By 1400 the next day, half the off-duty stationers were there, nearly forty players, and Trev had programmed a tank to display the distinctive logos and watchwords. Sakerson got a buzz watching the enthusiasm of the players. In another day, it had become a fad to log in and out with some catchy slogan or whistled tune. A lot of people spoke to Sakerson in the aisles and corridors who had never noticed him before and he was feeling pretty good with himself. Except that, he still occupied single space. He keenly felt a woman need and there was simply no match for him on SS-3.
Out of this sense of loneness, he called up the Chiquita program again and made the alterations he had considered that first night. She was real pretty, his Chiquita, dark curls falling from the headband, a trim tall figure in her station togs. And he extended his daydream beyond physical appearance.
Chiquita had a quick mind, and a temper. She was a… medic?… teacher?… programmer… engineer… quartermaster… Yeah, quartermaster would fit in with his goal of Portmaster. Space required more and more stations as way-points, beacons in the deep Void, manned and ready to guide the merchantmen, cargo drones, and passenger cruisers as well as "shore leave" for naval personnel. A good team complemented each other, like Migonigal and Ella, Cliona and Rando, and Tilda and Trev. Chiquita would have been asteroid-belt born, comfortable with life on a space station because too often the planet-born got to yearning for solid earth under their feet or wind in their face or some such foolishness. She'd maybe have done some solid-side time in university so she had polish. A spacer should have experienced the alternative so s/he'd know what s/he wasn't missing. Sakerson hadn't minded four years' study on Alpha Ceti but he'd been bloody damned glad to get posted to the Alpha-2 Platform, and on to Station Three… in spite of recent "occurrences."
Then, too, the job was getting too much for the present Quartermaster, old Sigi. On the one hand, everyone did their best to help the old guy - hell, he was Original Personnel - but there came a time when you couldn't cover up because it endangered the Station.
Sakerson turned back to the more pleasant pastime. He tried to imagine Chiquita's laugh: some girls looked great and had laughs like… like squeezed plastic. And she'd have a real sparkle in her eyes so you had a clue to her inner feelings. And she'd have them, too. Straight dealing, straight talking, so he wouldn't have to think up alternatives the way Trev did with his Tilda.
He heard someone beyond the panel and he fumbled across the keys to save Chiquita to his personal file before Migonigal entered to relieve him of duty.
"No problems?" the Portmaster asked him, looking at the main panel with raised eyebrows.
"None, sir. None at all. Quiet watch, all status reports logged in quiet, too," Sakerson replied, staring the Portmaster right in the eye to prove his innocence.
"Hmmm, well, thought I saw a send flash. Personal correspondence has to go out in the public spurts, Sakerson."
Sakerson now looked back at the terminal but the only color showing was the green of stability and order.
"I know that, sir. Have a quiet."
Migonigal flashed him a quick look. "Is that a slogan, too?"
"Up here, maybe," Sakerson replied with a grin.
He left without unseeming haste and gave the matter no further thought. Until it was sleeptime and he had to slow himself down after a rousing game of Slogan, which he had won on points. Rando wasn't the fastest eidetic, on board, not by a long shot. In fact, it soon began to take all Sakerson's free time to keep ahead of Rando on the history tapes to air more and more esoteric slogans and score Rando down.
" 'The world's finest bread'?"
"Silvercup!"
" 'Let them eat cake'!"
"Not an advertising slogan! Disqualify!"
" 'When it rains, it pours'!"…
"What about 'Never scratches'?"
" 'Good to the last drop'?"
" 'I'd walk a mile for a Camel.' "
"What's a camel???"
" 'Nestle's makes the very best…' what?"
"Hey, does it have to be a product, Sakerson?"
"It has to be a slogan."
"Gotcha this time, then," Trev chortled. " 'Only YOU can prevent forest fires.' "
"Forest fires? That's prehistoric!" -
"Yeah, but whose slogan was it?"
"I got one - 'You'll wonder where the yellow went…' "
"Not fair, you gotta give the whole slogan. Give us a break!"
" 'Call for Philip Morris!' "
"Who he?"
"You mean, what's he."
"Keep it clean, gang, keep it clean."
"That's not a slogan."
"No, good advice!"
Everyone caught the fever and the station sizzled as much as it had when the ghost rumor started. They sent the game on with the crew of the freighter Marigold, the light cruiser Fermi, and the destroyer Valhalla. Space Station Four beamed for the rules and then Tilda had the bright idea of trading them with Mining Platform Tau Five for twenty cases of prime gin: a grand change from Cookie's raw rum. A passenger liner bought Slogan for three carcasses of authentic earth beef meat and the Mess voted Sakerson free drinks for a week. Which, since he didn't drink much anyhow, Sakerson thought was spurious, but he took it as being a gesture of good will.
Of course, Chiquita wouldn't mind a drink or two, and she'd be very good at Slogan: nearly as quick as he was.
" '99 and 44/100% pure - it floats.' "
"Let's not mess up the Station now, gang!"
" 'Damn the torpedoes!' "
"Not applicable!"
"Well, it became a warcry."
"Warcries are not slogans!"
"I don't see why not! A slogan's a slogan. It stands for something!"
"What does 'damn the torpedoes' stand for?"
"Not surrendering when faced with invincible odds!"
" 'Nuts to you!' " Rando shouted, finally getting a chance to play.
The Police Vehicle hailed Space Station Three while Sakerson was on duty and protocol required that the Portmaster be summoned for such official arrivals. The PV came from Alpha, priority mission, coded urgent.
"I dunno," the Portmaster said, scrubbing his short-cropped gray hair. "What's the priority, Captain?" he asked the PV
"Urgent personnel orders, Portmaster Migonigal! Just let us nose in. I've got the requisition and travel papers. Ship-shape and Bristol fashion, highest priority. I'm putting them in the scan now. Hear you've got some good gin aboard for a change."
"Commencing docking procedures, Captain," Migonigal replied stiffly. "Sakerson, you have the conn. Dock this… (the pause said 'sodding so-and-so') vehicle. I've got to tell Sigmund to hide some of the gin." The PVs had been known to drink a station dry, for hospitality decreed that the defenders of the Void should have unlimited access to Station consumables. "He would know about the gin," the Portmaster said with a rueful sigh. "And what in hell is he bringing in? I don't remember requisitioning anything
recently, certainly nothing high priority that requires police escort!"
"They might just have been first available space, sir," Sakerson said, busy with hands and eyes on the delicate task of matching the three-dimensional speeds and shapes of a large space station and a very small, fast PV
"Now, how the hell could this happen?" Migonigal demanded, watching the printout on the scanner. His question was not rhetorical but Sakerson could not spare a glance. "You can ask and ask and ask for something essential, even critical, and you can't get them to shift ass below and send it up. I could have sworn I hadn't forwarded Sigi's transfer to Control. And here I've got a replacement." Migonigal sounded totally mystified. "Not a bad looker, either." Migonigal snickered. "Makes a nice change from old Sigi. Time he retired anyhow."