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Foster Cross looked morosely into the bottom of his glass as he tossed back the last swallow of whiskey, relishing the rank burn in his throat and the accompanying warmth deep in his stomach. He was pleasantly drunk, but, as usual, his thoughts were anything but serene.

Cross dragged on the cigarette clutched between his knuckles and glanced around the bar, his icy blue eyes glittering coldly. It was a seedy joint, no doubt about that, with perhaps twenty-five other people scattered about, most of them either alone or in pairs. Cloud Nine wasn't a social bar. It was a place people came to drink, and drink hard. On the small stage at the opposite side of the room, a tired looking blond wearing a g-string gyrated listlessly to thumping music, her eyes glazed.

The bar's lone waitress noticed that Cross had finished his drink. She made her way over, and wordlessly refilled it. Cross nodded his thanks and immediately tipped it back. He was drunk, all right, but not drunk enough.

Through the haze of blue cigarette smoke, Cross saw a pair of men come into the bar. Immediately, he dropped his hand underneath the table, caressing the butt of the 10mm pistol he still wore on his hip, a souvenir of his military days. The two men didn't look the part to be in a bar like Cloud Nine, and Cross knew it.

The taller of the two, wearing a marine uniform, looked around, his face tight and professional. His companion, smaller, clad in a civilian suit, settled his gaze of Cross and nudged his partner. They both regarded him for a moment, muttering something, and headed over.

Underneath the table, Cross unsnapped the safety strap on his weapon, preparing to draw. There was a round in the chamber already, all he had to do was flip of the safety, and he was ready to go. Aurora Station wasn't exactly the most law-abiding place in the galaxy, and he could be gone before anyone could finger him.

"Foster Cross?" The suit asked, stepping closer to the table. His comrade stood behind him, his arms crossed, sizing up Cross with hard brown eyes.

"That's me," Cross replied coolly, setting his drink down and pulling his cigarette from his lips with his left hand. His right stayed out of sight. "Who are you?"

"My name's Dr. Richard Archer," he said. "This is Major Koonce, United Systems Marine Corps. Do you mind if we sit down?"

Cross shrugged, stubbing out his cigarette on the table top and tossing it aside, ignoring the ash tray in front of him. Archer nodded his thanks and settled into a chair across the table. Koonce pulled out a chair from an adjacent table, settling back, still eyeing Cross.

For the moment, Cross ignored the unstated challenge from Koonce. "You want to tell me who the hell you are?" he asked harshly. "And what you're doing here looking for me?"

Archer tried on a smile. When Cross didn't return it, it wilted. "You're Captain Foster Cross, ex-marine, captain of the Tradewind?"

"I thought we already established that."

"Yes, I'm sorry." Archer looked at his hands for a moment, then spoke again. "I needed to make sure. I have a proposition for you, Captain. I'd like to employ your services. We need transportation."

"I don't drive a bus," Cross said, a cynical smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I haul cargo."

"I'm aware of that," Archer replied. "However, we're more than willing to make it worth your while. The trip is six weeks out, couple days there, and then back to the sleep tanks for the six weeks back. Total wake time will be less than a week. We'll pay you five hundred thousand dollars."

Cross tried not to look surprised, but he couldn't help it. Five hundred grand was just about what he made in a year, before expenses. He ran a few figured through his mind, and realized that he could pay his crew twice their usual rate and still come out with a good two fifty left over, after expenses. That would allow him to pay off the Tradewind. Finally, after three years, the ship would be his, free and clear.

"That's a lot of money," Cross said, his natural skepticism kicking back in. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," Archer assured him. "We need reliable transportation for myself, Major Koonce, and his team. The government has authorized us to spend the five hundred grand. It's very important."

"What is?" Cross asked. "Where are you headed, anyway?" he shifted his gaze to Koonce. "Don't you boys get your own ships?"

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