I got out on a floor with almost no gravity and more class than a five-star hotel.
There was carpet in the lounge, like red Astroturf, and lavish Louis XIV furniture. Even the walls had some sort of artificial finish that looked and felt like real marble.
I'd been too preoccupied earlier to enjoy little or no gravity, but apparently it agreed with me. Between the vomiting Judge and the Great Fountain Pen Caper, I hadn't really noticed it.
I wasn't queasy, not even in the Vomit Comet, but my stomach felt light. Like the fluttering moment of a playground swing's apex. Sort of like butterflies, but with absolutely no nausea. But now that I'd had a shower and change of clothes, I felt grand.
The gallery curved away beyond the ceiling, like it had on L95, but the effect much more pronounced here. Add to that the freedom that one feels in low gravity, I felt I could speed around the room like I'd seen Lieutenant Vastis do on his ship.
I tried it and fell on my ass. I got up and continued with renewed caution.
There were doors on each side, each lined up with an elevator shaft, presumably leading to a suite. I circled around to Sector A and knocked on the door marked 'A-1: Fleet Captain Vickers.'
A woman answered the door like she'd been standing there, waiting for me to knock. She was wearing a uniform that made her look like a bell-hop.
She looked Eastern European, with big brown eyes and straight black hair. She was so pale as to be translucent.
"Miss Heywood," she asked, looking at my ID card. "The Skipper will see you now."
She led me inside; it was just as plush, and huge.
There was an oversized television in front of a sectional sofa, wrapped around a low table, in the middle of the room.
Book shelves lined the back wall and there was a sideboard on the left. A stout man of fifty stood there, dressed in a plain white uniform with four bars on his shoulder boards.
"You must be the indomitable Dani Heywood," he said, mixing a drink with a glass stirring rod. "My Chief Steward has told me so much about you."
I was at a loss. I guessed his Chief Steward was Sorensen. I wondered when he'd had the time to report.
"You appear to have me at a disadvantage," I told him. "You must be Fleet Captain Vickers."
"Indeed I am. Would you like a drink?"
"No thank you."
"Are you quite sure? How about a bite to eat? You look famished."
"I am," I admitted. "Something to eat sounds wonderful."
"Excellent, Millie" he said, and turned to the girl who'd answered the door. "Send for my chef.
"What would you like to eat, dear one? Does breakfast sound good?"
"Divine. Thank you."
***
His chef was good. I had devoured two eggs over easy, a hamsteak, hash-browns, and a short stack of Belgian waffles.
"More coffee," the Captain asked, pouring himself a cup. It was good, far better than what I expected to get up here.
"Sure," I acquiesced. "One more cup. It's really good."
"Should be, for what I pay for it. I prefer Blue Mountain, but it cost more than three hundred dollars a pound up here. The Kona only costs a hundred-and-fifty."
He was a sweet old man, given to flights of fancy, but as I'd seen with his staff, demanding and set in his ways. He'd sent back his eggs twice.
He certainly didn't match the image which Hollywood would have you believe all Captains fit. He was not slim, suntanned, or particularly handsome. Quite to the contrary, he was thick about the middle, with a barrel chest and a deep, gruff voice, and a face full of craggy features that made him look like he'd been carved out of the living rock with a pickaxe.
He wore a thin-cropped beard and moustache. His hair was gray, but a dull ash color, not the silver-at-the-temples his acting counterparts wore. There were thick tufts of it poking out at his collar and shirtsleeves.
He must be very furry, I thought, in contrast to Topher, who had no body hair at all. The thought made me sad and I shivered involuntarily.
He poured me a cup and I added sugar and cream. I savored it, agonizing over the last bite of waffle on my plate. Could I finish it, or would it finish me?
I decided I couldn't and pushed the plate away.
"I'd have to have a thick thesaurus in front of me to tell you exactly how delicious that was, sir. Thank you."
"You are welcome, young lady. I don't flatter easily, but you may try. There are three such thesauri on the shelf behind me. Bottom shelf, closest section to the left, if I do not mistake."
"And my compliments to the chef."
"He will be pleased. He rarely gets compliments. I'm afraid I'm a dour and taciturn old fuddy-duddy."
"Not at all," I told him, aware of the possibility I was playing on my cuteness. "You are charming."
"You say that now," he chided, taking a drink of his coffee. "But that will all change once we get down to business."
***
We did so, right after our meal. We moved across the hall to A-0, where the Commodore was housed. Her suite was even bigger than Vickers'.
Judge Garr was there, as well as a man and a woman I hadn't seen before. Like everyone else in the party besides me, they were over fifty. I thought the woman looked Nordic, and the man I'd guess to be from South Africa, judging from his accent.
We sat down at a conference table for an informal discussion.
"I would like," began Commodore Cannesmore, "to begin with introductions. I am Jane Cannesmore, senior commanding officer of I.S.A. SpaceComm. This old geezer is Hector Vickers, my Flag Captain."
She pointed out the other three in turn.
"Next we have Judge Garr, from the United States, Judge Ævarsdóttir , from Iceland, and Judge Roemer, from the Netherlands."
Three judges?
"And finally," she pointed to me, "we have our translator, Danielle Heywood, also from the USA, and on loan to us from the Peace Corps."
I smiled.
"Which brings us to the business at hand.
"Six days ago, one of my officers on patrol received an emergency distress call from a Jitterbug that had unintentionally jumped into low-earth-orbit.
"The Jitterbug, as you know, is a meta-ship and the crew was unfamiliar with its particulars. They took off from Amsterdam without having filed a flight plan.
"They were apparently headed to Reykjavík, Iceland, their port of record, with six passengers, none of whom held valid passports. Four of the six were illegal immigrants into Holland as well.
"Dutch authorities spotted the outgoing craft on radar and computed its probable trajectory. They radioed Iceland, who dispatched helicopters to track it and interdict when it landed.
"But it didn't land. The pilot, spooked by all the radio traffic involving his craft, gunned the engine and moved into a higher trajectory, which would have landed them in the North Atlantic—iceberg territory—so they aborted to orbit and called for help.
"Needless to say, this is an unusual, and sensitive, legal matter. We have impounded the Skitterbug and are holding the crew and aliens until a legal consensus can be reached as to their disposition.
"I am no legal eagle, but I don't think there is a precedent for us to follow. We have invited judges from both of the countries involved, plus a third, presumably neutral, judge from a third country.
"Judge Garr and young Heywood here—who speaks all of the languages we need to conduct the investigation, none of which, strangely enough, are Icelandic or Dutch—were chosen because they were both qualified and located in Omaha, where there is a spaceport.
"What they were doing sneaking in to Holland, and what they would have done once they got there, are unknown. The accused have retained a lawyer, who has also just arrived.
"I would like to remind you, Heywood, that the details of this investigation are not to be discussed with anyone not at this table. Is that clear?"
"Certainly, ma'am."
She turned to Judge Ævarsdóttir .
"What is your take on this?"
"Iceland," the woman said in heavy accented English, "is taking this crime very seriously. We have had trouble with contraband being smuggled between Europe and North America before, but not a lot of human traffic.
"We believe that slyhopping, as unauthorized ballistic entry is sometimes called, is on the rise worldwide. We wish to curtail it, and our government is willing to prosecute to the full extent of the law."
"I see. And what about Holland?"
"The same. We have too many illegals and entirely too much contraband coming across the borders we do control. Slyhopping is a vector over which we have little or no say, and we do not like it. Enforcement is our goal."
"I agree," the Fleet Captain said. "But I'd like to point out that the crime which you allege may not have actually happened, and certainly didn't happen in either of your jurisdictions. The authority of the I.S.A. in this case is also shaky at best."
"True," replied Roemer, "but something must be done. If you could just extradite them, we could try them in either country."
"That's problematic," the Commodore answered for him. "As much as I agree with you, we have no clear precedent, and I certainly can't return them to face trial Earth without one."
"Why is that," asked Ævarsdóttir . She was all set to take this thing to the wall.
"Because," the Commodore looked at us all in turn, "they have done nothing that is a crime in my jurisdiction. You may be able to show intent, but intent does not a crime make."
"But it is conspiracy," Roemer pointed out, "or could be. We have to know the particulars first."
"That," Commodore Cannesmore said, poking that the table with her index finger for emphasis, "is the purpose of this inquest, Ladies and Gentlemen."
She directed her gaze at me. "And you."
