Galaxy Blues by Allen Steele Page A

said quietly, “they’re probably just the ones you brought with you.”
    Emily coughed politely behind her hand, and Ali murmured something in Arabic. Yet Goldstein simply nodded as he pulled back an empty chair. “Perhaps I should have told you about this place before I directed you here,” he said. “The cantina was erected by the original Alabama colonists, back in c.y. 01. They built it from materials left over from the construction of their houses, and it’s older than even the grange hall. During their first winter on this world, they’d gather around the fireplace, keeping each other company on those long, cold nights when they were unsure of whether they’d survive until spring.”
    He glanced over at Carrie, who continued to putter around behind the bar. “Carrie’s one of those colonists,” he went on, lowering his voice. “She and her husband kept this establishment going on little more than barter and trade credit until the Union occupation. After the Revolution they came back, repaired the place, and opened it for business again. Lew died a few years ago, but she continues to brew her own ale and fix her own food. So show a little respect, please. You’re on hallowed ground.”
    There was something in my mouth that tasted like my own foot. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Didn’t know.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Ted said. “Thought much the same thing when I first came here. Tip well, and we’ll call it even.” Then he turned to Goldstein. “Right. So we’ve got our shuttle jockey. So where’s our ship?”
    â€œYour ship is on the way, Captain Harker. Ganymede-class freighter with only three Jupiter runs logged to her name.” Ted opened his mouth, but Goldstein raised a hand before he could object. “I know you wanted a new vessel, but this is the best I could arrange on short notice. The next boat in its class is still in the shipyard, two Earth-years away from completion.”
    â€œBoat?” Emily scowled at him. “We want a spacecraft, not a tub.”
    â€œBelieve me, it’s a good ship.” Goldstein leaned back in his chair with the same air of confidence I’d seen when I was in the stockade. The man with all the answers, and the money to buy them. “Besides, you’ll have an experienced chief engineer to go with it…someone who knows his ship backward and forward.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll take your word for it.” Ted picked up his mug, took a sip. “So who are our passengers?”
    â€œWell…” Goldstein took a deep breath. “As you know, one of them is the Prime Emissary, Mahamatasja Jas Sa-Fhadda.”
    That caused me to sit up straight. That one of our party would be a hjadd was news to me. One more detail about this voyage that Goldstein had neglected to reveal. Or at least to me; no one else seemed to be surprised. “One of the reasons why the ship has been delayed,” Goldstein continued, “is because we’ve had to retrofit one of its passenger decks as suitable quarters for it…himher, I mean.”
    â€œAll right. I can understand that.” Ted folded his arms across his chest. “What about our other passenger?” He nodded toward Ali. “He tells me that you told him that you were bringing someone else, too.”
    Goldstein glanced toward the door. He hesitated, and for a moment it seemed as if he was waiting to hear someone say something. “A consultant,” he said at last. “Someone who we’ll need for this voyage, strictly in an advisory capacity.”
    Again, he gazed toward the door. A few seconds passed, and then a figure slowly appeared. A form draped in a dark cloak, hood pulled up around his face. He lingered for just a moment, then vanished again, without ever setting foot inside the cantina.
    â€œThat’s Mr. Ash,” Goldstein said.