Free I Dare by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee

the various tasks of the day.

    At the Panake House, Cheever's jacket—or perhaps his face—won them entry into the roomy and more comfortable inner sanctum with a cheerful, "This way, pilots!" from the beaming host.

    The menus were on the table and coffee poured before Pat Rin could refuse.

    The offer to "stow those bags" was waved away, politely acknowledged, and followed by a "back in two" as the waiter hurried to refill the cups at another table.

    The menu, for all that it was in Terran—a language Pat Rin read well—was next to incomprehensible. The "slabs" and "stacks" offered for his delectation were meaningless, as were the supposed qualifiers: thick, short, full . . .

    He needn't have concerned himself. His companion intercepted the waiter with a wave of his big hand.

    "Two Morning Specials; double medium slices, and c-juice."

    This repast, when it arrived, proved to be a stack of flatbreads which one—taking Cheever McFarland as one's model—doused with various liquids and jams; recognizable eggs; and several patties of ground or pressed meat, each about the size of one the flatbreads.

    Warily, Pat Rin sampled the various offerings. The juice drink was familiar enough; the other flavors pleasantly spicy. He had a bit more of each.

    "This here," Cheever said, around a mouthful of flatbread. "This is a hard-working port. This place here is always open, and pilots always get the best tables. Take whatever they got on special and you'll get a good, cheap meal."

    Pat Rin glanced up from his plate. "However, I am not a pilot."

    McFarland forked a meat patty into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

    "You can pass though," he said eventually. "We get you a jacket and nobody'll doubt you know Jump."

    He emptied his coffee mug, waved it in the general direction of a waiter, then shook it gently at Pat Rin.

    "If we're going low or something, you're gonna have to learn to drink this stuff like you mean it."

    Pat Rin raised an eyebrow, looked at his nearly untouched mug, and smiled slightly.

    "I see that I face greater hazards than I had thought," he said in quiet Terran. Deliberately, he picked the mug up and took a long slow sip of the dark beverage. He sighed slightly, wishing for some quiet morning tea, and sipped again as the waiter hove into view, bearing a oversized carafe.

    "Nah, now this isn't too bad," said Cheever. "If we get to a place where I only drink a sip, you can pass . . . "

    "Pilot, I see many lessons ahead for both of us!"

    Cheever only nodded as the waiter warmed both their mugs from his pitcher, and offered news of fresh pastries and doughnuts to finish the meal.

     

    PAT RIN'S NAME gained them entry at Field of Fire, where the hostess was pleased to find them a place in the members only section as guests of the house.

    The hostess also offered to waive the range fee in return for his signature in the guest book. It was seldom that a Liaden shooter of his caliber called on a Terran establishment such as this, and the signature of the reigning champion of Tey Dor's would enhance the melant'i of the house. Whether he could afford to indulge the house in this, Pat Rin left for later, merely bowing polite acknowledgment of the offer.

    They were then walked down a long, transparently walled hall, the hostess intent on convincing Pat Rin of the joys of the establishment. As they passed several dozens of lanes, some lighted and occupied, some lighted and empty, and some dark, all with a variety of targets visible, she continued her spiel, explaining that Field of Fire was not the largest range in number of shooting lanes on planet—no. But it was the best equipped, certainly, holding a complete set of house weapons from light to heavy, including dueling pistols of many calibers. There were also tuning and repair smiths on duty at all times, and instructors.

    She paused there, recognizing a potential faux pas, and covered by extravagantly sliding a keycard into a section of wall