"You probably figure that I'm a troublemaker, who can't get along with anybody. I would figure that way, from what's in my performance evaluations. For once, though, the eval comments mean just what they say. Captain, more than half of my kit consists of bookchips. On jumps, I'm just not a socializer. I prefer to stay in my cabin and read.
"If you're looking for a crewman who'll spend the jumps yarning over coffee with you, I'm not your woman. If you're looking for someone who'll go raise hell on liberty with you, I'm not your woman. And if you're looking for a 'cute' elf to adopt or seduce, I'm not your woman. All I want is to be left in peace. Some captains and crews can't handle that. They think I must be stuck up, or not like them."
Telson shrugged. "I won't lie to you, Captain. I have had problems in the past with crews like that. They simply can't believe that I wouldn't want to share their sparkling company unless there was something wrong with me. Sometimes, I have to fight off some clod's sexual advances; and sometimes that clod is a Captain, who assumes that his position implies sexual rights. If your crew is like that, then you'd be better off without me. But, if you and your crew can handle it, I'm a hell of a good astrogator."
Jirik grunted. "I think my crew could handle it. I have an engineer who's pretty much the same way. As far as the sex thing goes, aside from a teenager we recently signed on as Comm Officer, we're too well-traveled to not know that a crewman's sexual activities, or lack of them, are their own concern. The worst that you're likely to have to deal with is a bad case of puppy love. Our Comm Officer is 17 standard, and this is his first voyage."
She frowned. "In that case, Captain, I will have to reserve the right to handle sexual advances as I see fit. Sometimes politeness and courtesy are insufficient. Other than that, all I ask is that my privacy be respected."
Jirik shrugged. "That sounds reasonable." He mentally thanked any Gods that happened by that Tor was not Valt.
The smile flared again. "Does that mean you'll sign me on?"
Jirik was troubled. "I'm not sure, yet. I want to think about this, and maybe consult my crew." Telson began to reply, and Jirik held up a hand to forestall her. "I know, It's my decision, and it's a command decision. But I don't work that way. I'll make the decision, all right, but after I've gotten input from my crew. Their shares make up sixty percent of the ownership of the old bitch, and I won't disregard their wishes, particularly on a crew matter. Besides, I've got some feelers out, and I may get another applicant or two. I'll let you know by 1500 local, one way or the other. All right?"
The woman nodded and rose gracefully from her chair. "Thank you, Captain. That will be quite all right." She started toward the door.
"Hold it," Jirik called. "How soon could you be ready to lift? We have to get off this mudball as quickly as possible. We've got delivery deadlines, and taking a roundabout course is going to make a long trip even longer."
Telson turned back, grin firmly in place. "I'll be ready at 1500. Suppose I come back here at that time. That way, if you sign me on, we can go right aboard, and I can begin liftoff computations."
Jirik nodded, and a smile appeared on his face. "Don't you even want to know what I'll pay? How do you know I won't cheat you?"
White teeth shone. "You won't cheat me, Captain. You'll pay me fairly because you're an honorable man. Besides, we can discuss that at 1500." She started out the door, and then paused. "Captain, I want to thank you. You've given me a chance of getting off this heavy hell of a planet. That alone made this visit worthwhile."
Telson was barely gone when there was a quiet knock on the office door. Thinking that Telson had forgotten something, Jirik opened the door to find the smuggler from the night before, his face pulled down into his coat collar, a heavy hat jammed far down onto his head. Jirik's estimate of the quality of the terrorists was falling rapidly. The man looked like the villain in a low-budget holovid. He was beginning to be sure that he was dealing with amateurs. If he had really been interested in a smuggling deal, this guy alone would have been enough to make him back off.
This time, however, he had no real choice. He followed Tomy's suggestions, and continued the negotiations. After nearly an hour, they had agreed upon the terms of the smuggling operation. Jirik would be given a hundred thousand credits, in cash, with which to buy the battle comp software and weapon design specs that the man wanted. He was to deliver the material on Wayoff. He was given no specific black market contact on Alpha, but was expected to use his own. He would be contacted upon his arrival on Wayoff regarding delivery. On Wayoff, he would surrender the materials and the remainder from the purchase credits, and would be paid another hundred thousand, in Alliance banknotes.
Their business completed, the man used Jirik's vidphone to place a call. The screen remained blank, and a scrambler was evidently used on the other end, whose counterpart Jirik's visitor had screwed into his ear. After a few seconds of hushed conversation, the man signed off, and resumed his seat. Some ten local minutes later, a quiet coded knock brought Jirik's visitor to his feet. He went to the door, where he received a case from the unseen knocker. Returning to Jirik's desk, the man opened the case, and watched carefully as Jirik counted the hundred thousand. As soon as Jirik pronounced himself satisfied with the money count, the man silently jammed his absurd hat back onto his head, pulled up his collar, and hurried out the door.
Once the man had left, Jirik used the ring communicator that Tomys had given him to report on the results of the meeting with the smuggler, and then stood, yawning hugely and stretching his cramped muscles. Picking up the case of cash, he hurriedly arranged for his vidphone calls to be forwarded to the Lass, locked the door and returned to the ship in search of Bran.
He had told Telson that he wanted to consult his crew, and he intended to do that. Mainly, however, he wanted to give the tramp captains an opportunity to find any other applicants for the job. Besides, he rather liked the woman, and sincerely hoped that Telson was not the terrorist spy. Unless another applicant appeared, however, she would have to be assumed to be the one.
Not until the hundred thousand was secure in his safe could Jirik heave a huge sigh of relief and relax. Carrying that much currency around was even more unnerving than he had remembered from his old smuggling days.
Bran and Tor were just finishing lunch when he entered the mess deck. Jirik plopped his weary weight into a chair, and began briefing them on Telson.
"She looks to be a damned good astrogator," he informed them, "But she could be a problem. She seems to be something of a hermit, spending a lot of time in her cabin."
Tor grinned. "Like Bran."
Jirik answered the grin with one of his own. "Yes, though Bran tends to seclude himself in Engineering. Telson says she likes to spend most of her time alone in her cabin." He hesitated, and then continued, "there's one other thing. She's a Metrangan."
Bran looked surprised. "An Elf? Out here?"
Tor frowned. "An Elf? I think I've read about them, Captain."
Jirik shrugged. "You probably have, Tor. They're one of the more distinctive planetary populations, along with Twilighters, Frejans and Otarners." His face hardened. "But that is the last time I want to hear the term 'elf' used to refer to her. Apparently she doesn't mind it; she used it herself. But that doesn't give us license to use it, and I understand many Metrangans consider it an insult. If I sign her on, I expect you to call her 'Metrangan', or maybe just 'Astrogator', if you must use such descriptive terms."
"Then there's one other thing to discuss," Jirik continued, "Sex. Bran and I have both shipped with female crewmembers before, but you haven't, and there are some things that you must know, things that are even more important in view of Telson's appearance. For some reason, Metrangans' appearance seems to touch a chord in 'normals', one that makes them targets of sexual interest. One of the unwritten laws of spacing is that a female crewmember is just that; a crewmember that happens to be female. She is given no special consideration, and expects none. She is entitled to the respect and treatment that her skills earn her, no more, no less. Her relations with the rest of the crew are based upon that premise.