Jim gave the
man the code; he nodded disinterestedly and gave
them a thumbs-up.
Tychus and Jim threw on out-of-date hardskins and
stepped out to unload the fake cargo. It was, quite
literal y, junk. Jim thought that the Skul s had probably
had a grand time assembling al this as props for the
mission. Of course, it seemed to him that the Skul s
probably had a grand time doing anything.
Fifteen minutes later, after al the various gears,
drives, metal plates, sexbot heads—Tychus paused
and had to consider a moment before throwing those
in—and other detritus had been cataloged,
numbered, sorted, and placed in various areas of the
platform, the bored-looking scrap yard employee
handed them a data log.
“There’s your case number, itemized list, and
estimated payment amount,” said the man, who cal ed
himself Fitzgerald, his voice sounding even more flat
and metal ic than it should have coming out of a
hardskin. “Also enclosed are the coordinates of your
docking bay at the station proper. Show them this
data log, tel them your code, and they’l give you your
credits. And don’t worry if you can’t raise them right
away. Comm’s been on the fritz for the last half hour.”
Jim frowned slightly. In his line of work, it paid to be
suspicious. “Real y? That unusual?”
Fitz-something—Jim had already forgotten his
name—blinked at him for a moment. “This is a scrap
yard. What do you think?”
The man had a point, and Jim relaxed, amused.
“Thanks,” said Jim. “So we should just head on in, and
we’l find someone there who can give us
authorization to col ect scrap materials?”
“Of course. You’l want to speak with the Office of
Material Acquisitions. They’l give you a registration
number that you can use any time you return to make
future purchases. Thank you for bringing your
business to Refurbish and Recovery Station 5034.
We know you have a choice of scrap yards to—”
“Yeah, save it,” said Tychus bluntly. He turned and
jumped lightly from the platform, pul ing himself along
the tether to the Linda Lou .
Jim turned and smiled. “Thanks again,” he said to
Fitzgerald, then fol owed Tychus.
He was beginning to think his friend was right: this
was a piece of cake. As he and Tychus entered the
ship, closed the door, and removed their hardskins,
Jim remarked, “We might have to take more jobs
from the Screaming Skul s. This is easy.”
“Not too many,” Tychus said. “Easy ain’t fun.”
“Forty-eight hours ago you were running out of
Wicked Wayne’s, naked as the day you were born, in
an effort to escape the due process of law. This is a
definite change.”
“And so you make my point for me.”
They maneuvered through the junk field to what
was vaguely its center. The station itself was
surprisingly wel kept up. It was a slowly turning
sphere. There were several oval viewing stations
interspersed with cranes. Al the cranes were folded
up tightly against the station, giving it the appearance
of a particularly fat metal ic spider. There were no
other ships docked, and they went to their appointed
bay with no chal enges from the station. Apparently
the communications were stil , as Fitz had put it, “on
the fritz.” They brought the rickety freighter into the
bay. The door to space irised shut behind them.
They’d visited plenty of scrap yards. Usual y there
was someone who had been alerted to their arrival
who would come to official y check them in. However,
there was no one waiting in the bay, and the door to
the corridor that connected them to the station slid
open as soon as the space door was closed.
Jim frowned and glanced at Tychus. “That’s
strange,” he said.
“Could be SOP with this place. Automatical y
programmed. You saw how interested in personal
contact the last fel ow was,” Tychus said.
Jim nodded. “Yeah. Stil , Fitz-whatshisname said
someone was supposed to check us in.”
“If the comm
man the code; he nodded disinterestedly and gave
them a thumbs-up.
Tychus and Jim threw on out-of-date hardskins and
stepped out to unload the fake cargo. It was, quite
literal y, junk. Jim thought that the Skul s had probably
had a grand time assembling al this as props for the
mission. Of course, it seemed to him that the Skul s
probably had a grand time doing anything.
Fifteen minutes later, after al the various gears,
drives, metal plates, sexbot heads—Tychus paused
and had to consider a moment before throwing those
in—and other detritus had been cataloged,
numbered, sorted, and placed in various areas of the
platform, the bored-looking scrap yard employee
handed them a data log.
“There’s your case number, itemized list, and
estimated payment amount,” said the man, who cal ed
himself Fitzgerald, his voice sounding even more flat
and metal ic than it should have coming out of a
hardskin. “Also enclosed are the coordinates of your
docking bay at the station proper. Show them this
data log, tel them your code, and they’l give you your
credits. And don’t worry if you can’t raise them right
away. Comm’s been on the fritz for the last half hour.”
Jim frowned slightly. In his line of work, it paid to be
suspicious. “Real y? That unusual?”
Fitz-something—Jim had already forgotten his
name—blinked at him for a moment. “This is a scrap
yard. What do you think?”
The man had a point, and Jim relaxed, amused.
“Thanks,” said Jim. “So we should just head on in, and
we’l find someone there who can give us
authorization to col ect scrap materials?”
“Of course. You’l want to speak with the Office of
Material Acquisitions. They’l give you a registration
number that you can use any time you return to make
future purchases. Thank you for bringing your
business to Refurbish and Recovery Station 5034.
We know you have a choice of scrap yards to—”
“Yeah, save it,” said Tychus bluntly. He turned and
jumped lightly from the platform, pul ing himself along
the tether to the Linda Lou .
Jim turned and smiled. “Thanks again,” he said to
Fitzgerald, then fol owed Tychus.
He was beginning to think his friend was right: this
was a piece of cake. As he and Tychus entered the
ship, closed the door, and removed their hardskins,
Jim remarked, “We might have to take more jobs
from the Screaming Skul s. This is easy.”
“Not too many,” Tychus said. “Easy ain’t fun.”
“Forty-eight hours ago you were running out of
Wicked Wayne’s, naked as the day you were born, in
an effort to escape the due process of law. This is a
definite change.”
“And so you make my point for me.”
They maneuvered through the junk field to what
was vaguely its center. The station itself was
surprisingly wel kept up. It was a slowly turning
sphere. There were several oval viewing stations
interspersed with cranes. Al the cranes were folded
up tightly against the station, giving it the appearance
of a particularly fat metal ic spider. There were no
other ships docked, and they went to their appointed
bay with no chal enges from the station. Apparently
the communications were stil , as Fitz had put it, “on
the fritz.” They brought the rickety freighter into the
bay. The door to space irised shut behind them.
They’d visited plenty of scrap yards. Usual y there
was someone who had been alerted to their arrival
who would come to official y check them in. However,
there was no one waiting in the bay, and the door to
the corridor that connected them to the station slid
open as soon as the space door was closed.
Jim frowned and glanced at Tychus. “That’s
strange,” he said.
“Could be SOP with this place. Automatical y
programmed. You saw how interested in personal
contact the last fel ow was,” Tychus said.
Jim nodded. “Yeah. Stil , Fitz-whatshisname said
someone was supposed to check us in.”
“If the comm
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