13
Doris was helped to her feet by her shipmates. Larson, who picked up her errant flight cap and other personal items that had fallen to the floor, seemed particularly concerned for her.
"C'mon, Dorie, you're with us now. It'll be alright...", he cooed to her as he stroked her hand and hair. Once, about two and a half years ago, Jack and Doris had been something of an item and it was rumored that they were very close to nuptials. But no date had ever been set and the two drifted away from each other as lovers sometimes do. Right now, though, it was obvious that Jack was concerned more than the usual casual friend as he continued to comfort her.
Ellsworth looked a little uncomfortable as he did his part, too, softly patting her back. George felt that his two comrades could see to the young flight attendant's needs and after giving her a quick hug, got confirmation that they would, indeed, take care of her and see her to her apartment. He didn't feel right about leaving them alone in this type of situation, but he had a situation of his own he had to see to right now. And this one involved a lot of people on two worlds.
When he gave his apologies to the rest of the flight crew, they seemed to be very understanding, thinking that he was only being concerned for his own family. He didn't bother correcting them. Phyllis and the kids were uppermost on his mind, but he was about to embark on a task to which he felt obligated due to his alien heritage. In doing so, he might just be able to help out the situation on Earth as well.
Where to start?, he thought. Ahhh...yes! A suitable space vehicle needs to be chartered first. After that, gear and provisions will have to be obtained for the flight ahead.
Hamilton spaceport was an enormous complex of shops, restaurants, exhibits, and the like. Also housed within this titanic area of commerce were, naturally, businesses that specialized in aviation in both atmospheric and space flight. George needed a light spacecraft immediately with as few questions to answer as possible, so of course he completely avoided these businesses and instead entered the seediest, nastiest looking barroom he could find.
The clientele included the seediest, nastiest looking people George had ever seen. He bellied up to the bar and ordered a whiskey which he had no intention of actually drinking, but he supposed hard drinking men who did deals under the table preferred to deal with other hard drinking men.
George hoisted his new prop in a silent toast and observed the bartender who was busy polishing a glass. He was a very large man with a no-nonsense attitude and appeared to have seen many underhanded operations in his day. George set the glass back on the bar and took his shot. "Know anyone here who has a space worthy shuttle or runabout for charter ?"
The bartender continued to polish the glass and didn't even look George's direction as he answered, "If you came from the boarding and departure area, sir, you just passed the business district. Surely, you must have seen some of the space charters as you went by? There's one just across the mall. I think it's called..."
"Ahhh, this would be a charter that asks no questions... uhm... What's your name, pardner? I can't just call you barkeep?"
Barkeep finally took visual notice of George with a sideways glance. "It's Percy, sir. But I would appreciate it if you would call me P. T. Some of these 'gentlemen' seem to think my given name is a little... humorous. As for your query, you seem to want something that sounds dishonest, if I may be so blunt. That is an endeavor to which I would not be an active participant. Further more, continued discussions of that nature could be reason for ejection from my establishment. So I ask you politely this once: Please cease and desist from this current line of questioning."
"Oh! Uh... sorry, Mister P. T. I just thought that..."
"You just thought that this tavern seemed like a likely place to find cutthroats and blaggards and that this was the logical place to do underhanded business. Well sir, I resent the insulting implication and with great resentment, I must ask you to peacefully leave the premises."
George was flabbergasted with embarrassment over the incident. "I'm sorry, P. T. I didn't realize that I... I just needed... I really do apologize! Please accept my..."
"Please do not make this any harder, sir. Just leave immediately... And after you exit the tavern, take a left and pass three businesses then turn right and enter the Chez Paris restaurant. Ask for Jennifer. She will be much less resentful than I to your inquiries."
Looking stunned for a moment, George obeyed the behemoth bartender and followed the directions exactly. In no time, he found himself in a very swanky environment. It looked like the kind of place that would cost you a small fortune just to think about eating here. A tall thin maitre d approached and asked with a condescending look and a very obvious French accent, "Welcome, monsieur, to Chez Paris. I am Francois. Do you have zee ray-zer-vay-see-own?"
"Do I have what? Oh! A reservation! Heh-heh! Actually, I didn't come here to eat, Francois. I was told I should meet with Jennifer...?"
Francois' eyes suddenly bulged in his sockets and his demeanor changed completely from disinterest to guarded importance. "Follow me!" was all he said, and he led George to a private room in the back of the restaurant. He entered to find a beautiful redheaded woman, nicely proportioned and looking to be in her mid thirties. She was wearing a skintight outfit with leopard spots tracking all along the material . Down the sides of each leg and up along the torso and arms, the outfit was buttoned in such a way as to create peepholes. The front of her outfit was almost non-existent. She was sitting at a custom wet bar nursing a martini and her expression peaked with interest as he assessed George's physical attributes.
"Dis guy asked for ya, by name, Boss! Ya wanna see him or should I eighty-six da bum?" George marveled at how Francois had lost the fancy accent.
"No, Frankie, I'll see him. Just be close by in case our guest becomes... unpleasant."
"Check! Me and da boys'll be right outside. Just whistle if ya need some muscle." With a sneer that gave a George a shiver, Frankie slammed the door and was gone.
"My, but he's charming!" George whispered as Jennifer continued to give him the once-over for a second and third time.
"What he lacks in charm, he more than makes up for in efficiency. Would you like a drink?"
"No thanks." This is beginning to sound like one of those old B-movies from the 2oth century that Phyllis likes so much. "You're probably wondering why I wanted to see you."
"It's all right, I already know."
"You do?"
"Of course! You're here for the spaceship, aren't you? It's all ready to go"
"It's... all... huh? How did you know..."
" I love the uniform, by the way. Nice touch! You look very... well, let's just say you fill it out very well! You know, it makes you look somewhat... familiar to me, too, but I can't seem to place it right now..."
George was completely confused. It was only minutes ago that he had broached the subject with the bartender. Either P. T. made a quick phone call to Jennifer or he had stumbled onto something he wasn't supposed to stumble onto! Now, he was stumbling over his own words, "W - w - where is it? How will..."
"...You know it? It's in a shuttle in Hangar 7716. You'll find it easily. It's the seediest, nastiest looking hangar in the Long Field quadrant of the spaceport. I hear it's been sold, though, and due for extensive renovation. The shuttle's been stocked with plenty of supplies and provisions. And, of course, your cargo... You'll know what to do with that, I'm sure. But the computer has complete instructions in a hidden file. Just type the phrase, 'boring swan.' Here are the keys. Now, go. If I ever see you again, it will be as if we had never met."
Actually, I was going to ask her how do I pay for it? George thought,but he realized that it would be in bad form to ask that now. For the moment, all he could think to say was, "Uh... Goodbye!" As quickly as he could without breaking into a run, George left the lavish lounge and headed straight for the restaurant's main exit. Once clear of the doorway, he lost himself into the massive crowd of consumers going this way and that.
It was all he could do to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. George wondered silently what he had gotten himself into. Smuggling, maybe? Or gun running, perhaps. He felt the rush of adrenalin in the veins of his arms, legs, and head and knew that he would again have to deal with Jennifer's people once they realized that he was not the man they were expecting to meet.
It all comes down to how long it takes before the real guy shows up. It does not matter whether I take their bird or not, they will be after me regardless. And I can make better time with it than without it, he thought. And since I need it anyway...
Jennifer switched on the holovision and poured herself another martini.
To success, she silently toasted, When we get through with this operation, I'll be the richest broad on two planets! Exactly 78 seconds had passed since George left Chez Paris when Frankie, a.k.a. Francois came hurriedly into Jennifer's lounge and said excitedly, "Boss! Somebody is out in the lobby and he says he's the guy who's supposed to take the shuttle!"
Jennifer dropped her drink, the glass shattering into thousands of tiny shards. She glanced up at the holovision as a commercial for Yellow Sun Space Lines began to air. There in magnificent 3D-TV was the very gentleman she had just entrusted her plan, the spaceship, her very future to! She must have seen this commercial a hundred-fifty times before! Now she knew why he looked so familiar! He was just the damn company spokesman, for Heaven's sakes! And he was about to take off with everything that had been in planning for three and a half years!
Following Frankie into the room was the same protester who had been hassling Doris earlier that evening. "Lady," said Chuck, "I think you've got a problem... a big problem!"
Oh, Hell! What'll I tell the people I've been dealing with, she thought, They're the kind that do not like excuses! I had better clean this up and fast! But how am I going to find this guy? She watched in frozen agony a few seconds longer until the words, "George Kent, Co-Pilot" appeared below the image of the impersonator.
Pointing at the viewer with newfound sense of hope, she screamed as loudly as she could to Frankie, "Get George Kent and Kill that S. O. B.!"