Freelance On The Galactic Tunnel Network by E. Foner (best beach reads of all time TXT) 📗

Ellen interrupted again. “Hey, what happened to Jordan?” she asked the bartender as he placed a small dish of peanuts in front of her.

“He snuck past behind you when he came out of the bathroom,” the Drazen replied. “It’s just as well. His wife usually comes looking for him around now.”

“I have a list of the Earth-based investigative journalists who we’ve published in the past, and we want you to contact them and offer our help in setting up their own news syndicate,” Roland continued unperturbed. “We don’t expect it to happen all at once, so if you take the job, it means a bonus and regular stops at Earth, which could be quite profitable for you.”

“What’s the bonus?”

“We didn’t discuss an exact figure, but—”

“I need fifteen hundred creds.”

“That much!?”

“I’m working on the scoop of the century but the expenses are killing me.”

“So you’re asking me to join you in a suicide pact?” Roland stole a few peanuts from the reporter before she could move the dish out of his reach. “All right. I’ll get you fifteen hundred, but I expect you to spend a full month on Earth so that you’ll be reachable by the people you contact. After that, we’ll talk.”

“You’re a prince, boss. As long as I can leave in time for Rendezvous. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“How about I take you for something to eat instead? My wife is with the kids at a bowling party and they’re getting pizza.”

“What’s the damage, Frode?” Ellen called to the Drazen.

“Jordan was running a tab on his programmable cred—I took it out of that.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite bartender on Union Station,” the reporter said, and slapped down a two-cred coin as a tip. “Where are we eating, boss?”

“How about the food court at the Empire Convention Center?”

“Sure, that’s close.” Ellen staggered against the editor when she slipped off her barstool and began thumping her right thigh with her fist. “Went to sleep on me. I must have been sitting here longer than I realized.”

“So how’s life treating you outside of work?” Roland asked, staying close to her side in case she lost her balance again.

“It’s been a tough year for independent traders and I’ve seen too many bankruptcy auctions. I’m really looking forward to Rendezvous this year because the new council we elect will decide whether or not the Traders Guild will join the Conference of Sovereign Human Communities.”

“I caught a Rendezvous many years ago and you traders have a funny way of electioneering.”

“But we do vote. And you’d think everybody would be in favor of joining, but some of the old-school traders are classic loners. Most of the young traders, well, you can wait to find out until I submit my story.”

“This Earth assignment could turn into a full-time gig if it works out.”

“You mean sell my ship and settle down on a big ball of rock? Not a chance. I may not have been born a trader like some of them, but it’s in my blood.”

“Then your blood must be getting crowded because there’s a heck of an investigative journalist in there too, at least when she’s not swimming in alcohol.”

Four

“If you won’t go back, just kill me and get it over with,” Georgia groaned.

“We can’t turn around in the tunnel, and we’re already halfway there,” Larry lied to soften the blow.

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“Do you realize you haven’t thrown up in almost three hours?” he asked in reply.

“That’s because there’s nothing left in my stomach. Would you please stop moving?”

“I’m not moving. Space sickness happens because the data from your inner ear doesn’t match what you see and your brain goes whacky trying to adjust.”

“Are you saying there’s something wrong with my implant?”

“No, it’s the old-school mammal stuff. Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

“I was up most of last night tying up loose ends before we left. I guess I should have planned further ahead.”

“Sleep deprivation makes Zero-G sickness worse. I should have warned you,” Larry said sympathetically.

“You said you knew some tricks that would help me through it,” Georgia reminded him in an accusatory tone.

“I’m saving those tricks for later because you’re not that bad. I had a passenger once who lost control of his bowels and—”

“Not helping,” she interrupted. “How long is it going to last?”

“I think you’re already coming out of it,” he lied again.

“If there was just something to see out of the porthole instead of the tunnel void. I used to get motion sick traveling in floater buses back on Earth, but if I could sit in the front and look forward, it was better.”

“Space sickness is the opposite of terrestrial motion sickness,” Larry explained. “That’s why I keep telling you to close your eyes, or at least focus on something small. You should try reading on your tab.”

“Are you sure? That’s the last thing I would do on a bus.”

“Trust me. Besides, if you were really that sick, you wouldn’t be able to ask so many questions.”

“Comes with the profession.” Closing her eyes once again, Georgia found that this time it provided almost immediate relief. “Keep talking.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Tell me about yourself. I still can’t believe I’m going to be living in one room with a complete stranger.”

“Come on, I’m sure you checked me out with your paper. I’ll bet you reporters all have free access to the EarthCent Intelligence business database.”

“I might have asked them to run a criminal background check, but how much does that really tell you about a person?” she asked rhetorically. “Only that he hasn’t been caught yet. The truth is, I was so desperate to get started on my new career that I would have