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Authors: E. M. Foner
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the Stryx singularity prediction labs,” she answered with a groan. “The questions those kids ask. Nobody warned me. Well, the shoe will be on the other foot when my little angels come looking for dinner tonight!”
Joe wilted a little, and began to wonder how mad Paul could really get if he just made a run for it. He was shifting his weight to the balls of his feet when the door slid open again and he saw Paul’s face.
“Hey Joe, what are you doing? It’s time,” he said and made a beckoning gesture.
Joe drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and followed Paul into the class. It turned out to be a friendly-looking room with some sort of grass on the floor, he couldn’t tell if it was real or fake. There were more than forty kids there, ages ranging from around eight to fourteen, along with at least twenty little robots of a type he had either never seen or never paid attention to before. Paul led him to the front of the room and launched right into his introduction.
“This is Joe. He’s been filling in for my parents since I was eight. I live with him in the crew module of an ice harvester down at Mac’s Bones, which he won in a card game. He teaches me how to use all sorts of cool tools, like torches and molecular shears. He’s not going to give a speech like that physicist, so you can just ask him questions and stuff. Joe?
“Hi, kids,” Joe began, trying to sound confident and ending up almost yelling. “Uh, Paul has told me how great the school is and how hard you all work. He already told you that I own Mac’s Bones, so that makes me a sort of a recycling engineer,” he added on the spur of the moment, hoping that would keep him from being entirely outclassed by the other parents. “Any questions?”
Every hand in the room shot up, including some metallic ones, and for the second time in as many minutes, Joe fought a sudden impulse to flee. He stared at the sea of eager little faces for a moment, and then thought he recognized a small girl and pointed in her direction.
“How much do you make selling junk?” she demanded. Joe recognized too late the older of the two flower girls.
“Uh, it varies a lot from cycle to cycle. And sometimes I get paid for doing nothing, like last cycle when I got twenty-five hundred Stryx creds as an order cancellation settlement.”
“Wow!” Blythe marveled. “That’s a lot!”
“And of course, I mainly do barter,” Joe added in relief, thinking this might not be so bad after all.
“Barter is better,” the kids all answered in chorus, and the hands shot back up again.
“Yes, in the front there, with the green hair.”
“How long did you have to go to school to become a recycling engineer?” asked a gangly looking boy who was around the same age as Paul.
“Yeah, about that, uh, I’m, uh, self-taught. Next question?”
“Did you ever find a dead body in an old spaceship?” asked a little boy, his eyes round with excitement. All of the children ooh’ed.
“Uh, no,” Joe lied, figuring it was just a white lie since they were asking about the junk business and not his fighting career. But there was a collective exhale of disappointment from the class, so he embellished a little. “But I’ve had to clean up my share of sudden decompressions stains.” The kids all ooh’ed again, and up came the hands.
“Yes, with the black hat.”
“Why is it called Mac’s Bones?”
“Oh. Well, Mac is me, my whole name is Joe McAllister. And bones is sort of a tradition from Earth, where junkyards were often called boneyards, because they are full of the bones of old vehicles. Does that make sense?”
“Are you married?” asked a little girl in the moment of silence that followed.
“Uh, no, I’m not married,” Joe answered, and looked for another hand to pick, but the little girl was too fast.
“Why not?”
“I, uh, I just never found the right woman. Or maybe she never found me,” Joe stumbled through the explanation.
“Do you have any
Joe wilted a little, and began to wonder how mad Paul could really get if he just made a run for it. He was shifting his weight to the balls of his feet when the door slid open again and he saw Paul’s face.
“Hey Joe, what are you doing? It’s time,” he said and made a beckoning gesture.
Joe drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and followed Paul into the class. It turned out to be a friendly-looking room with some sort of grass on the floor, he couldn’t tell if it was real or fake. There were more than forty kids there, ages ranging from around eight to fourteen, along with at least twenty little robots of a type he had either never seen or never paid attention to before. Paul led him to the front of the room and launched right into his introduction.
“This is Joe. He’s been filling in for my parents since I was eight. I live with him in the crew module of an ice harvester down at Mac’s Bones, which he won in a card game. He teaches me how to use all sorts of cool tools, like torches and molecular shears. He’s not going to give a speech like that physicist, so you can just ask him questions and stuff. Joe?
“Hi, kids,” Joe began, trying to sound confident and ending up almost yelling. “Uh, Paul has told me how great the school is and how hard you all work. He already told you that I own Mac’s Bones, so that makes me a sort of a recycling engineer,” he added on the spur of the moment, hoping that would keep him from being entirely outclassed by the other parents. “Any questions?”
Every hand in the room shot up, including some metallic ones, and for the second time in as many minutes, Joe fought a sudden impulse to flee. He stared at the sea of eager little faces for a moment, and then thought he recognized a small girl and pointed in her direction.
“How much do you make selling junk?” she demanded. Joe recognized too late the older of the two flower girls.
“Uh, it varies a lot from cycle to cycle. And sometimes I get paid for doing nothing, like last cycle when I got twenty-five hundred Stryx creds as an order cancellation settlement.”
“Wow!” Blythe marveled. “That’s a lot!”
“And of course, I mainly do barter,” Joe added in relief, thinking this might not be so bad after all.
“Barter is better,” the kids all answered in chorus, and the hands shot back up again.
“Yes, in the front there, with the green hair.”
“How long did you have to go to school to become a recycling engineer?” asked a gangly looking boy who was around the same age as Paul.
“Yeah, about that, uh, I’m, uh, self-taught. Next question?”
“Did you ever find a dead body in an old spaceship?” asked a little boy, his eyes round with excitement. All of the children ooh’ed.
“Uh, no,” Joe lied, figuring it was just a white lie since they were asking about the junk business and not his fighting career. But there was a collective exhale of disappointment from the class, so he embellished a little. “But I’ve had to clean up my share of sudden decompressions stains.” The kids all ooh’ed again, and up came the hands.
“Yes, with the black hat.”
“Why is it called Mac’s Bones?”
“Oh. Well, Mac is me, my whole name is Joe McAllister. And bones is sort of a tradition from Earth, where junkyards were often called boneyards, because they are full of the bones of old vehicles. Does that make sense?”
“Are you married?” asked a little girl in the moment of silence that followed.
“Uh, no, I’m not married,” Joe answered, and looked for another hand to pick, but the little girl was too fast.
“Why not?”
“I, uh, I just never found the right woman. Or maybe she never found me,” Joe stumbled through the explanation.
“Do you have any
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