The Oilman's Daughter by Allison M. Dickson, Ian Thomas Healy Page B

list of supplies and he’ll see to it. As far as your bills and fees go, I’ll take care of them myself.” Jonathan unhooked his seat belt and adjusted his goggles as sunlight began to stream into the bar. “Get your coffee to go.”
    Gusarov protested a bit at the rush, but scribbled out a supply list on a napkin and handed it to Porter. “ Condor is docked at Airlock Six on main deck. That is, if stationmaster has not impounded her by now.”
    “Lead on, Mr. Gusarov,” said Jonathan.
    The legless man took up a surprising quick pace, using his fingertips to guide his progress through the station over the heads of travelers and crew. Jonathan fell further and further behind as he struggled along the floor. Red-faced and puffing, he fought through a crowd of Chinese diplomats in their Western-style suits and wire-framed glasses, and eventually found Gusarov waiting for him on the other side of the throng.
    “Those boots are half your problem right there, Gospodin Orbital.” The pilot sipped from his coffee bulb. “They keep you upright, sure, but that traps you into thinking in only two dimensions. That is earthworm thinking. Space has six cardinal directions, not four, and if you are going to travel in it, you should start thinking that way.”
    “I’m sorry.” Jonathan tugged his collar away from his neck. A while ago, he’d learned that sweat didn’t roll off one’s skin in microgravity. Instead, it collected like perspiration on a cold mug of beer, and with every motion he sent tiny clouds of droplets wobbling off into the air. “I haven’t spent much time in space, as you can probably tell.”
    “Pretty funny joke for man named Orbital.” Gusarov spun himself around in mid-air until he was upside-down. “You want to be spacer, first is take off clinkers. Hang them from your belt by laces so they are out of way.”
    Jonathan shrugged and untied his boots. Pulling them from the deck was far more difficult when he wasn’t braced against anything. After struggling for a minute to Gusarov’s great amusement, he got the second boot freed and stuck it to its mate, heel to toe.
    Then he discovered he was floating in the middle of the corridor with nothing in arm’s reach. “Aw, hell,” he muttered.
    “You are not helpless,” said Gusarov. “Move your body. Swing clinkers by laces. Blow out lungful of air. Damned earthworm.”
    Shamed into experimenting, Jonathan started to wiggle himself, swing around his boots, and blow like Gusarov recommended. Some combination of the tricks worked and he was able to get a hand onto a nearby pipefitting. With Gusarov alternately coaching, goading, or rebuking him, Jonathan flailed his way through the corridors of Pinnacle Station to the designated airlock. Porter awaited them there with tanks of air and water, boxes of coke and canned supplies. A station representative waited as well, and his expression grew both avaricious and hopeful at Jonathan’s appearance.
    “I hope you don’t mind, sir,” said Porter. “I know time is of the essence, so I sought out this gentleman and explained you personally would be taking care of Mr. Gusarov’s docking fees.”
    Jonathan nodded and dug out his money clip from his inside coat pocket. He counted out sufficient funds to cover the bill and added a few dollars more for good measure. The station man counted the money twice, then doffed his cap, adjusted his goggles, and moved off down the corridor back to the Station offices.
    “Mouth-breathing durak. ” Gusarov grumbled as he spun the wheel to the airlock. “He has no love for independents, as if we are all smugglers and pirates.”
    “Are you?” Jonathan fixed him with a steady gaze.
    Gusarov looked back over his shoulder with a wink and a grin. “Not today, Gospodin Orbital. Money is scarce for one-man operation like mine and I have to take jobs as I can get them.”
    “I see.”
    “Never you mind that, comrades. Welcome to Condor . Get gear stowed and tanks