Bran smiled gently. "Well, you know Tor. He's excited as hell about being a spacer, and determined to learn everything there is to know in record time. He's like a puppy. He's been trying to help me, but all he's really accomplished is getting underfoot and driving me crazy with questions. I think that he's spending most of his off-duty time at that university of theirs; it's the only place around with lots of kids his own age."
"All right," Jirik said briskly. "I hadn't realized how out of touch I've gotten until now. These damned repairs and cargo negotiations have kept me so busy that I don't even know what's going on with my own crew. That, at least, is going to change. As soon as we finish here, I'm calling a crew meeting. I'm worried about the repairs. We've already been here more than a week, and another two weeks means a hell of a lot of down time. With the repairs and delivery penalties eating into our operating capital, we'd better come up with a good cargo to get us back to the inner worlds. Well, I'll save that for the meeting. In the meantime, I'll begin taking Tor with me. He can do a lot of the legwork, and generally be my 'Gofer'. It's time he learned how cargoes are contracted anyway, and it won't hurt him to watch me deal with the damned ship's chandlers and repair contractors."
"Valt is a different problem," Jirik continued, his lip curling in disgust. "I can't believe that a spacer could be so shallow. I want you to take him, and work his lazy ass off. I want you to sweat the alcohol out of him, and I want him so exhausted that he collapses into his bunk every night. We've tolerated his laziness for too long. He's entitled to his free time," Jirik added viciously, "But he doesn't have to enjoy it. I want him to either 'shape up or ship out', as the saying goes. We'll leave here with either a better crewman or a new Astrogator!"
"That's all well and good, Captain," Bran replied, "except for a couple of details. Whatever else he is, I must admit that Valt is an excellent astrogator – and he may not be easy to replace out here. I might also mention that with our operating capital depleted by penalties and repair costs, I doubt we could afford to buy out his share." He raised a hand to forestall Jirik's heated objection. "I do think that working his ass off is a reasonable course of action, though I don't relish the job. As long as you're prepared to deal with a lengthy series of complaints and whine sessions, I guess I can try to shape him up. Now, if you really want to call a crew meeting, I suggest you get on with it. I'm worn out, and in this gravity, I really need my rest to keep those thumb-fingered 'repairmen' from tearing the old bitch down around our ears!"
Jirik assembled his crew on the Mess Deck. Valt Willem was obviously hung over. Almost a hundred and ninety centimeters tall and classically handsome, Valt was nearly always the very picture of health. Now, however, that handsome face was marred by his obviously hung over condition, as well as by the assortment of black eyes and plastiflesh patches bearing mute testimony to his eventful liberties. His usually spotless and knife-edged uniform was dirty, rumpled and disheveled. Valt stared morosely at the table in front of him, his misery obvious.
The youngster, Tor Jankys was nearly as tall as Valt, but there the similarity ended. Where Valt was graceful and lithe, Tor was broad and muscular. Fortunately, his youthful face was always cheerful and smiling, keeping him from being physically overwhelming and his graceful movements from being threatening. But his face was also suffused with a simple wholesomeness and lack of guile that inspired confidence. Despite his lumbering physical presence, he displayed an enthusiasm and a sense of wonder that made the others feel ancient. Now, he was bright-eyed with interest, chattering excitedly with the laconic Bran, and stuttering with embarrassment when talking with Jirik, whom he obviously idolized.
"All right," Jirik announced, "Settle down. We've got business." He glanced at the log recorder on the table, and said, "For the record, this is a crew meeting to discuss Ship's Business. All shareholders present." He concealed a smile as he noticed Tor straighten and flush with pride at the word "shareholders." The kid's excitement at being a spacer never ceased to amuse Jirik.
"First off," Jirik began, "I'm not happy with the pace of the repairs. Bran and I have been carrying too much of the load, and there are going to be some changes. Tor," The boy jumped as though shot, and Jirik continued, "I think that it's time you started to learn about the really dirty part of spacing – dealing with ship's chandlers and cargo agents. Starting tomorrow, you'll come with me; and don't count on getting a whole lot of free time – You'll be busier than you were on that farm on Corona.
"Valt," Jirik rounded on the astrogator, his face darkening with anger. "I've had enough of you moping around here like a hung-over zombie. Tomorrow at 0700 Local you report to Bran for work detail, and you'd better be sober. I don't really care if you're hung over, because if you are, you're going to regret it. I want these damned repairs completed within two weeks. If that means that you and Bran work 20-standard-hour days, then so be it. But we're losing credits every minute that we sit on our butts on this mudball."
Anger darkened Valt's pasty face, and brought a gleam to his previously dulled eyes. "Damn it, Captain, I don't have to take that! Sure, I've been drinking a little more since we got here, but you haven't been out into town. There's not a whorehouse on this bloody planet, and what whores there are are pigs; pale, homely bitches with big asses and no imagination. And the other women on this bloody planet are snooty bitches who just want to talk, for deity's sake. You'd think that the men, at least, would be more reasonable, but they act like these bitches are goddesses or something." His whining voice took on an aggrieved tone. "There's not even much porn on this backward, bloody hell of a planet. There's nothing else to do but drink!"
Jirik sighed wearily. "I don't want to hear it, Valt. Bran will find you something else to do besides drink – something that will help us get off this mudball. And frankly," he continued, "I don't give a bloody damn about your sex life, or lack of one. You bloody fool! Don't you realize that, as a shareholder, it's costing you money to sit here, too?" Valt was staring sulkily at the table again, and made no reply. "Tomorrow, Valt," Jirik insisted, "0700. Engineering. Be there, or by deity we'll have another shareholder's meeting to assess you penalties for every delay you cause. Is that clear?" A surly bob of his head was Valt's only reply. In Jirik's Navy days, they would have called Valt's attitude "dumb insolence." Jirik flushed. "I said 'is that clear?'"
"Yeah, Yeah," Valt sulked. "It's clear. Damn it, Captain, I'm an Astrogator, not a damned grease monkey, or cargo jockey!"
"Well," Bran put in, "We don't need an Astrogator until we're back in space. We do need you to help us get back there as soon as possible. Be there tomorrow morning, Valt. I don't plan to let your laziness cost me more of my share." Valt flushed at the word "laziness," but nodded silently.
"All right," Jirik resumed, "Let's move on. Bran's going to report on the progress of the repairs. Bran?"
Bran rose tiredly to his feet, and launched into much the same report that he'd given Jirik earlier. When he mentioned that most of the parts they would need would have to be custom-made, Tor, beet-faced, began frantically waving for attention.
At Jirik's nod, Tor spoke up. "Uh . . . Captain There're . . . uh . . . some things I d-don't understand. How could a little pebble damage a big ship like the Lass so badly that it would c-c-cost so much to fix? And how come we just can't get the parts f-f-from a Ship's chandler? Uh, isn't that what they're for?"
Bran smiled gently. "Ship's chandlers carry supplies, right enough, but they don't carry many drive parts; they leave that to the repair yards." He raised a hand as Tor's mouth opened. "And, no, the local repair yards don't have the parts we need, either. You see, Tor," he continued in a pedantic tone, "The Lass is an Alliance Navy surplus Combat Carrier. She's a big ship. You've seen the other ships on the field?" at Tor's nod, Bran continued. "They're much smaller than the Lass. The Rim isn't very populous or very wealthy, and the planetary systems are much further apart than the inner systems. Big ships are too big for trading economically along the Rim. Now, if the Lass were a Rim Tramp, like those other ships you've seen, the yards would probably have the parts. If we were in our usual sector, along the Alliance/Empire border, they'd certainly have them. But out here, we're going to have to have them made, and that takes time and costs credits. I've told the Captain that we will be here for at least two more weeks. If the other generator isn't seriously damaged, we may make his two-week target. If it is seriously damaged," he shrugged. "I just don't know."