FIGHTING CHANCE
"Try it now," Miri called, and folded her
arms over her eyes.
There was a couple seconds of nothing more
than the crunchy sound of shoes against gritty floor, which would
be Penn moving over to get at the switch.
"Trying it now," he yelled, which was more
warning than his dad was used to giving. There was an ominous
sizzle, and a mechanical moan as the fans started in to
work–picking up speed until they was humming fit to beat and nor
yet there hadn't been a flare-out.
Miri lowered her arms carefully and squinted
up into the workings. The damn' splice was gonna hold this
time.
For awhile, anyhow.
"Pressure's heading for normal," Penn
shouted over the building racket. "Come on outta there, Miri."
"Just gotta close up," she shouted back, and
wrestled the hatch up, holding it with a knee while she used both
hands to seat the locking pin.
That done, she rolled out. A grubby hand
intersected her line of vision. Frowning, she looked up into Penn's
wary, spectacled face; and relaxed. Penn was OK, she reminded
herself, and took the offered assist.
Once on her feet, she dropped his hand and
Penn took a step back, glasses flashing as he looked at the
lift-bike.
"Guess that's it 'til the next time," he
said.
Miri shrugged. The 'bike belonged to Jerim
Snarth, who'd got it off a guy who worked at the spaceport, who'd
got it from–don't ask don't tell. Miri's guess was that the 'bike's
original owner had gotten fed up with it breaking down every third
use and left it on a scrap pile.
On the other hand, Jerim was good for the
repair money, most of the time, which meant Penn's dad paid Miri on
time, so she supposed she oughta hope for more breakdowns.
"Must've wrapped every wire in that thing
two or three times by now," she said to Penn, and walked over to
the diagnostics board. Pressure and speed had come up to spec and
were standing steady.
"My dad said let it run a quarter-hour and
chart the pressures."
Miri nodded, saw that Penn'd already set the
timer and turned around.
"What's to do next?" she asked.
Penn shrugged his shoulders. "The 'bike was
everything on the schedule," he said, sounding apologetic. "Me, I'm
supposed to get the place swept up."
Miri sighed to herself. "Nothing on
tomorrow, either?"
"I don't think so," Penn muttered, feeling
bad about it, though it wasn't no doing of his–nor his dad's
either. Though some extra pay would've been welcome.
Extra pay was always welcome.
"I'll move on down to Trey's, then," she
said, going over to the wall where the heavy wool shirt that served
as her coat hung on a nail next to Penn's jacket. "See if there's
anything needs done there."
She had to stretch high on her toes to reach
her shirt–damn' nails were set too high. Or she was set too low,
more like it.
Sighing, she pulled the shirt on and did up
the buttons. If Trey didn't have anything–and it was likely he
wouldn't–then she'd walk over to Dorik's bake shop. Dorik always
needed small work done–trouble was, she only ever paid in goods,
and it was money Miri was particularly interested in.
She turned 'round. Penn was already
unlimbering the broom, moving stiff. Took a hiding, she guessed.
Penn got some grief on the street–for the glasses, and for because
of being so good with his figures and his reading and such which he
had to be, his dad owning a mechanical repair shop and Penn
expected to help out with the work, when there was work. Hell, even
her father could read, and figure, too; though he was more likely
to be doing the hiding than taking it.
"Seen your dad lately?" Penn asked, like
he'd heard her thinking. He looked over his shoulder, glasses
glinting. "My dad's got the port wanting somebody for a cargo crane
repair, and your dad's the best there is for that."
If he could be found, if he was sober when
found, if he could be sobered up before the customer got impatient
and went with second best . . .
Miri shook her head.
"Ain't seen him since last month," she
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