Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network E. Foner (ebook reader for pc TXT) 📖

“You’re kind of a philosopher, do you know that?”

“If I say anything intelligent, it’s probably stolen from my dad. The only reason I have a good chance of being elected is because everybody respects him so much.”

“Sounds like you’re not sure you want the job.”

“I do and I don’t. The council used to be mainly an honorary thing, their only responsibility was managing the next Rendezvous. There were years my dad had to hunt around on election day sweet-talking friends into running so there would be enough candidates. It’s funny, but the main reason he’s retiring is because he knows that joining the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities means getting involved in politics.”

“You mean CoSHC politics.”

“Exactly. The Traders Guild has always been a laid-back organization, and for a lot of the old trader families, Rendezvous is the one time a year they get together to see relatives. But a lot of first-generation traders are expected this year, and they’re putting up their own slate of candidates who are against joining CoSHC.”

“What do traders have against the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities?”

“It’s the whole independence thing. Plenty of traders never sign up with the Guild, even though the dues is just a few creds a year and there aren’t any binding laws. If the Guild joins CoSHC, which many think is on its way to becoming the government for humans living away from Earth, that would commit our members to follow their rules.”

“Wait a second. You’re saying that traders are lawless?”

“We’re subject to the laws of whatever jurisdiction we’re working in, which usually means alien laws.”

“Here’s your tea and juice,” the waitress said, setting down a tray with a small teapot, a teacup on a saucer, a glass of water, a long-handled spoon, and a small foil packet with a picture of an orange printed on it. “I’ll be right back.”

“Then we better get cracking,” Larry said, tearing open the foil packet and pouring the brownish powder into the water. “Please change colors,” he muttered as he stirred the mixture vigorously.

“I think I’ll pour off a bit of tea now in case it gets too strong steeping,” Georgia said. She removed the teacup and saucer from the tray, and keeping a finger on the teapot lid for safety, poured three-quarters of a cup of the brilliant blue liquid. “This looks interesting.”

“I guess this is as orange as it gets,” Larry said, setting aside the spoon and taking a sip from his rust-colored drink. “I’ve had worse.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. I could tell you stories that would make you lose your appetite for a week.”

Georgia blew on her tea and then tried waving a bit of the steam towards her face to sample the aroma. “It doesn’t smell like anything.”

“That means it’s still good,” the waitress said, returning with their meals. “Food smells when it goes bad. That’s the first thing they taught me on this job.”

“I’m not sure it works that way with tea.”

“Tea never goes bad. The owner found a case of old Frunge tea in the storeroom when he rented the place and it hasn’t killed anybody yet.” The waitress placed a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of Larry and set a sandwich on a plastic dish in front of the reporter. Then she reached in the pocket of her apron and pulled out two forks, giving one to each of her customers. “Will there be anything else?”

“My salad?” Georgia asked.

“You wanted it at the same time as the meal? Everybody on Poalim eats salad for dessert since it’s such a treat.”

“Whenever you get a chance.”

Larry wound some spaghetti onto his fork, stabbed a meatball, and attempted to assume a contemplative expression while chewing. Georgia cautiously lifted the top slice of her sandwich’s bread to check how the payload comported with the menu description.

“I’d have to say that they play fast and loose with the ingredients in this place,” she said. “If this is a Trader’s Special, I’d hate to see a Trader’s Regular.”

“Don’t make me laugh while I’m eating,” Larry complained, coughing something into his hand

“How’s yours?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“You’ll never get a job as a food reporter with that attitude.”

“What’s wrong with your sandwich?”

“It’s missing the avocado, the dill, and the Spanish olives. I’d say what I’ve got here is a cheese sandwich on white bread.”

“That’s what the Trader’s Special always amounts to. It’s traditional to build it up on the menu, sort of an inside joke.”

“Here’s your salad,” the waitress said, putting a bowl of thinly sliced tomatoes with a sprinkling of pepper and some type of oil on top. Bon appétit.”

“Am I missing something here?” Georgia asked. “Like, I don’t know, lettuce?”

“On Poalim?” The waitress shook her head. “Hydroponic tomatoes are it for fresh veg on this habitat, though somebody told me they’re actually considered fruit.”

“Good thing I’m not allergic to them.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. That’s cold-pressed peanut oil and some folks have a problem with it.”

“Better late than never,” Georgia said. “If you can bring us the check, we’re leaving for the Colony One presentation as soon as we’re finished and I don’t want to be late.”

“Remember, it’s on me,” Larry said. “If you’re worried about timing, eat the salad now and take the sandwich with you.”

“How about your spaghetti?”

“This? Stop asking me questions and it will be gone in two minutes.”

Five minutes later, Larry washed down the last forkful of spaghetti with a swallow of his orange drink, and Georgia gave up any semblance of trying to keep pace. While he went to the register to pay with his programmable cred, she wrapped the remaining half of her sandwich in a napkin.

“It’s just down the corridor,” Larry told her on his return. “They’re holding the presentation in one of the