bubbles,” he said. “We can wait for the next, and perhaps its fee will not have changed. Our family travels together.”
There was a sigh. “Well, for good gold, it will have to do. Hand it over.”
“Not without guarantee of passage for our whole family,” my father said firmly. "We must stay together.
Unity is more important than schedule." I knew my mother felt that way, but with Faith's suit leak, compromise seemed essential.
“We'll let you in. But you'll have to work, to make up the difference.”
“Agreed,” my father said, his face relaxing. I realized that the bubble pilot's lust for our money was greater than any principle he might have had. Gold was universal currency, unlike the chronically deteriorating scrip of the various moons. By threatening to leave, taking our gold with us, my father had bluffed him out. Even if we had perished on the surface of Callisto, that gold would not have gone to this bubble, so it was take it or lose it. The man had taken it. So we would have to work; why not? It was only a ten-day trip to Jupiter. How much better this was than the alternative Spirit and I had tried to offer!
“Shuck your suits,” the voice said.
We were happy to oblige. We helped each other get out of our space suits and folded the bulky things and stacked them on the floor. We should have no further need for them, as the bubble would not again dock in vacuum, and the bubble personnel would have a storage room to store them. This, more than anything else, gave me a feeling of relief. A person could relax when he took off his space suit. We did, however, detach our packs and carry them in our arms.
My father produced our two bright gold coins. The inner panel slid aside. The panels were designed to move readily when the pressure was equal at either side, but to balk when it was not: an automatic safety factor to counter human error. Hard experience in space has taught our species many useful little things.
There stood a man in a grubby pilot's uniform, his hand out. “Cells 75 and 76,” he said as he took the gold. “They're consecutively numbered; you can find them. Get in them and stay; keep the Commons clear.” He brought first one coin and then the other to his mouth, bit each and tasted it, and smiled with satisfaction as he put them away. I had not realized it was possible to identify a metal that way; I would have tried an immersion test for density, as gold is the most dense of the common metals, and anything with greater density is bound to be more valuable. The fact is, you can tell pretty well whether gold is authentic merely by glancing at its size and hefting it in your hand. But I'm not a trader or space pilot.
The man did not introduce himself or offer any other advice, so we moved along the passage. It really didn't matter where we stayed, so long as we were aboard the bubble when it lifted for Jupiter.
The passage angled up at forty-five degrees, then debouched immediately into what appeared to be a torus-shaped chamber. That is, we stood within a giant doughnut, only it was hollow while the hole was solid. Its outer wall curved down on one side and up on the other. I should clarify that the outer wall of the torus was not the outer wall of the bubble.
We walked downward into this torus, since the upper side curved until it was vertical. The lower side curved level in just a few meters—and just at that point the floor converted to a latticework of squares, each square two meters on a side, with a sliding panel in the center. Some panels were open, showing cells below, about two meters cubed.
“Numbers!” Spirit exclaimed. “See—here's 28 and 29 next to it. Is this a prison ship?”
“These are the passenger rooms,” my father said dryly. “Eight cubic meters apiece.”
“But we're only assigned two numbers,” I protested. “We should have five cells. Or at least three, for our entry fee.”
A head poked out of one chamber, startling us. “They have
There was a sigh. “Well, for good gold, it will have to do. Hand it over.”
“Not without guarantee of passage for our whole family,” my father said firmly. "We must stay together.
Unity is more important than schedule." I knew my mother felt that way, but with Faith's suit leak, compromise seemed essential.
“We'll let you in. But you'll have to work, to make up the difference.”
“Agreed,” my father said, his face relaxing. I realized that the bubble pilot's lust for our money was greater than any principle he might have had. Gold was universal currency, unlike the chronically deteriorating scrip of the various moons. By threatening to leave, taking our gold with us, my father had bluffed him out. Even if we had perished on the surface of Callisto, that gold would not have gone to this bubble, so it was take it or lose it. The man had taken it. So we would have to work; why not? It was only a ten-day trip to Jupiter. How much better this was than the alternative Spirit and I had tried to offer!
“Shuck your suits,” the voice said.
We were happy to oblige. We helped each other get out of our space suits and folded the bulky things and stacked them on the floor. We should have no further need for them, as the bubble would not again dock in vacuum, and the bubble personnel would have a storage room to store them. This, more than anything else, gave me a feeling of relief. A person could relax when he took off his space suit. We did, however, detach our packs and carry them in our arms.
My father produced our two bright gold coins. The inner panel slid aside. The panels were designed to move readily when the pressure was equal at either side, but to balk when it was not: an automatic safety factor to counter human error. Hard experience in space has taught our species many useful little things.
There stood a man in a grubby pilot's uniform, his hand out. “Cells 75 and 76,” he said as he took the gold. “They're consecutively numbered; you can find them. Get in them and stay; keep the Commons clear.” He brought first one coin and then the other to his mouth, bit each and tasted it, and smiled with satisfaction as he put them away. I had not realized it was possible to identify a metal that way; I would have tried an immersion test for density, as gold is the most dense of the common metals, and anything with greater density is bound to be more valuable. The fact is, you can tell pretty well whether gold is authentic merely by glancing at its size and hefting it in your hand. But I'm not a trader or space pilot.
The man did not introduce himself or offer any other advice, so we moved along the passage. It really didn't matter where we stayed, so long as we were aboard the bubble when it lifted for Jupiter.
The passage angled up at forty-five degrees, then debouched immediately into what appeared to be a torus-shaped chamber. That is, we stood within a giant doughnut, only it was hollow while the hole was solid. Its outer wall curved down on one side and up on the other. I should clarify that the outer wall of the torus was not the outer wall of the bubble.
We walked downward into this torus, since the upper side curved until it was vertical. The lower side curved level in just a few meters—and just at that point the floor converted to a latticework of squares, each square two meters on a side, with a sliding panel in the center. Some panels were open, showing cells below, about two meters cubed.
“Numbers!” Spirit exclaimed. “See—here's 28 and 29 next to it. Is this a prison ship?”
“These are the passenger rooms,” my father said dryly. “Eight cubic meters apiece.”
“But we're only assigned two numbers,” I protested. “We should have five cells. Or at least three, for our entry fee.”
A head poked out of one chamber, startling us. “They have
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