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

tired of doing multiverse math homework. Together they opened a rift in the space-time continuum and sent the attack fleet into an alternate universe, where the would-be invaders all accepted highly compensated work as reenactors at pirate-themed resorts.

“If any of you doubt a word of it, and I couldn’t help seeing the skepticism on some faces when I related how I was beheaded, you’re welcome to come up here after the voting and inspect the scar,” she concluded, drawing an index finger across her neck.

“Thank you, Darla,” the master of ceremonies said, tilting his head to inspect her neck as she passed, but his eyes strayed lower. She yanked on his beard in response, and a small grey mouse popped out and scolded everybody in sight. It took almost two minutes for Gary to calm the creature sufficiently to continue.

“Our final contestant is Marshall, who some of you will remember as last year’s runner-up with his true story about being swallowed by a Floppsie while space-walking to fix a weather-control satellite for a primitive civilization which mistook him for a Terregram mage after he had been tarred and feathered at his previous stop. Marshall?”

“Thank you for reducing my epic tale of suffering and redemption to a fifteen-second highlight reel,” Marshall said as he assumed his place behind the lectern. “Unlike the other contestants tonight, I’m going to do something different this year and spin you a tale of which not a single word is true. It all started a little over a month ago on Earth, when a trader I’d never met before passed by my blanket cursing like a sailor at her twentieth-generation cell phone, which for those of you who don’t know, is what passes for personal communications technology on our motherworld.”

Marshall went on to tell the story of how Ellen had conducted her investigation of Advantage and MORE, with certain embellishments, such as admitting that he was the undercover operative who had obtained the damning video, and insinuating that Ellen had remained on Flower for several days because he warned her of an assassination plot.

“Thank you, Marshall,” Gary said, giving the older trader a wink as they exchanged places. “I especially liked the part where you convinced your old friend, President Beyer, to send his mistress along with Ellen as a human shield, because after all, who would risk incurring the wrath of EarthCent?”

“I get around,” Marshall replied modestly, and took his seat on the remaining folding chair.

“So the time to vote for the Tall Tale Teller of the year is upon us. If you’ll get out your tabs and head to the main screen for Rendezvous, you’ll find it’s been replaced with the names of our three contestants in the order in which they performed. You can only tap one name before the screen locks out, so take a minute to think, and while you’re doing that, our outgoing council head has a special announcement. Phil?”

Larry’s father, who had been waiting at the event table, climbed onto the stage and took Gary’s place at the lectern. “I’ll keep this brief and try not to steal anybody’s thunder,” he said. “I’m sure you’re all aware that this year was the first time we had a competitive election for council seats rather than me having to chase around drafting volunteers. I want to thank all of the candidates for participating. A few hours ago, I was approached by the young traders running on an anti-incumbency platform, among other things, and they all requested that their names be removed from consideration.”

“Good riddance to them,” somebody shouted. “Those free cards were all marked.”

 “They wanted to stress the fact that they believed their financial backers were acting in good faith, and they didn’t know about MORE’s scheme to become the dominant force in independent trading. They also didn’t know that the decks were marked. Mountain Man Gary will be announcing the election results immediately after the winner of the Tall Tales contest accepts his or her prize, and I want to take this final opportunity to thank you for your votes over the last thirty years. Gary?”

“And the results are in,” the master of ceremonies declared, looking down at his own tab. “The winner is Marshall with his thoroughly unbelievable tale about corruption in the financial services industry. Darla is this year’s runner up, and Yasmine, I loved your story, but I think you lost a few points with the book plug at the end. Marshall?”

The older trader approached the lectern and accepted the trophy featuring a figurine which had one hand behind its back with the fingers crossed. “I’ve been trying to win this damn thing for more years than I can remember,” Marshall said, and his voice choked up with real emotion. “I want to thank Ellen for letting me borrow what is really her story, and to say that I’m donating the winner’s purse of one thousand creds to the Ellen’s Ship Fund so she’s not left paying a mortgage on a pile of slag.”

“Insurance?” a few voices shouted.

“The Tharks have an exclusion for damage caused by vandalism or the fire-bombing of ships in use by working press and intelligence agents,” Marshall said. “I’m told that with the donations collected so far, we’re still around six thousand creds short of paying off the mortgage, and that doesn’t even touch on her lost equity. I think the trading community owes her at least that much. Thank you all for making me the Tall Tale Teller of the year, even if it’s only because I went last and was fresh in your memories when you voted.”

“Thank you, Marshall,” Gary said. “I see some people getting up to leave, so I’ll just hurry up and say that the incumbents for the Traders Guild Council were all returned to their seats, with the exception of Arlene, who didn’t make it here in time to register. Her