Jack and the Beanstalk [SF YA]

CHAPTER NINE - Jack be Nimble - Part I

--Stranger in a strange land?

(At least she's accurate. Cliched, but accurate.)

--But what would Moses do?

(No. Forget what Moses would do. What would Heinlein do?)

--Let's go look for some blue mud.

(Right.)

A sign up ahead caught my eye: The Insomnia Cafe--Open all hours. I checked my watch, 1800 hours Greenwich mean time. No wonder hunger echoed in my belly. I loped toward the archaic neon sign, pulling up short at the door. Small window panes framed of a material resembling wood held handprinted menus in various languages. Public House Cuisine-If you know its name we can make it. Reasonable prices.

How reasonable can they be if they're not listed?

(Probably depends on who you are. Native or groundhog?)

"Hmmm. Looks as good a spot as any." I grasped the doorknob, surprised that no lock pad existed. Inside fake old fashioned incandescent bulbs lent varied shadows to the interior. A few patrons sat scattered around tables. For a moment it felt like home, if I waited here perhaps Brian would come striding through the door and offer me a beer. The thought of Brian reminded me of my predicament. I spotted a table in a shadowy corner and slipped across the artificial brick flooring to slide into the seat.

In moments a waiter appeared and offered me water and a menu. "Your order?"

"How about a Guinness and an order of bangers?"

"Very good, sir," he replied, his accent taking on a decidedly British tone.

"Is there a terminal I can use?" I asked.

"One moment, sir." He glided away and returned moments later with a small terminal, which activated as he placed it on the table.

I picked it up and it shut off, but the display flashed on as soon as it touched the table. I discovered that I could hold it on my lap as long as some part of it contacted the table. The limited range of operation annoyed me, but I suppose it's necessary to prevent interference from other nearby terminals. I punched up the news, scanned the headlines and jumped quickly to the classifieds-employment section. Typing in my qualifications, I realized that they sounded pretty weak. Perhaps I could get a job as a waiter, but how many languages would I need to know? English and Russian and a smattering of romance languages left me doubting my worth as a polyglot. A cunning linguist I was not.

The food came as I finished my initial search yielding one job opening in a manufacturing plant. The only job I qualify for I thought bitterly. But I couldn't be to particular. I took a bite and a drink and punched up the information. Large letters flashed on the screen: Position filled. Thank you for your interest. I took a larger drink as I cut up the sausage. Dumping the search parameters I limited it only to jobs on this side of the Moon. A horrendously long list scrolled by.

I finished the Guinness and started scanning the list. It seemed hopeless. Every entry seemed either outdated or required some characteristic that I lacked. Though I had forged IDs that would prove I was any one of three people, none of these gave me landed immigrant job status. Even John Petrovich, who was supposedly returning to the Moon from Earth didn't have the paperwork required for anything but manual labor. Half a dozen advertisements were looking for iceminers for the south polar region. I'd love to give it a shot but had no way to get to the south pole.

"I don't mean to intrude," said a decidedly British voice behind me, "but I couldn't help but notice that you were checking the employment advertisements."

I spun my seat and discovered a young man wearing an odd mixture of clothes, high quality but of contrasting fashions. Having no sense of fashion isn't a crime.

"I'm Clayton Vanderpol. Friends call me Clay."

"Jack."

"Anyway, if you're looking for work and don't mind a little monotony, I could use a hand. I work for a transfer company. All we do is move containers from one warehouse to another all day long."

"I don't mind monotony, but... you see I don't have a work permit and have limited funds and"

"No place to stay?"

I nodded.

"You can crash at my flat until pay day then we'll find you a place of your own. Even a davenport is right comfy at a fifth of a gee. And the permit's not necessary.

"If the permits aren't necessary why have them?"

"Some companies are very anti-immigration. Even with all the space on the moon and the resources, they're still unwilling to share. Besides shuffling information makes some people feel important."

I liked his attitude. When we reached his door Clay thumbed the lock and it slid open. The flat was anything but a sparse hole in the wall. If not for the odd gravity I would've thought it a penthouse suite on Earth. A low plush burgundy carpet nudged up against real wood wainscoting. Dark red roses grew up the walls on the fine gray wallpaper. Everything smelled of money. I gazed around in amazement. When my eyes returned to Clay he shrugged.

"Well, it isn't really mine. Actually it's owned by the company, but the last vice president in charge of operations got sent back to Earth and the replacement won't be here for another six months so since there's no one to use it, they've leased it to me at a reasonable rate. What do you think?"

"I'm impressed."

"You want something to eat?"

"No, is this the couch? I'll be out in a wink."

My last thoughts were pleasant ones. I'd finally made a choice that would help me get established. The best revenge against Mother Goose would be success.

#

(Monotony? He wasn't kidding.)

Quit complaining, it's work.

Like Clay, Mr. Ginnett, my esteemed employer, dressed more extravagantly than most other lunar citizens I'd seen, but at least his clothing matched stylistically.

I shoved another box toward the transfer vehicle as I wondered, not for the first time why I did all the work while Clay and Mr. Ginnett disappeared. It should be nearly time for a lunch break anyway-only a few more boxes in this load.

A door slid open next to the truck and a skinny man with a badge on his tan shirt stepped in. His eyes took in the truck and me with a big question mark in his eyes.

"Can I help you?" I offered.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice surprisingly deep and gravelly. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean? I'm working."

He shuffled toward me and a dart grew out of his chest as an almost inaudible pop sounded behind me. His surprise slipped from his face as his body slipped to the floor. I spun around to catch a glimse of Clay sliding from behind one large crate and another.

"Clay, what's going on?"

He reappeared holding a needlegun. "I'm afraid that the job isn't going to last as long as I thought. You are now a complication. And my boss doesn't like complications."

"You can't do this... the authorities"

"The authorities? Do you think the authorities could even find us? Ha! I'm sorry, Jack."

I heard the pop as a small puff of something escaped from the needlegun. A dart protruded from my stomach. I scratched at it with hands that no longer obeyed my will as the walls closed in and the lights faded.