard asked, as if he’d never heard of them.
“Oh, yes. Our guests provide us with a complete panel of any known allergies, with detailed specifications of the allergens, so we can ensure that nothing they come in contact with will cause them distress.” The rep cut himself yet another slice of the cheese roll, this time spreading it thickly on a ship’s biscuit. “But you’re eating it, and I’m eating it, and my implant’s not flagged it yet. Now—are all the ingredients from your homeworld? Slotter Key, is it, or is that just the ship’s registry?