Back To The Ship And A Company Town - [EC]

The cuisine onboard the 5-EX that night was not so elaborate as what was being served high overhead in Stratos, but the company was probably more jovial.

"Captain, did you know there is a town nearby?" the Cook asked as he placed a large serving bowl of mashed potatoes in the center of the table occupied by Smith, Hammer, and Moonwatcher. The Second Officer reached for the bowl, scooping out a large helping of the steaming food. Onboard the EX's they ate 'family style' (as opposed to either 'cafeteria style' or with a Steward such as in the Wardrooms of the larger ships). "Just over the hill outside the gate. I was talking to one of the Troll Longshoremen this afternoon when him and his crew were off-loading the Commissioner's and Doctor's luggage."

"Trog," Moonwatcher corrected the Cook while passing the potatoes to the First Officer. "And that's true, Captain. The Port Foreman told me the same thing. Seems they 'pay' the workers with 'chits'. Based on the type and amount of work they do. It's not real currency and can only be redeemed at what I guess you would call 'Company Stores'."

The Cook returned with two more bowls, field peas this time, and placed one first on the table where the Boatswain and the CBC Security Guard were sitting, and then the second bowl at the 'Officers Table'.

"There are also some privately owned joints," the Cook said. "You know, bars and the like."

"Ah, bars!" Smith chuckled, accepting the bowl from Hammer and loading up his own plate. "So now we get to the onion . . . Very well. We'll do eight-hour watches." Turning towards the other table, he said, "Boats, why don't you take the four to midnight?" It was already a little after five - 1700 Hours - so Wallace was getting a break. "Lieutenant Moonwatcher, you cover the midnight to eight, and Number One, you'll get the eight to four."

By now the peas had reached Smith while Moonwatcher was selecting which piece of fried chicken he wanted from the platter the Cook had just placed on the table.

"Guardian Gladden," the Captain again directed his words to the other table. "You, of course, are welcome to join any of the crew who might go ashore."

"Thank you, Sir," Gladden answered as he scooted over to make room for the Cook when he sat down. "But I think I'll stay onboard."

Smith smiled as Hammer handed him the platter with the chicken. Despite their initial encounter, the Captain was starting to like the Guard, admiring his sense of duty. "I thought you might would say that."

The insides of one of the so-called bars that the Cook, Petty Officer Dawson, had talked about looked more like something out of America's Old West rather than the Twenty-Fourth Century. Dirt floors. Walls made out of discarded shipping boxes. Windows with some of the panes missing, thin plywood taped in the place of glass. At least it had electricity.

When the trio from the EX first entered about an hour ago, Hammer had asked if they accepted United Planets currency, the bartender-slash-owner's beady little eyes lit up. He quoted Hammer a rate of exchange that was very favorable. Hammer had reached that conclusion by using the age-old ship-faring 'beer standard'. He knew the price of a bottle of beer back home, the sign over the bar listed the price of a bottle of beer in local currency. The rate that the bartender offered would allow Hammer to buy three times the amount of beer the same money could buy back home.

The two Officers were now sitting at the bar, drinking and discussing the planet Ardana.

"So all I'm saying," Lieutenant Moonwatcher said to Lieutenant Hammer, "Is don't you think something is wrong with a system where the people who do all the work live in poverty, while a few, idle individuals live in luxury?"

"Natural Selection," Lieutenant Hammer replied. "Look around you." Most of the occupants of the bar wore one-piece khaki utility jumpers, the type worn by miners. The bartender's white shirt was frayed at the collar. No one looked as if they had bathed recently, and the joint had a . . . distinctive . . . aroma. "These people are sub-human. It is inevitable that the Cloud Dwellers should rule over them."

"Maybe if they had decent food, rudimentary hygiene, and some basic education," Moonwatcher countered, "they would not appear so . . . sub-human. It is those well-bred, well-read, well-fed, and well-wed fine, sophisticated sky-gentlemen with their feet on the necks of the Troglytes that are holding them down. They are like the Conquistadores who had a slight - slight - technological advantage that wiped out whole civilizations in Central and South America. Civilizations that could have rivaled Ancient Egypt. But the Spanish had gunpowder and the Incans, Mayans, and Aztecs did not."

"Those races were all inferior," Hammer shot back. "The ones who survived were the ones who 'mixed' with the superior Spanish. Remember what the waitress said?" he looked around, wondering out of curiosity where she had gotten off to. He spotted her sitting at a table with Dawson, engaged in an animated conversation. "The owner is a Flying-Trog. His father was a City Dweller. It's like the North American native population. They did not interbreed with the English and they have all but disappeared."

"Tell me about it," grumbled Lawrence Moonwatcher, of European descent, but Martian birth whose family had long ago adopted a Native American sounding last name.

"And speaking of interbreeding," Hammer pointed to Dawson and the Waitress. They were walking down a hall leading to the back of the bar.

The Waitress had blonde hair that could probably have benefitted from a good brushing. Her skin was pale and she was thin, almost to the point of being boney. The room was far from inviting. It had a mattress on the floor, which, like the bar, was a dirt floor. A single window. And the only furniture was a wooden washstand with a pitcher of water sitting in a large bowl. There was a bar of soap and some small towels next to the bowl. At least the mattress had a sheet on it.

After Dawson had placed the agreed-upon amount of money into the Waitress's outstretched palm, she told him to get undressed so that she could wash him first. As he removed his uniform, he looked around the room for a place to put his clothing and the Waitress pointed to a few nails driven into the back of the wood door.

Once he was fully nude, she poured some water into the bowl and had him stand close to it. She was dispassionate as she lathered up one of the towels and then began scrubbing his cock. Like she was washing dishes. However, when his dick started to respond, growing in her soapy hand, she did grin up at him. "Ah, yeah. You're not going to have any problems."

Handing him another towel to dry off with, the Waitress reached down and pulled her simple shift off over her head. She had on a bra but no panties and she kept her shoes on. Hanging her shift on a nail next to his uniform, she lay down on the bed and looked over at him, waiting for him to join her.

"Uh," he glanced around the room then strode over to the window. "Why don't you come stand over here?"

As he slid the lower half of the window up, the Waitress rolled off the bed. Approaching him, she said, "O.K. But I don't take it up the ass." She spat into her hand and then reached between her thin thighs, fingering herself. After a few seconds of 'prep', she faced away from him, placed her palms on the window sill, and leaned forward. In order to give herself more room, she bent down and stuck her torso through the open window. Looking back over her shoulder, she repeated her admonishment, "Remember, no butt-sex."

Dawson had to stroke his cock a few times, to coax it back into a full erection before placing it between her spread-legs. Rubbing the head of it along the cleft of her labia, he found her opening and pushed forward. The Waitress grunted as he entered, but otherwise she remained silent. Passive. Standing there leaning out the window into the warm summer night-time air as her 'trick' had sex with her.

With his hands on her narrow hips, Dawson thrust back and forth within the Waitress's pussy. He had to admit that what she lacked in enthusiasm, she made up for with tightness. As he continued to drive in-and-out of her snug sheath, he felt her growing wet and in a few moments she was actually swaying her hips from side-to-side. Slowly at first, but gradually in a faster, more rhythmic manner. Shifting her weight from one leg to the other. As if they were dancing.

Clenching his jaws and gripping her hips tighter, Dawson plowed into her with quick, short jabs as his cock exploded. Ejaculating heavy bursts of his sperm deep inside the Waitress's pussy. Filling her vagina with his seed.

When she realized what was happening, she became perfectly still. Standing there motionless as he used her body to obtain his release. As soon as he staggered back, his softening cock slipping from her now drenched pussy, the Waitress hurried over to the wooden stand. Pouring in some more water, she quickly lathered up a towel and with her feet planted far apart and her knees bent, she cleaned herself off.

Dawson realized he probably should have been concerned about her cleanliness before their encounter. After slipping her shift back over her head, she stepped over to him to kiss him on his cheek. "Go ahead and get dressed, Hon. I'll straighten up the room after you leave."

She moved away as she said that, avoiding any embrace that might lead to a long, lingering delay.