Chapter 5. Things that go bump on the head.

“Bob, look out!”

No one ever got used to the sight of Baxter Hetznecker moving like lightning. You could tell yourself all you wanted that he was the former commander of training for Special Forces, but you still were surprised whenever a man that big moved any way except ponderously.

In this case, Bob Whelan never was happier that looks are deceiving, as a wooden pallet groaned under the weight of several hundred kilograms of ImagPro, and then collapsed. The boxes would have landed on Whelan’s chest if Baxter had not somehow bounded across the room, hauled the captain of the Betsy Ross off the ground like a rag doll, and hurled himself and his friend out of harm’s way with a powerful thrust of his legs, all in an instant.

“Good thing PC-3 is point-six gravity,” Baxter Hetznecker said, and he seemed to want to say something else.

“Thanks, Bax,” Whelan replied. “That was pretty nuts. I thought we had this stuff packed pretty secure.”

“Me, too,” the large man’s forehead furrowed. “I know I’m still new at the freighter business, but I never seen one of these pallets break like that.”

“It happens,” Whelan said, shrugging nonchalantly to keep from shaking. It had suddenly occurred to him that his life had been saved. “It never happened to me, either, but that doesn’t make it unusual.” He wished he sounded more convincing. The incident was actually downright bizarre. “Hey, isn’t it about lunchtime anyway?”

In point-six gravity, it doesn’t take three guys as long to unload what would be 25 tons of ImagPro in one-point-oh. Still, it had been half the day and they were just more than half-done. Lunch sounded pretty good to everyone.

“On the other hand, the last thing I feel like handling right about now is ImagPro,” Whelan said, making a face as he ripped open a kilogram packet. “I never could stand the smell of this crap before we put it in the blender.” That said, he stuck the goo into an imaginary-powered processor and typed “Cheeseburger ... Fries” on the attached keyboard. Moments later, he opened the processor and took out a cheeseburger and fries. The power of the imagination is unlimited, right? Of course, even the finest ImagPro meal could be improved with a human touch. That’s how Baxter Hetznecker had gotten his job as cook.

The three men ate, usually, in anything but silence, but the late-morning accident and hours of work cast a bit of a pall over everything. For quite a while, the only sound was Baxter munching on several carrots. Well, actually it was ImagPro reconstituted as carrots, but — you probably had that figured out without me pointing it out, didn’t you? Sorry.

“Anyone mind if I call Snooky before we head back to work?” Pete Wong asked as he dropped his plate into the dishwasher. Nobody minded, but the dock supervisor poked his nose in before Pete could grab his own phone.

“Phone call for any of you guys,” he said.

As long as Pete was up, he followed the longshoreman to the office to take the call. The dock bustled with activity; there were a couple of other freighters in the other slips, poised like a fleet of Ming the Merciless’ fighters. Pete Wong smiled faintly; it was like walking through a 1930s Hollywood set, except that it was more than 100 years later.

He picked up the receiver half-expecting Snooky to be on the other end. The only funny thing was that Snook had his private phone number, but maybe she lost it. Who else besides that grumpy detective knew where to find them? “Hi there, it’s Pete,” he said into the phone cheerfully.

“Well, hi there — Pete,” said an unctuous voice, ever-so-slightly spitting the name. “How did work go this morning?”

Pete Wong pulled the receiver away from his ear, stared at it, brought it back. “Excuse me?”

“Unloading a freighter can be risky,” the voice hissed, “when you’re sticking your nose into someone else’s business. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I think you have the wrong number, buddy.”

“Pete Wong, right? Flying with Bob Whelan and Baxter Hetznecker? No, this is the right number.”

“Well, then, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a bright guy, Pete. You and your buddies did OK on the moon. But this is a little over your head. Maybe you should stay out of it, unless you like being squashed by a pile of ImagPro.” If this was 1930s Hollywood, the guy would have started to laugh villainously before hanging up the phone. But this was the Imaginary Age after all, and so the person with the unctuous voice punctuated the message with a simple “click.”

When he related the conversation back on board, Baxter Hetznecker said, “Now this is really gettin’ weird.”

Bob Whelan just stared at the wall for a few moments. Finally, he said, “Maybe you should go check on Snooky right away, Pete. Bax and I can finish up here, and then we’ll go talk to that sweet lady Eddie about this call.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, Robert,” Wong said. “I’ll talk to you gentlemen later. Meanwhile, be careful.”

It was a little more than a hop, skip and jump from the spacedocks to Snooky’s Tavern. The place was in one of the grubbier parts of the encampment, although since it was all less than 30 years old, that just means the area was just not quite as pristine as the rest of PC-3. The feel was still that of a maybe-not-quite-topflight shopping mall on the decline. Snooky had one of those old-fashioned signs that the beer companies used to provide for taverns with the beer’s logo in a big electric square and the word “Snooky’s” printed underneath. It was a nice touch.

It’s a nice place, run by a nice lady, Pete thought as he strolled into the establishment — well, he thought, maybe “nice” isn’t the right word for the lady, but still —

“Pete, watch out!”

He had time to notice Snooky was tied to a chair at the end of the bar. A rather rude and brutal thump on the head sent him efficiently into la-la land.

Next: Chapter 6. The imaginary lover.