Gordon's feet landed hard on the promenade deck. He found nothing. The cart was nowhere in sight. He approached the problem logically. He stood where he saw the cart, and looked where it was headed. A blue arch seemed the most likely course. He took off at a fast walk, dodging workers and tourists, until he came to a maintenance corridor. Pedestrian traffic was much lighter there. That was where he stopped, made himself relax, and listened for the electric hum of the cart. 

Nothing. Well, they couldn't have gone far, he thought. He started walking down the corridor, looking in hatchways and doors as he passed. He got to thinking about what Admiral Beck had said. The people from the Navigator's Club didn't seem senile to him. On the contrary, they seemed very much in control of their facilities. Beck's words and orders seemed very disrespectful... But then Gordon remembered he'd been at Starfleet Medical for six months, waiting for a ship assignment. Just that past week, one of his classmates, Lt. Ballory, was assigned to a ship heading for Deep Space Nine. It seemed to Gordon like he might be cataloging enzyme tests forever. So, maybe, if he did what Admiral Beck wanted, maybe then he'd get noticed...

Something caught his eye off to the right. It was the cart –- empty, and parked on the side of the corridor. As he walked up to it, he felt a vibration beneath his feet. That was when he noticed the closed blast doors on the far side of the corridor. "Uh oh," he said out loud. Through the port in one blast door, he could see a ship lifting out of the bay and disappearing into the open sky above. 

Gordon sighed. So much for getting a ship assignment, he thought. Gordon spotted a maintenance worker cleaning up the corridor. "Excuse me," he said, pointing at the port, "do you know where that ship was headed?"

"Jupiter Station," replied the worker. "Regular Friday run." 

"Jupiter," Gordon repeated. "Any other ships headed out there today?"

"Check the board," the worker replied, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. Gordon walked down the corridor. At a junction twenty meters away, there was a lighted screen set into a wall. It listed ships, arrival and departure times, and destinations. Gordon quickly went down the list, and found the USS Cody, making an engine trial run to Mars, Jupiter Station, and Oort Station Two. Gordon tapped the comm badge on his chest. 

"Gor–" he had to clear his throat first. "Gordon to USS Cody..?"

"USS Cody here," came the response. "Identify yourself." Gordon smiled with relief. It might turn out to be a good day after all. 

On board the Egyptian Crow, Strickland was impressed with how smoothly the ship lifted off from the Moon. Except for watching the bay disappear below them through the ports, there seemed to be little or no sense of movement. Strickland sipped his coffee, which was excellent. He watched the ship skim over the spaceport, then follow a track over New Berlin, steadily rising in altitude until there was only black sky beyond the windows. 

"Admiral Harper?" came a voice? A woman with long, dark hair stood in the forward hatch of the lounge. 

"Yes?" Harper replied. "You must be Captain Arnold. So nice to meet you in person." Harper stood and shook hands with Arnold. 

"It's an honor to meet you, ma'am," Arnold replied. "We don't get many celebrities on board the Crow."

"Thank you," said Harper, "but I'm not much of a celebrity. Here, let me introduce you to my friends. This is Captain Warren Strickland, M-B Shipping, retired, and this – "

McGovern responded with a loud, unconscious snore. He was reclined back in one of the seats, one foot propped up on a box, sound asleep. "Well," Harper continued, "that was Brigadier General David McGovern, retired." 

"I'm sure we'll get acquainted later," Arnold said. "Would you two like a tour of our humble little bridge?"

"Please," said Strickland. Arnold let the two passengers through the forward hatch and up a short flight of steps. 

On board the Cody, the reception was not so warm. Gordon stood in the transporter room, flanked on either side by armed security personnel in riot gear. A tall, burly Starfleet commander was examining Gordon's credentials. 

"Now," the commander said, "who are you again?"

"My name is Lt. Charles Gordon," he repeated for the fourth time. "I'm trying to get to Jupiter Station."

"And you think the Cody is, what, a bus? You're personal transport?" growled the commander.

"No, no," said Gordon. "I just saw that you were making a stop at Jupiter Station and thought you might be able to give me a lift."

"This is a Starfleet vessel," the commander said, "and therefore is not in the practice of picking up hitchhikers."

"I'm not–" started Gordon, "I mean, I just need to get to Jupiter Station, is all."

The commander waved Gordon's credentials in his hand. "I'm going to check these out," he said. "Until you check out, you are not to move from this room. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Gordon replied. The commander left the transporter room. The two guards in riot gear remained, eyeing Gordon suspiciously. 

Gordon's stomach growled. He found himself wishing he'd eaten a bigger breakfast.

On board the Egyptian Crow, it was tea time. "Crumpet?" asked Captain Arnold.  

"That would be lovely," said Harper. Arnold had some string quartet music piped into the room. 

Behind them was a sudden snort, and McGovern sat up. "Huh? Who? What?" he said, looking around. 

"Wake up, Dave," said Strickland, spreading marmalade on a crumpet. "You're just in time for tea."

"What?" he said, sitting up. "Where are we? Have we left already?"

"We're almost past the Mars line," Harper reported. 

"Say, Carla," Strickland said, "If somebody was wanting to catch a ride to Alpha Centauri, what's the best way to go?"

"That's easy," said Arnold, flipping switches as she spoke. "There's a Boskian freighter that brings dilithium in to Jupiter Station twice a week. They're always looking for freight on the return run. Or passengers." 

"In return for what?" McGovern asked. 

"Stuff to trade," Arnold said. "Clothing, tools, books, stuff like that. Is that where you guys are headed next?"

"Maybe," said Strickland. "The trinary sunrise is quite a sight to see."

"That it is," said Arnold.

"What's that Boskian ship called?" Strickland asked. 

"Liberty 89," Arnold replied. "Ask for Captain Joe. Tell him I sent you."

Strickland smiled. "I will. Thanks." 

"We're making good time," Captain Arnold reported. "Traffic is usually pretty heavy around the Asteroid Belt, but it should be smooth sailing straight through to Jupiter."

"This is good," Strickland said, helping himself to another cup of hot tea. 

"Now," said Captain Arnold, eyeing Harper, "Tell me all about that time you stopped the revolution on Inger V."

Harper smiled. She loved telling that story.

Just beyond Lunar orbit, Gordon was sitting in the transporter room when the big commander came back. "All right," he said. "I talked to the captain, and you can stay –but only until we get to Jupiter Station."

Gordon breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir," he said. 

"Now, if you'll come with me," he said, "we'll go down to sick bay."

"Sick bay? Um, why?"

"Everybody that comes on board gets checked out by our doctors," the commander said. 

"I work in Starfleet Medical," Gordon said. "I assure you I'm in fit condition."

"It's standard ship procedure."

"But, I'm only going to be on board for a few hours," Gordon said. 

The commander glared at Gordon. "Are you being ...difficult?"

"No, no, no problem at all," Gordon replied. "Lead on. I'd love to see your sick bay." 

Out past the Asteroid Belt, and many amazing stories later, Captain Arnold assigned bunks for her guests. It was a 12-hour run from Luna to Jupiter Station. Supper was stew and cornbread, which McGovern managed to wake up for. It gave Strickland a warm feeling, the kind of down-home hospitality they always had on the old boomer ships. 

When the passengers got tired, Captain Arnold escorted them aft to the crew's quarters. The Egyptian Crow ran on a skeleton crew for that trip, so there was plenty of space. Crew's quarters were a series of small rooms, each with two bunk beds. The travelers each got a room to themselves. Harper was glad she brought her down pillow. Strickland stayed up for an hour looking over star maps on his PADD. McGovern had a room, but he nodded off again back in the lounge, and the others decided to leave him there. Captain Arnold put a blanket over him before heading back to the bridge. 

On board the Cody, Gordon spent the better part of an hour lying on a diagnostic bed. He felt like there wasn't a single cell on his body that hadn't been probed and analyzed. From there, he was escorted to the ship's mess hall, a grim, narrow room with rows of long tables. 

"Wait here," the security guard told him. 

There was a single, rectangular window at the far end of the room. Gordon stood by the window, and marveled at the magnificent view of space. There was a row of replicator stations along one section of bulkhead. They reminded him of how hungry he was. 

"Computer," he commanded the closest replicator, "one meatball sandwich, with chips and orange juice." The replicator came to life, and a plate of food appeared in the recess. He was halfway through his sandwich when something passed by the window. It looked like a steel girder. Another one passed by. Gordon got up to look out the window again. The girders were part of a lattice of steel, extending out from a central hub the size of a football field. Beyond the structure, the sky was filled with a bright, ruddy crescent. 

Mars. They had arrived at the Mars shipyard. As if on cue, a dozen crewmen entered the mess and proceeded to order meals from the replicators. The talked to themselves, and sat down with each other at a table far from Gordon, so he didn't feel like joining them. He wished he had some friends to talk to. 

That was when it occurred to him he should contact Admiral Beck to report where he was. He finished his sandwich, put away his dishes in the recycler, and went out into the hallway. There had to be someplace on the ship where he could contact the admiral. 

"Where do you think you're going?" a voice called out. It was a security guard, standing halfway down the corridor from the mess hall room.

"I need to contact Starfleet," Gordon said. "To report in."

"Commander Evans said for you to wait in the mess hall," grumbled the guard. 

"Yes, I know, but I need to contact Admiral Beck at Starfleet Command."

"You can make your call when we get to Jupiter Station," said the guard, stepping face-to-face with Gordon. "Until Commander Evans says differently, wait in the mess hall."

"But, all I need to do..." he started, but then, over the guard's shoulder, he saw two more guards coming down the hallway towards them. The sudden prospect of spending the rest of the trip in the brig seemed possible. "Um," he said, "I'll be happy to wait in the mess hall." Under the glare of the guard, Gordon went back into the narrow room. 

By then, the shift change had brought over a dozen crew members into the mess hall. They were all sitting and talking to each other as they ate. Gordon looked around and saw no seats remaining open. So, he made his way back through the room and stood at the window. Off to the side, he could see cargo getting unloaded. Crew members in space suits floated alongside. Work bees pushed huge crates alongside the ship. Beyond the shipyard, he could see other ships parked in orbit. 

He looked over his shoulder, and caught the eye of a crewman about to eat a salad. "Excuse me," he said, "do you know our ETA to Jupiter Station?"

"It's another five hours," the crewman replied. "After we get done here."

"Thanks." Gordon stood by the window for a long time, watching the ships pass by. 
 

***

The knock on his door woke him up. "Hum, yes?" Strickland muttered as he stirred in his bunk. A face appeared in the hatchway. It was Ike, the first mate.

"Morning, sir," he said. "The captain thought you might like to watch our approach to Jupiter Station from the bridge."

Strickland sat up, wide awake. "I sure would. I'll be right up!" He stretched as he got dressed. New beds always took him a little getting used to. Making his way forward through the lounge, Strickland passed McGovern, still asleep in the reclined seat. Somehow, blankets and a pillow had appeared, and he was sprawled out across two seats, one arm flung over his head, snoring loudly. 

Up the red, metal steps to the bridge, Strickland came up behind Captain Arnold, who was sitting in her command chair. "Morning!" she said. "Sleep well, did you?"

"Sure did, thanks," Strickland said, sitting in the co-pilot's seat next to Arnold. "It's the waking up that's tough."

"I know the feeling," she said, looking at some scanner readouts. Out the front viewport, the broad disk of a Starfleet ship was making a graceful pass over a half-dozen work bees flying in formation. 

"Jupiter Station," Arnold was speaking into her throat mike, "this is the Egyptian Crow, requesting clearance for docking."

"Welcome back, Egyptian Crow," came the response. "Proceed on vector 225. You are cleared for Pier Six."

"Thank you, Jupiter, proceeding on vector 225." 

Strickland was impressed with Arnold's piloting. "Very nice," he said. The ship turned, and Jupiter Station came into view, a totem pole of spheres, boxes and discs, with trees of steel support beams branching out at various junctions. 

"Oh, we're here," said McGovern, suddenly behind them at the top of the steps. "That didn't take long."

"Not when you sleep through the whole trip," Strickland said. 

"Pier Six in two minutes," said Arnold as she pulled closer to the station. Pier Six, an illuminated docking port, came into view.

The ship closed in, and gave a slight lurch as something heavy thumped the bow. Four green lights came to life on an overhead panel. "Egyptian Crow is docked, Jupiter," she reported to the stationmaster. 

In her bunk, Harper opened her eyes. The ceiling, the room, everything looked strange. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She pushed herself up on one elbow and rubbed her eyes. She felt great: relaxed and refreshed. She hadn't slept like that since... since the last time she was on board a ship, she realized. 

There was a knock at the door. "Frannie? You up yet?" It was McGovern. 

"I'm up," she called back. 

"There's coffee in the lounge," he said. 

"Be there in a bit." She heard his footsteps as he walked away. She cleaned up in the head at the end of the corridor, then changed into clean clothes before packing her bag. 

In the lounge, Captain Arnold came down the steps. "Admiral, gentlemen, it's been a pleasure." 

"The pleasure was mine," Harper replied. "Next time you make it to Earth, you've got a place to stay." 

"I appreciate that, Admiral."

"Thank you so much, Captain," McGovern said, shaking Arnold's hand. The captain smiled when she shook Strickland's hand. 

"Thanks for everything," Strickland said. The blue duffel bags sat behind him in the lounge's chairs. 

"You'll have to exit through the cargo hatch," Arnold said, leading them to the metal steps. "Right this way."

The cargo bay was one deck below and forward to the bow, right under the bridge. They ducked under the low hatchway into the bay. It was empty now, and their footsteps echoed off the metal walls. The light of the station dock beckoned ahead. Arnold waved to the travelers from the hatchway, then pointed out beyond them. 

"Looks like you've got a reception committee," Arnold said. The others squinted into the light. A lone figure sat on a crate directly in front of the open cargo hatch. 

"Well, I'll be!" said Strickland. 

Lt. Charles Gordon was not in a good mood. He was tired, hungry and felt dirty. Being pulled on a sudden trip to the Moon was enough of an imposition, but thirteen hours on board the Cody, most of which stuck in the mess hall, plus getting lectured by Admiral Beck over comlink had not improved his disposition. 

"Fancy meeting you here," McGovern said with a wary eye. Harper brought up the rear, and said nothing. 

"Hello sirs. And ma'am," Gordon said, standing. 

"I get the feeling this isn't a coincidence," McGovern offered. 

"No, sir," Gordon said. "Admiral Beck sent me. He said that I'm supposed to follow you and your friends, for your own safety."

"Follow us... for our safety?" Harper said, stepping forward. "Why, are we at war again?"

"No, ma'am," Gordon said. He sighed, feeling suddenly weary. "The admiral was concerned about... your health."

"So he sent you to nursemaid us?" Strickland said. 

"Thanks but no thanks," McGovern said, waving his hand in dismissal. "I haven't needed a babysitter for a long time." He and Strickland began to walk away. 

"We can take care of ourselves just fine," Harper added as she pulled on her backpack. She took two steps, and then spun around to face Gordon. "And how dare he even suggest we needed somebody to hold our hands! We're not dead, you know!"

"No, ma'am. I know, ma'am," Gordon said, backing away. He suddenly felt horribly embarrassed. 

"Does he think we're idiots, just stupid old folks peeing all over ourselves?" Strickland said. 

"Did he want you to wipe our noses and make sure we eat our vegetables, too?" McGovern yelled. 

Gordon held up his hands. "Stop! Just stop!" Harper stepped forward. She could tell from Gordon's eyes he was very upset. 

"What else did the admiral say?" she asked quietly. 

Gordon could still hear the admiral's words in his head. "He said... he said if I let anything happen to you or your friends, ma'am, that I could forget ever getting assigned aboard a ship."  

Strickland frowned. "That stinker!"

"He always was a dick," McGovern commented. The general coughed, then drew a ragged breath as he put his hand on his chest. 

"David, are you all right?" Harper asked. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," McGovern replied. "Must be that chicken casserole we had at the club the other night kicking back at me."

Gordon reached inside his kit and pulled out his black medical tricorder. It tweeked to life as he opened it up and moved it back and forth across McGovern's chest. "Heart's fine. Respiration's fine... You are showing a bit of acid reflux, general. Nothing serious. I think I've got just the thing for that." Strickland and Harper watched as Gordon put the tricorder away, and then pulled a satchel of containers from his kit. 

"Wait," said Gordon. "You had chicken casserole at the club? But, there's no replicators at the club ... Does that mean it was real chicken? Somebody killed a real chicken?"

"Now, now," assured McGovern, holding up his hand in defense, "I'm sure it was all done painlessly and humanely. Besides, killing and eating birds is part of the cook's unique cultural heritage."

"Oh," said Gordon. He removed a pill from one container. "Here you go, general," he said, giving it to McGovern. "That should clear it up." McGovern eyed the pill suspiciously, then popped it in his mouth. 

"Cultural heritage," repeated Gordon. "That's different. The Federation is dedicated to preserving and protecting cultural heritage. Where is the cook from?"

"Mississippi," McGovern said, followed by a loud, resonant burp. "Oh, yeah! That's much better now!"

Harper put her hands on her hips. "Well. Maybe having you around isn't such a bad idea after all," she said. Gordon turned to her and nodded his head in thanks. 

"All right," said Strickland. "You can tag along. But just for the time being." He pulled his duffel bag up onto one shoulder and started to walk away, then stopped himself. "Didn't you bring anything?"

"Um, no," Gordon said. "I wasn't planning on going all the way to Jupiter when I got up yesterday."

"C'mon," said McGovern. "Let's secure some quarters, and then we can get you outfitted properly." 

"I could do with some lunch, too," added Strickland.