"No, sir. At least so far as I know. The pilot is on her way and should be here any minute. As for the other passengers… Well, I hope they'll let us know because we certainly can't leave without them!"

"Well, we could, but it would make your navy pretty unhappy, and I doubt if even me girls would like it after they finished playin' their games. They could have them babies any time now, and I don't think any of 'em wants to have 'em on board your big, antiseptic ship."

He looked around the shuttle and nodded approvingly to himself. "The bunks should be more than adequate, and there's decent toilet facilities I see." He moved from the aft compartment to the center and found a comfortable middle room, as it were, with a padded leatherette bench seat going completely around the walls and breaking only for the fore and aft doorways, all flanking a rather cleverly designed segmented table with inserts that could be raised, lowered, tilted, inverted, and moved every which way. More bunks of a more basic sort could be strung from the ceiling. Cut into the side bulkheads, one side mirroring the other, were compartments that clearly slid back.

"Serving bays," the sergeant told him. "We'll get our food there and drink through there. It's mostly made from various wastes using a separate computer-controlled device with matter to energy to matter conversion, but the food it produces is nearly identical to what we get in the galleys and is really not that bad. Drinks are from those inserts there. You simply say what you want and it will make it for you. There's a great deal of recycling here, but some loss each turn, which is why there is a limit to how long we can go. Still, we're set for weeks here if need be, and we don't need nearly that long."

Murphy nodded. "I think it best we don't mention the process and origins of the food and drink, Sergeant. Let's let it just be magic, all right?"

The marine froze for a moment, not quite understanding what the old man was saying, and then realized the context. "Oh, yes, sir. I see. Yes, we want everyone to be happy and relaxed here."

Murphy smiled. "I think we might just get along here for the duration, Sergeant. So, do you know this pilot?"

"Yes, sir. Picked her myself out of the group. Very skilled. When we have things we must do with some, er, delicacy, she's who we pick. I'm not sure anybody's ready for this trio of yours, but if anybody is, Lieutenant Chung would be. She's had some ground experience, mostly in finding and selecting the best things we need for repairs and replacements, but she shouldn't be thrown by a different sort of culture, no slight intended, sir."

"None taken. Your people have gone a different way than most, but I suppose it works. You're still basically extortionists, but it's an elegant sort of extortion, the kind that even you think is a public service. I suppose I can live with that. I deal mostly with ones who just pick it up by choice or as a job of opportunity."

"So our protection is extortion while your smuggling is just unrestrained business. That right?"

"That's about it, laddie. But the big difference is that to you this is the end, the purpose of things, while to me the gatherin' of money and whatever it brings is just the means to an end. You'll never even understand the sort of dreams we mortal folk have."

"Just because we're built differently and to different purposes doesn't mean we can't understand such things," the sergeant noted.

Murphy gave a low chuckle and muttered to himself, "Aye. I had a neutered dog once."

"Sir?"

"Never mind. Nothin' of importance. But where is-ah! Looks like our pilot has arrived."

Lieutenant Chung was smaller and thinner by far than Maslovic or any of the others Murphy had seen aboard. Not that she had a figure; she reminded Murphy less of a warrior caste than of a girl permanently frozen before reaching puberty, and, like all the others, she was hairless. But if most of the navy types were built for weight lifting and fighting, the pilot class were acrobats, built for lightning-fast action and reaction, with perfect balance and genetically heightened senses, all the better to meld with their machines almost as if one and the same. He also suspected she wasn't as helpless as her tiny form suggested. That same lightning quickness and superior senses made for ideal experts in the martial arts.

Her voice, too, was high and seemed more a child's voice, yet the tone and confidence it projected suggested a lot of experience.

The sergeant came to attention but did not salute. You didn't salute inside when on a mission. He towered over her; Murphy figured that three or four of the pilots could be made out of the protoplasm in that tough marine. Still, he was properly and professionally deferential. She was, after all, an officer.

"Stand easy, Sergeant," she said crisply, putting down her own kit. "Is everyone here?"

"No, sir. The three passengers have yet to arrive," Maslovic told her.

She nodded. "Very well. I'll get everything prepped up front. Then we'll wait. They'll either show up or they won't."

The pilot went forward to the flight deck and began going through the preflight sequence. The deck had two large chairs, either one of which could have swallowed her, and a complex set of instruments, screens, and control pads. Each chair also had a headset of light mesh that would conform itself to just about any size head. While now attached to the seat back, it actually came off and was normally worn much like a cap. Chung reached up, brought it down, examined it closely, then put it on and sat back in the chair, eyes closed, hands pressed together in a fashion that made it look as if she were praying.

She remained like this for a couple of minutes, and then, without her moving an apparent muscle, the interior lights blinked and there was a sense of low vibration. In front of her, the previously inert and rather featureless console came to life, the lights and screens now actively showing data, diagrams, lines of coded numbers, and all sorts of other information that was meaningless even to an experienced pilot like Murphy. Slowly, methodically, things went on and off throughout the shuttle, from air vents to the food server controls and doors, the lights and hatches.

Murphy understood the drill and said, "Well, she seems in good shape. All we need are passengers."

Maslovic started for a moment, then remembered that the old man, for all his looks and manners, was in fact a licensed interstellar pilot himself. "Could you fly her in a pinch?"

"Oh, probably, but I wouldn't know what half the stuff was. Probably dump fuel in the coffee dispenser and go orbital upside down and backwards after putting us all into cryogenic suspension accidentally. And, of course, it wouldn't recognize me in any event. No, I take 'em out of orbit, feed 'em the navigation data, stick 'em on autopilot and sit around until we get there. The likes of an old freighter, it ain't that hard. This, now-this is a speedster. I got to say I don't feel comfortable in ships that are most definitely smarter than I am."

Maslovic looked around at the food service ports. "Would you like something while we wait? Who knows how long it's going to be before the others arrive?"

"I don't think they have the recipe in there for what I need this trip," the old captain responded. "Unless that thing can dispense a good, fillin' dark ale that would feel comfy in an Irishman's gut, I guess I'll pass for now."

Maslovic shrugged. "Let's see." He turned and said to the console, "Ale, seven percent, malt brewed, very dark."

There was a tinny kind of whistling sound from the port, and then a bell sounded and the small drink compartment door slid back. Inside was a large molded cup with a bubble top on it. The sergeant took it out and handed it to Murphy, who looked at the drink suspiciously. He removed the lid, since they had gravity and no potential motion problems, sniffed it, then sipped it. There was foam on the top. Surprised at what he tasted, he gave an approving nod and quite literally downed the entire cup in one continuous series of swallows.