The VMR Theory (v1.1) Read Free Page B

time.”
    Observing the guards nudging each other, I was not unduly surprised to find a hacksaw blade stuffed inside the wrapper.
    We caught a shuttle, thoughtfully laid on by Lydia, up to Rio’s little space platform, where my purser, Bunkie Bunker, and my supercargo, Harry Halsey, were scurrying trying to load the stuff the Macdonalds wanted shipped and locate things that might pay for us to carry on our own account.
    Bunkie is a diminutive ex-yeoman we stole from the navy who will undoubtedly end up as CEO of a very large company if she ever gets serious about a career and quits hanging around Catarina and me. Harry, who could pass as the “after” photo in a steroid commercial, is also ex-navy, but the navy asked him to leave. He usually tells people that a supercargo is a kind of space cadet, and they believe him. He sold his bar on Schuyler’s World to give me some much needed working capital, and on Schuyler’s World, where bouncing drunks is considered an art form, I’ve been told by people interested in that sort of thing that he practically invented the cross-body headlock toss, which makes him very good at helping Bunkie negotiate contracts on planets like Brasilia Nuevo.
    After signing where Bunkie told me to sign, I went back to check on the cargo the Macdonalds had waiting. Finding that they hadn’t committed any overt violations of Confederation law, we took on seventy pallets and about a hundred tons of industrial solvent through the four-centimeter tubing that extends from Brasilia Nuevo’s space platform to a ground station just outside Rio. Because it’s bad luck to have industrial solvent sloshing around trying to dissolve the hull, we did so carefully, and I hoped that Rio’s station master would remember to clean out the hose before somebody tried shipping flour.
    This accomplished, I went back to see how Catarina was making out back in Stores. “How are we doing?”
    “We’re stocked up and almost ready to roll.” She smiled impishly. “I bought some fresh fish for dinner tonight.”
    I stopped to peer into a little tank where Mr. Fish and several family members were lethargically swimming around. “How do you plan on fixing it?” I asked, tumbling into her trap.
    “You like tempura. How about some battered cod?”
    “Sure,” I said thoughtlessly.
    “Okay.” She pulled out a fish and tossed him into my arms. “Smack him around.” It took several seconds to register, after which the fish and I both started gasping for oxygen.,
    “I know I shouldn’t bait you, but think of it as my squid pro quo for getting you out of jail,” she explained.
    “I’m eel-equipped to handle this sort of thing,” I countered, hoping that somebody would suspend her poetic license.
    “Reel-ly, Ken. You’re floundering.”
    Minnie, one of our two Rodent watch-standers, appeared, sparing me further piscatorial torment. Minnie is an attractive young member of her species, which means she looks something like an upright schnauzer. “Friend Ken, sir, the manifest checks, payment cleared, and Rosalee says we’re ready to rock and roll.”
    Generally speaking, IPlixxi* are friendly, courteous, kind, cheerful, thrifty, less than completely truthful, and thoroughly irreverent. They resemble furry bowling pins, and they shed, which is hell on drains aboard ship. The ones who deal with humans adopt human names. Our friend, Bucky Beaver, the current Poobah occupying !Plixxi*’s Semi-Sacred Cushion, named himself after the principal character in a popular set of children’s stories, while our two, who were selected from among his nieces and nephews and stand about twentieth in the line of succession, picked “Minnie” and “Mickey.” While no one is quite sure what the IPlixxi* did for amusement before they encountered mankind, I for one would be very interested in finding out.
    “Uh, thanks, Minnie. Ask the port master if we can shove off in half an hour.”
    “Sure thing.”
    As she waddled off, I