[63—the Lunchbox]

I1C Dracula stopped me on the way out and assigned me to tent number twelve. 

"Beware," she said, touching her nose-ring conspiratorially, "they're a bunch of weirdoes."

I stepped outside and cringed at the eye-seering sunlight.  No wonder she'd gone nocturnal and goth.  Anyone with a brain would fear the Sun here.

I shielded my brow and surveyed my surroundings.  The camp was in a clearing overlooking a dense green forest of rolling hills that extended to every horizon. 

Camp Winsome didn't fit its name:  there were half a dozen oversized canvas tents in a cluster on the hilltop; the grounds were rough, but neat and well policed; there was no garbage in evidence, no stray animals or indigent people; and I couldn't smell the privies.  But it seemed neither whimsical nor happy.

 Besides the Headquarters tent behind me, there was an administration tent, both set off from the others by a ring of rough pink stones.  Across the compound were the sick ward—marked out by the red cross—and three other olive drab structures arranged in no particular order.  My nose told me one of them must be a field kitchen.

Troop 421 was split up into four camps; I found my tent on the other side of a little valley, opposite the two tents on the south slope of the big hill.  There was another all alone in a clearing to the East, for the girls.

As I made my way to my new dig, it started to rain out of a perfectly cloudless sky; big warm drops that felt like tears ran down my face and arms.  I put down my bag and held out my arms, enjoying it.

It started coming down harder, pelting the ground in ragged waves and stinging my face.  I shrugged and hurried along, glad my uniforms were all packed in vacuum bags; they insisted on Ophiuchus.

I got to my tent and worked my way past a black woman and a tall white woman, about six feet tall, trying to smoke a nappy-looking stump of a cigarette under the rain fly.

Inside it was dank, lit by a dim lantern hanging from the central post.  There were four rows of bunk-beds on each side.  All but a few showed signs of occupation. 

There were three people at a card table and several in their bunks.  "I'm Dani," I said, to everyone, but no one in particular. 

"Hi Dani," several said at the same time.  It had the air of Alateen.

The three at the table were all boys—one with gorgeous blue-black skin and a head full of short, tight curls.  He wasn't wearing a shirt.  The other two were Caucasian, one built like a rib dinner in the desert, the other tending toward chunky.

They were playing poker, it looked like.

"Hi," I waved at them, hoping to break the ice.  "Is there a bunk for me here?  The, uh, monochromatic soul-sucker in the CQ said there was."

"Did she," A voice asked from behind.  I turned in time to see a girl climb out of her bunk.  She did it like it was an art form, as if she'd practiced it endlessly at truck stops around the nation.

She was petite, but not as small as me, and could have been anything from a well-preserved thirty, to a rode-hard-and-put-away-wet fifteen.  He hair was wild, like it had been cut with a razor knife.

She was wearing cut-offs and a short sleeved blouse like mine, but hers was unbuttoned and tied in a bow across her sallow—not to mention shallow— cleavage.

Classy.

I'm Dani," I repeated, holding out my right hand.  She just looked at it.

"I'm Jemmi, and we'll all be fine just as long as none of you bitches touch my stuff."

"Wouldn't touch no fellow traveler's junk," said the tall woman slipping in from outside.

"Me either," I admitted.  "Wouldn't dream of it."

"So were do I sleep," I asked earnestly trying to steer the situation out of the realm of pugilism.

"Face down in the gutta, for I care," the tall one tittered, and the assembly laughed like a studio audience.

This was like the BLT all over again.

I walked the length of the tent, looking for an empty bunk.  I got to the end and saw my suitcase on the top bunk.  My duffel was there too, or at least a duffel, and a cardboard box, looking the worse for wear, and my toiletries kit.

It made it.

I threw my newest bag up on the bunk and dug into the box.  It contained my Grip and all of its fixtures.

Everything was gonna be fine.  I had my life back.

***

Dani's Journal, 07 JAN 77,

I'm writing this in Puerto Rico; it's ninety-nine degrees and the sun has already gone down.

I've had the most incredible...adventure is all I can think to call it; I got to go to space as a translator.  I'm not sure how much I can write about it.  Commodore Cannesmore said I couldn't talk about it, but this is private correspondence.  I already know it.

But it seems like a dream now, a larger-than-life dream with exaggerated details and picture perfect recall.  I didn't even have time to get settled in and now I'm back on Earth.  I would love to go back, but I don't think I could live there.  The pace is too fast.

That's retreat.  I've got to go. Everyone has to muster in and out every day.

***

The next morning I Mustered In (with capital letters).  It was a sort of ceremony, writing my name on the Troop roster, getting my 421 pin, pinned on by my squad leader—none other than Bellatrix from the orderly room. 

I learned her name was July Lunch, and everyone called her tent—our tent—the Lunchbox.  There were maybe eighty of us in Troop 421, in four squads.  One squad held the jocks, the other, the rest of the normal boys.  Almost all the girls were in the third squad, and the freaks, like me and Jemmi and our squad leader, were in number four.

July compounded the matter by making me her assistant squad leader, on account I had rank on everybody else.  I felt like a kiss-ass, and I never kissed anything.

It was Saturday, but since the Troop broke Camp Winsome in Florida on Tuesday and set it back up in Puerto Rico on Wednesday, the week was short.  We needed the training time.

They lectured us about drinking enough water and told us to cut out our bad habits, like smoking and drinking alcohol or soda-pop.  And eat salty snacks. 

They issued us two canteens, surplus from the Great War; one was for water—of which we were to drink two a day, as well as two glasses of water at each meal—the other for acetum or pickle juice. 

Then they turned us out for a while until it was time for axes. 

We went to lunch and picked at our food; it was too hot to eat, but didn't go immediately back to work.  In the tropics, you take a break in the middle of the day or you die.  Only mad-dogs and Englishmen didn't stop. 

The Spanish call it a siesta, and it's a survival tool in the brutal heat.

We settled around a fire when the cooling breeze came in off the sea. 

Right now, Lieutenant Nguyen was giving us a demonstration.

"If you use an axe," she said, holding up a single bladed example with a badly broken handle, "you will eventually break it."

She took it in both hands and broke head from haft.  She threw it aside.

"Keep the handle.  It's seasoned already and can be used for a smaller tool."

She pulled a spiffy hatchet off her belt and chopped at the stub of the handle. 

"You want to get the pieces out if you can.  You must save the metal wedges, otherwise your tools will be loose. 

"If you can't get it out, burn it out."

She hefted the broken axe in her hand, looking at the fire and back to us.

"I wouldn't do this to a good axe, it could ruin the temper."

She tossed it into the coals. 

"Fortunately for us, these aren't good axes; they're hammers with slim faces.

"That means you can't possibly anneal them further, and they file easily."

She had a tool roll handy with three files in it.  She selected the roughest.

She chose another axe, this one double-bitted, and stuck it deep into a stump.

"Now it is stable, so I can file it.  I'm working an edge into it, as shallow as I can go."

She worked in arcs, cutting grooves into the steel.  She moved to a finer file and then to the finest.  When she was done, she handed it around.

"That's not shavin' sharp, but it'll do for good and fast.  Can't have everything."

When it reached me I compared the edges.  Nguyen's quick edge wasn't anything like the cheeky factory face and edge, which was so fat you could call it jowly. 

"Now that you've seen it, we're gonna all try it.  I have two more double-bit axes, four singles, and a half dozen hatchets.  Not all of them are new, but they all need a sharpening.  That'll keep you busy.

"Get 'em good and sharp, because, come Monday morning, we're cutting wood.  Everybody gets a machete, and you will keep it with you at all times when in the Boonies; it'll save your life."

She handed out the axes and we sharpened away.

***

I thought I would have a free evening, after all that, but the Lieutenant had other ideas.  I was designated Spanish instructor in my squad.  None of the others spoke a word of it. 

There were books, and a workplan.  I picked through them and salvaged a concise grammar and a dictionary in Spanish.  They would have to do.

"You learn language," I told them, tossing the workbook onto my chair, "by speaking it, not from books.  Books can't tell you when you're wrong.  Books don't correct your pronunciation. 

"First lesson, morphology.  That's a fancy word for how it's spelt, and how you pronounce it.

"In Spanish, you have five vowels.  But they are not like English vowels.  They are ah, ee, oo, eh, and oh.  Don't think about the names of the words, think about the sound.  Vowels in Spanish are short and tense, compared to the English long-vowels.  I'm an O-o-oakie," I exaggerated for effect.

"You cannot change the sound of a vowel in Spanish without changing the word.  It's not 'you say tomato'; there is one way, though it may change from place to place.

"Besides the vowels, there are roughly the same consonants as in English, with a few exceptions.

"In English, we have a flap instead of an 'R'.  The proper Spanish is 'ere', pronounced with the tip of the tongue almost, but not quite, touching the alveolar ridge.  That's that ridge behind your top teeth. 

"But when 'R' is doubled, or starts a word, it is rolled, which is done with the tip of the tongue.  Fer-r-r-ro-car-r-ril," I trilled for them.  "Rail car."

"You can approximate it with English phonology by repeating the phrase 'I edited it,' as fast as you can.

"Sometimes you have to jump start it:  Ar-r-r-r-oz, which means rice; or pe-r-r-ro, dog, which starts with a plosive.

"Besides 'R', 'L' is tricky.  A single 'ele' is pronounced like an English 'L', but when doubled, forms its own letter and is pronounced 'ellye'.  The word Armadillo, pronounced like -i-iyo.  That means 'little armored guy' in English and names a curious shelled-animal like a possum and an anteater had a love child.

"The letter 'zee' or 'zed' to those from the commonwealth, is never voiced, or 'buzzed'.  Thus sero, zero, and sor-r-ro, fox.

"Why aren't any of you taking notes?"

"You're going too fast."

"You should be starting with phrases."

"You're teaching it wrong."

"Okay," I said, putting on the brakes.  "One at a time:  you, this is slow, it'll get much faster; you, we'll get to phrases, but if you don't know how to pronounce words, your phrases will make no sense and you will sound like an idiot; and you, I'm not teaching at all."

"What, why not?  How are we supposed to learn?"

"With your brains, but it doesn't hurt to take notes.   I am speaking to you; it's up to you to learn it.  Don't worry, I will correct you when you're wrong."

"That's the dumbest thing I ever heard."

"It worked for your parents."

[62—Camp Winsome]

"Where am I," I asked frenetically as I came to, afraid of the answer.

The last thing I remember was walking in space, and someone catching me; people like me, telling me I'd be alright.  Maybe it was a dream—it probably was—but I wanted more than anything for it to be real.

I was in bed.

"Camp Winsome," A disembodied voice answered.

If I just woke up in bed in Camp Winsome, then I was probably ill, and it had all been a dream.

For almost two months I'd wondered about Camp Winsome, now I was here.  It was hot and humid, like the jungle.

"Do I have malaria?"

"No," A handsome man with long black hair and skin the color of brick said, "you just passed out and had an embarrassing accident on your way down.  Nothing hurt but your pride, though.  You are dehydrated, drink more water."

He was forty, with a shock of grey at the temples and a sprinkle of salt in his scraggly pepper mustache.  I realized I was listening in Spanish.

"Way down?"

My head was pounding and had my left eye was throwing hammers at the inside of my skull.

"You came down from the Space Station on a shuttle.  I daresay the locals were impressed."

"Where is here?  And why is it so hot?  I think you could drink this air."

"Here is El Yunque."

"Finally," I sat up.  "A straight answer.  Why has everybody been so cussed secretive about Camp Winsome?"

"Because," he was sitting cross-legged in a metal chair.  He shifted and crossed his legs the other way.  "Camp Winsome is different for different people."

"How so?"

The room was starting to come into focus.  We were in a green army tent, set up like a sick ward, with two rows of bed feet facing in.  It could have been a set from M*A*S*H.

"Camp Winsome exists to ready volunteers for their experience overseas.  If you were going to Mongolia, we'd probably train you in North Dakota.  The Middle East trains in New Mexico and Arizona, but always in a park.  Camp Winsome is always in a national park.

"We have access to local resources, but it's up to all of us to manage them.  We have a cheap source of labor, volunteers and locals; and of course, we have our camp gear, which you were lucky and missed moving."

"Moving?"

"Yes.  The last troop to use it had Camp Winsome in Apalachicola State Park, in Florida.  Troop 421 mustered in there, and we moved the camp here."

"How?"

"We have our own airship, the Helios, and the Air Force helped some.  They have a base nearby, training airship crews and paratroops."

"Wow!  Sounds like I missed a lot of fun."

"You missed First Muster, which was unfortunate, but I understand you were detached on important business."

"I think so.  But I can't talk about it."

"Fair enough.  You are fit, other than being dehydrated, which we've already discussed.  Medical orders are the one type of order which you are expected to unquestioningly obey.  Am I going to have trouble with you?"

"No sir."

"Good.  Now, your jacket classifies you as 'O,' gender-wise.  Are you transgendered or transsexual?  We will do what we can to accommodate you."

"Neither, I'm a true neuter.  I was born without any sex.  My genetic sex is RR."

"I'd wondered about that.  I read your medical records, well, skimmed them, but I am unfamiliar with this particular defect."

Defect.  I'm defective.

"But you are fit enough to leave sick call.  I bet your troop leader is champing at the bit to meet you, best not disappoint her."

"Where do I go, and do I get my clothes back?"

"Yes, your jumpsuit is right over there.  Your troop leader has her tent under the blue pennant."

***

The blue pennant was triangular, with the Peace Corps emblem—a bald eagle with an olive branch in each claw and the peace seal its breast—in the fly and the number 421 in white.

I had the sense to change into my issued fatigues before reporting.  I didn't want to look too conspicuous, not after I'd apparently missed the hazing.

Still, I was wearing the T3C badges, and I bet I was the only one in the troop.  I certainly didn't want to cause trouble.

The front of the tent closest to the flagstaff was an orderly room, so I thought I was in the right place.  I had my papers and my bag from space but nothing else. 

"I'm Dani Heywood," I said to the sullen First Class behind the desk marked CQ.  I gave her my papers, the one's I'd been given in Nebraska.

She looked up and took them, snapping them from my fingers and chewing her gum loudly.  Her hair was black, her makeup was black; her fingernails were black.  Her skin was white like tallow.  She looked like a Daguerreotype of a vampire.

She snorted.

"You're late.  The Old Lady's gonna bust yer ass over this.  Missed muster three days in a row."

She stamped something on my papers and went back to see the 'Old Lady'.  This ought to be good.

"Send her in," I heard a Midwestern US accent command.

Bellatrix, as I decided to tag her, after Lugosi, came back out and pointed to the flap that served as a door.

"You can go in."

I stepped inside, expecting to come to smart attention in front of her desk.

"Heywood, get in here."

The room was tidy, obsessively so, with a desk and a cot and two filing cabinets.  There was no shred of decoration or personal effect.  The only thing on her desk was a sign that read 'LTN Nguyen, Troop 421'.  The numbers were made up of separate tiles that slid into a metal track.

She was young, in her twenties, still with a tad of baby fat that young women sometimes retain in their face, and black almond eyes.  I bet she had to fight the boys off with a stick, but she looked plenty capable of it. 

Other than her cheeks, there was not an ounce of fat on her spare frame.  She looked like a kid behind that desk.

"You've been in the Peace Corps five days, four of which you were detached to the ISA, you've been given a temporary promotion before you ever even signed on.  What you did for those four days—while me and your troop-mates sweated and hauled your share of the cargo—is not for the likes of me to know, but, you spent it in orbit, in the Space Station. 

"Can you tell me exactly what a team is, in your opinion?"

"A team is a group of people working together, towards a common goal, with or without explicit leadership."

"That's a good start.  And what do you have to say about them doing your part while you were lollygagging on the movie set of 2001?"

"Thank you?"

"An even better start, but I think it will take more than that.  Look, Heywood, I get that you can't talk about it, and that it makes you cool...before you go off, let me finish.  I don't know whether you think it makes you look Cooler-Than-Thou or not, but I know it matters to the other volunteers.  These kids are like, well, kids.  They're fifteen to twenty one and full of it.  There is no way, nor desire to break that all down."

"Thee," I corrected her, "Cooler-Than-Thee."

"But you must fit in with your team.  That means your buddy, your squad, your Troop, and the Corps.

"You already shine like a torch.  You've got more advanced credits than the entire class I graduated last had combined.  You're a regular Tower of Babel from what I hear, but here, in Camp Winsome, you will have to do much more work than translating.  If we need that, we'll ask, but you're here to learn to survive in the Jungles of Central America.

"Doc Mendez says you have damned good Spanish, so I'm going to post you teaching as well as learning.  But none of that will get you out of one iota of your assigned duties.

"We have a credit system here, and you have to have a certain number of units of it to get out of here.  You missed the first twenty-one of thirty-five hours required for this week's credit.  You owe me for seven hours of latrines, and fourteen of camp-building."

She stood up and walked around the desk, looking at me like she was a tiger, and I was a water buffalo, covered in juicy raw steak that someone had left in her path.

She was even shorter than I was, by at least an inch.

"Now you and I are gonna be buddies, right, 'cause we're the cool kids, and that's what we do.  I've had whiz kids before, and frankly, I think they're overrated.  You toe the line, you win with me, you don't, you lose.  Your choice."

"I chose," I said, looking down on the only adult I'd ever met shorter than me, "to be in the Corps.  I volunteered.  I want to be your friend, Lieutenant Nguyen, and do my part in the Troop.  I'll show up bright and early with a shovel, unless you want me to begin tonight?"

"No," she said, "that won't be necessary.  And it's 'Winn'.  Tomorrow starts water safety, which Dr. Mendez insists that you take in full.  It's three hours.  After lunch you'll be issued an axe and taught how to use it.  You'll have to make up that other stuff on your off time."

She squeezed my arm.

"We'll get some muscle on you yet."

[61—Dani Spacewalker]

There are some advantages to being in charge as thoroughly as the Commodore.  When I got back to my room, there were the promised translations, my last bit of homework, but also there was a letter.

It was addressed to Dr. Noam Chomsky, head of the Linguistics Department at MIT.  It was short and curt, almost to the point of being rude.

It read,

Dear Noam,

If you do not take young Dani here as your pupil, then you are an old fool.  I know Noam Chomsky, and he is no poltroon.

Your Disciple,

     

      Janey Cannesmore.

Besides the letter, there was a thank you card, hand written in beautiful script, two yellow envelopes, and a stack of jump suits. 

The first envelope contained two nametags, like the ones worn by Jekyll and Hyde, but with my name and a rank on them.  One was for T3C, the other T2C. 

The second enveloped said "do not open until directed," but felt like it contained the same as the first.

There were three of the charcoal uniforms of the US Space Force, possibly left behind as surplus, and one that was pure white.  They all had Velcro patches.

 The last item was looked like long underwear, but spun through with a network of hoses and wires. 

I'd finished the translations before bed, and got up to a knock on the door after what seemed like only a minute.

The clerk took my reports and gave me a flight assignment.  I was going back on the Bugs Bunny at 09:00.  It had seemed all too soon.

Now it didn't, I reflected as I stood on her hull, just abaft the main hatch, which was open. 

I was held fast by magnetic boots, the kind they use for spacewalks.  Under the bulky outer suit, I wore my new white jumpsuit, under that, the intricate underwear.  They were plumbed with cold water and sensors, to help regulate my body temperature.

I hoped the flight surgeon didn't know how nervous I was, about to do what I was.  He wasn't in the ship, but was monitoring my vitals via radio link in the main control tower.

"How are you doing, Dani?"

It was the Commodore, who was monitoring me too.

"Scared as hell."

"You'll do fine.  Just hold on and let Vastis do the rest."

"Jane?"

"Yes Dani?"

"I want to say thank you again, for everything; this is just mind-blowing, but it I die up here, it's all your fault."

"Noted.  Now carry on.  Mickey Mouse you are clear to leave the dock."

The lock was empty now, except a few other people in space suits and the seized Jitterbug.  It looked like a giant M&M—jewel red with windows all round the top and a bank of engines in a honeycomb pattern below.

It had to be four meters across and more than two thick, but it was dwarfed in the bay, hanging motionless above the deck.  I noticed I was using metric in my head.

The engines lit behind me and I could feel the gentle tug of acceleration.

I'd truly been in microgravity and would be again, soon.  I felt better than I ever had, more alert, more alive. 

And I was about to go for a space walk, something fewer than a hundred humans had ever done.

***

"Time to pull away, Dani," Vastis said through the radio link.  "I've got you."

He was inside the airlock, operating a winch that fed my tether.  It consisted of a steel lanyard, wrapped in a double helix of redundant signal cable and air supply and return hoses.  It was as thick as my wrist.

They'd had to install it in the ladder-cage beyond the lock, as there was no room for him and the winch inside. 

"I hear you, but I'm a little nervous here.  I can see the Earth."

We were less than a kilometer from Ophiuchus, about a thousand yards.  They kept feeding me info in metric.  It spun like a lazy wheel, once every twenty seconds, dwarfing everything else.

The sky above was truly breathtaking. 

We were 22,600 miles directly above Pennsylvania. 

The stars were bright like coals, and didn't flicker.  I could see Saturn and Mars, now that I'd been directed where to look and was surprise to find Mars was the planet I'd seen when I was on Earth, thinking of Korzak's books.

It was as red as I imagined, like a rusty ball-bearing.

I took a deep breath and squatted, resting on my palms and clicked my feet off the hull like they'd told me to.

I pushed off gently with both hands.

"No, Dani, you need to draw your knees in, past your elbows.

"And tuck in your arms, push from'unda yourself.  Center of mass."

I was starting to yaw into a backspin.  He pulled gently at the tether and righted me.  The jolt also checked my speed.

There it was again, no gravity at all.  It felt like falling down an endless well, only I knew I couldn't actually fall.

My eyes fluttered involutarily and every nerve tingled.  I had goose bumps all over.

As I spun slowly, the spacecraft rolled out of my sight and I could see Saturn again, I continued and soon I could see the Sun, and then, below me, my home planet.

Big blue marble doesn't do it justice.  It was magnificent. 

"We're gonna spin up now."

We did, by some apparatus inside the ship.  I grew heavier, hanging from the tether in the small of my back instead of flying free.  The acceleration forced me to face outward.

I was in heaven, in the Heavens, literally.  The sky swung past me again, first Saturn, then the Sun again—I saw Venus near it, and maybe Mercury— and the Earth, this time without the Mickey Mouse occulting my view.

It was still night-time in North America but it was ablaze with lights.  I saw New Orleans, and followed the Mississippi up to St. Louis.  Down there was my life, my family, my friends. 

Europe was in full day and dawn was creeping across the Atlantic Ocean and South America, so dark in comparison.

I watched for the Milky Way the third time around.  It was really hard to miss, much brighter than I was used to.  Both Mars and Saturn were imbedded in it; perhaps that is why I missed it earlier.

I started spinning on my own axis, and flattened out to slow myself down. 

I looked up, which is to say above my own head.  Ophiuchus Station passed by in a complicated path and for a brief second I caught a glimpse of the crescent Moon.

"You alright out there, Heywood?"

"Uh-huh," I wimpered, in an ecstasy the reached through my mind with both hands and supplied me with the adjective orgasmic.

I shuddered and passed out.

[60--Jane]

Dinner was not what I was expecting, which would be leg of freezer-burnt lamb, with mint sauce and some inedible root vegetable that people with taste buds no longer ate.

It was tagine, a Moroccan lamb stew with fruit in a savory sauce.  I would have licked my plate except I'd already eaten it.  The stew was served on pita bread, with no flatware. 

It was eaten with the hands.

I ate it up, with cous-cous and tabouli salad, made with garden fresh onions, tomatoes, and parsley. 

It was served with hot chai and coffee.

"Uncle," I cried, after swallowing the last bite of succulent lamb on my plate. 

"But you can't.  We haven't had dessert."

"Dessert?  How could I possibly eat dessert?"

"It's lemon sherbet for dessert.  Made with fresh lemon and zest and sprinkled with candied orange-peel and allspice."

"You sound like an advertisement."

"I suppose I do.  But you will never find a more loyal partisan to her chef than I."

"Really?"  I was intrigued.  "Well then, in that case, bring it on."

"O John," she hollered back to the kitchen.  A man dressed in chef whites burst through the double doors carrying a tray laden with two big parfait glasses and several smaller attendants.

He came to the table and set the big ones in front of us with great ceremony.  It was a scoop of the palest yellow, with the promised orange-peel and a clear syrup drizzled on top.

He placed several smaller dishes, one containing a tiny amount of clear sorbet, the others laden with chocolate treats.  One had slivered almonds, another fine-chopped cherries.

"You are insane, sir," I said and looked the chef in the eyes.

He had Jane's kind eyes, and her plain, unflappable demeanor.

I was shocked speechless.

"Close your mouth, dearest," Jane said to me with a wicked smile.  "Even here, you might draw flies."

"Fruit flies," I answered flippantly.  "Do you have any victims who lived?"

"John specializes in desserts."

"I can see that," I said looking down.  "Do you have any others siblings?  One who's an endocrinologist, or possibly a dentist?"

"Jane is my only sister," he said in a mellow voice that was Jane's but in a lower register.

I'd ridden around the block in that car before.

"What about brothers," I inquired, "or bristers."

"Bristers," they both exclaimed at the same time. 

"I have a friend.  I guess you could call him my boyfriend, except he is neither a boy nor my lover."

"Intriguing," Jane smiled.

"Anyway, he has a sister, who looks like his twin but isn't, and she calls him her brister." 

"How terribly cute."

"Except again, none of the pronouns I've used for him are correct.  I prefer to use the word 'hit' to describe Topher."

"Clever.  Do you not know about 'se'?

"Apparently not.  What is that?"

"Se is a pronoun, it means he/she.  There is also ser and sers."

Other right words?  I didn't know what to say.

"Are you," I asked her, but she touched my hand ever so gently and spoke.

"No.  I am a girl, and John is a boy.  We are, as you may have guessed, fraternal twins."

"But why," I began again, but what came after that?

"Many years ago, we were both lost, looking for love where it was not, or forbidden to be.  We both had our fair share of flings, with both boys and girls.  We picked up those words, living on the West Coast, and many others."

"Other other words?"

"Yes.  Shi/hirs/hir, shi/shirs/shir, ce/cers/cer, take your pick."

She pronounced the last as she would have in Esperanto, like the 'c' was a 'ts'.

I felt, somewhat inexplicably, betrayed.

"Or if you're from Seattle," she continued down memory lane, kicking my inner linguist in the stomach with every word, "ze/zers/zer which have since, it is my understanding, transmogrified themselves into zi/zis/zir."

"But, I though I invented the right words.  How come I've never heard of them?"

"Because, you are from the Midwest, are you not?"

"Uh-huh," I replied as if to prove it.

"I dare say, living in a desert, you could not expect put a shell to you ear and hear the ocean."

"I don't know what to say."

"In a vacuum, you would naturally invent your own words.  You are a born linguist, if ever there was one.  I've seen your Peace Corps records.

"But there are many, many words, dear.  I have only given you the ones derived from the Boston Correspondence. 

"New England has her own, with regional variations. They say Ouren where you would use hits, I'm guessing."

"Yes," I answered, astounded.  "How did you guess?"

"Old English pronoun devolution isn't complex.  There are only one or two common methods of reconstituting lost form in Modern, and they are suggested by previous evolution.

"Progessing, we have the many many forms derivative of Crozat's neutral pronoun thon, itself a contraction of 'the one'.  St. Louis is on the edge between North Midwestern Queer and South Midwestern Queer, but I believe most Family there would use di/dir/don. 

My neatly constituted world just came unzipped, and the teeth had all come out, and were lying loose underfoot.

"Where did you learn all this?"

"From Noam."

"Noam Chomsky?"

"Do you know any other Noams?"

"No."

"The very one.  You and I share a passion with him.  I assume you have the brains God gave a mouse and are headed to MIT as soon as you're done with the Peace Corps."

She made the words Peace Corps, somehow sound like discarded condom.

"What's wrong with the Peace Corps?"

"Nothing.  It gives foolish and hyped-up youngsters a chance to serve their country.  It's a damn sight better than joining the War Corps."

...

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Can your brother make cotton candy?"

"My brother can make anything, except conversation."

"Can I ask him to make some?  I kinda promised that kid today cotton candy, not thinking how difficult it would be to get here."

"He could do that, but you can get cotton candy on the Promenade, that's Level 93."

"Wonderful.  Do you take Earth money up here?"

She almost spit coffee through her nose.

"What?"

"I mean American money."

"Of course you do, dear.  I must get you to Dr. Chomsky before it's too late."

"I should get to that, before it's too late.  What time do we start in the morning."

"You don't, dear.  I am done with them, the ones who speak your languages anyway.  Mister Lars Swenson has some 'splainin' to do, though."

That was, perhaps, the only word in the English language properly possessing an apostrophe on each end.

But was it proper?  Great, was I losing my linguistic sense of right and wrong now too?

"Their depositions are in your room; I expect them to be translated and in my in-box by 07:30, by the way.  Once you're done with that, you're done here."

"What?  Then I should go!"

"Nonsense, dear.  We never sleep in the sky.  Don't you know that?"

"But I'm not from the sky," I protested.  "I need sleep."

"You need to relax.  Do you get dropsick?"

"No.  Judge Garr harked his guts all over me on the way up and I was fine.  I love the feeling of weightlessness."

"Then you should go to the Deck and fly."

"Deck?"

"The Airlock.  It is zero-gee.

"Yes, I know.  I flew a little bit, getting here."

"Skylarking is against the rules.  You should go EVA...nothing in the world, and I mean that exactly, is like a spacewalk."

"I would love that.  I find I like the sensation.  But for some reason, I can't move right up here.  I feel too heavy."

"That's inertia.  Many groundhogs forget when they first get up here that you are weightless, not massless.  Galileo's Laws still work up here."

"Oh."

I suppose that made sense.

"Would you really like to do that?  A spacewalk.  It would be a piece of cake for me to arrange."

"I'm flattered, but I think that's a bit too much to ask.  Besides, my sister would never forgive me."

"Why?"

"Because she's a ballerina, and she'd break both my legs for a chance to even be here.  I bet she wouldn't fall."

"Probably not.  Dancers and martial artists are often more aware of their bodies than most."

"She has a boyfriend, Sonjin, and they dance like faerie folk."

"I would very much like to see that.  Not enough culture up here, if you ask me."

"So I'm done here?"  I hadn't gotten used to space, but I very much wanted to stay longer.

"Yes, I'm afraid so.  I understand if you'd like to call it a night, but I haven't felt so, I don't know, giddy maybe, not since I was your age.  It's been wonderful, having you."

"Yes, I've had a wonderful time.  Thank you so much for everything.  I really must be getting on.  I have so much to do."

"You do not think," she asked me as I was getting ready to go, "that you are getting out that door without a hug and a kiss, do you?"

"I hug I'll grant you, but I don't kiss."

"Not even air kisses?"

"Especially not air kisses.  And not goodbye—until we meet again."

[59--Refugees]

[CONTINUED]

That was all he could tell us. 

When I was done questioning Fortini, Cannesmore moved on to the French woman.

"What is your name?"

"LeBron," she said in a heavy accent it was hard for me to follow.  She gave me a pathetic look.  "May I have a cigarette?  My nerves," she explained.

I translated and asked the Commodore her question.

"No," I supplied her answer.  "There is absolutely no smoking in this space station.  The Commodore would like to know your occupation."

"I am an auzzor," she said, and I wasn't sure at first what she meant.  Her French was unlike anything I'd heard, like her chin weighed too much for her to close her mouth all the way.  Perhaps it was not accent, but a regiolect.

"An author?"

There was a famous lesbian author name LeBron who was French.  She was about the right age.

"Oui."

"Why were you in Amsterdam without your passport, Ms. LeBron?"

"I have had threats from the...religious zealots...from Barcelona.  They do not like my characterization of their Church.  They come to Languedoc, and threaten me with violence."

Now I recognized her; it was Cecili LeBron.  Spain had gone over to the Fascists after the German Empire collapsed—she was its harshest critic and lived just across the French border. 

Spanish authorities had even gone so far as to say she was smuggling gays in and out of Spain.

"But why Amsterdam?"

"I went first to Belgium, because they speak French and I have friends there, but one of them followed me, I think.  I also speak Dutch, so I went to Holland.  It's how you get out of Europe."

I translated it all back. 

"Ask her what happened."

"After you went to Holland, what happened?"

"I met Bernardo, and Lars.  We went to a club and he hid us in a truck and drove us out to the country.  I think he was afraid, because he kept looking behind him and in the bushes.  He had a gun."

I told this to the Commodore, and added "her story corroborates Fortini's."

"Very well, ask them both for a statement, in their own language, their own words.  I'll ask them to swear on them, under penalty of perjury."

I gave them both a pencil and several sheets of paper and translated Cannesmore's instructions.

"These last four speak German, though we don't know exactly who they are, they appear to be refugees fleeing the GDR."

They were two pairs, an adult and a child each.  I decided to try with the youngest first.

"Good evening, Mein Herr," I addressed him formally, "How are you doing?"

He had his face buried in the crook of his guardian's arm.  He opened a single eye and mumbled into the cloth.

"Excuse me," I patted him on the arm.  "Can I ask you a few questions?  You'll have to stop eating your daddy's arm, but I got some cotton candy for a good boy who will take the time to answer them."

He laughed and lifted his head. 

"I'm not eating my Daddy's arm."

"Okay," I told him, and tousled his hair. "What is your name?"

"Joshua."

"I will answer your questions," his father interrupted, picking the boy up and swinging him to the opposite hip.  "Do not try to manipulate my through him."

"Very well," I told him, standing up.  "What is your name?"

"I am Heinrich Furstin."

Your last name is Princess?

"What is your profession, Mr. Furstin?"

"I am a soldier, or was.  I mostly fight against the war now."

"What war?  Where are you and your son from?"

"Salzburg."

Salzburg was in Nazi Austria, not exactly behind the curtain, but just as difficult to flee.  No wonder these people took rockets—you either made it or got killed outright.  No languishing in the Stalag.

"So tell me about your trip.  How did you come to be in Holland?"

"I paid Lars to get me and my son out.  He just recently came to me.  His mother was Jewish."

I noticed he said 'was'.

"We met Pawel and his sister in Salzburg, they were fleeing too.  Lars has a rocket of his own.  His pilot flew us to a field in Holland.  We boarded the Jitterbug there."

Commodore Cannesmore had heard enough from Heinrich.  She directed me to question Pawel.

"What is your name?"

"I am Pawel Gregor Zhentarski, and I am from occupied Poland.  I am taking a terrible risk, running from the GDR, but I flee for my Jadwiga's  sake."

"Jadwiga is your sister?"

"My dearest sister, and my only family.  The Sozi's have killed all the others."

"And you met Mr. Furstin in Salzburg?"

"Yes, we crossed the border in a honey wagon, specially made to hide secret passengers."

That must've been revolting.

"Why are you fleeing Poland, Mr. Zhentarski?"

"They use her to get to me.  Every day they threaten to hurt Jadwiga, until I say I will do work for them."

"What sort of work?"

"Experiments.  They want me to finish Dr. Mengele's work."

"Why you?"

"Because I am the best there is.  I know human biology better than anyone else in the Warsaw Pact."

"You seem pretty young."

"I am not so young.  I should have Nobel Prize if I lived in another country."

"Why is that?"

"I told you, I am the best there is."

"And after Salzburg, what happened?"

"We landed in Lars' Aussteigen and moved to the Jitterbug.  I think Lars was planning on going back to his rocket, but something happened."

"What was that?"

"I don't know, but he went outside and I could hear shouting.  We left in a hurry.  I heard the First Officer say we were being shot at."

"This Lars; is he the man who was just here, the Astrogator?"

"Yes.  And he wasn't on the Jitterbug as a crewman; he has his own ship."

"You are sure?"

"Yes, we rode in it from Salzburg to Amsterdam; he was with us.  His name is not Heidegar Larson, it's Lars."

"What is his last name?"

"I don't know."

"I think that's enough for now," the Commodore said.  "Please tell them we are done with them for now.  Ask them to write out their statements before they leave.  I will find them suitable quarters on Level 95."

She looked at the three judges.

"We will adjurn for the evening, Your Honors.  I will ask that each of you write up a preliminary legal opinion tonight and file it with my secretary in the morning.

"I intend to make my ruling tomorrow, but I want your input now.  I will give you a chance to amend them as we learn more.  I want to fingerprint the three crew members, especially this Lars.  So, I will see you all at, whatsay 08:00?  No sense in getting up early."

A security detail came in and took the passengers away.  The rest of us got up to leave.

"Dani," the Commodore asked me in English as I was gathering up my notes.  "Could I ask you to stay after class?  I have an even better cook than Hector does, and access to fresh fruits and vegetables.  I believe he is thawing a leg of lamb for supper.  Would you care to join me?"