The secret plans and slush funds the Gig
carries must be destined for the same location I am being taken to. We
are heading for the main body of the fleet, clustered round the Great
Pyramid "
William S. Thompson".
I am somewhat worried as out little Gotham scurries round in the
maelstrom of gravitational forces. My photographer makes his excuses and
leaves for the head. I cling on to my uncomfortable but solid ship
couch.
We seem to be passing a little TOO CLOSE to those asteroids!
"These rations have been exposed to
hard radiation, they're inedible."
"Yes, but not un-saleable."
An IMT sales manager meets his
quarterly figures
Er, um. A spot of un-professionalism there on tape. Not to worry, the
ship now seems in a stable orbit within the fleet. We have been pulled
into the zone of the Spindizzy. Our ships are now pulling away from the
Vegetarian Orbital Fort that is left to continue mining the moon. Sadly
we will not be able to sample the fabled delights of the Zero-G Brothel,
on expenses. But we have a higher calling, to journalism, and to the
story. Sob.