Chapter 37

Tyche shouted, “Junior.” Junior was one pier over.

“What?”

“The cops!”

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” Tyche looked. “What?”

“You can’t be doing what your doing ... you’re not old enough.”

“He doesn’t want me flying!”

“Show him your beginners permit.”

“Do I haveta?” Tyche said. She really sounded put upon.

“Yes ... and get used to it. Lots of people are gonna need to see it.”

“Damn ... oops. Daddy?”

“What, darlin’?”

“Put a dollar in my Swear Jar.” Tyche paused, “I’ll settle up on payday.”

She turned to the officer, “I thought you were just Animal Control.”

“I’m a cop...”

“Oh.”

She started unbuckling, unzipping and shrugging out of her brown leather bomber jacket.

“Gimme a hand here ... the sleeves are hard.”

With the two of ‘em prying and pulling, Tyche was soon down to her leather uniform.

More unzipping and unfolding ... Tyche shut off the fan, “Don’t want ta go swimming after it again ... once was plenty.”

She reached to an inside pocket and brought out the ubiquitous tanned goatskin packet issued by the Princessapality to pilots. It had the standard pink pows and ribbons of licenses issued to female pilots ... Males got blue.

“We probably ought to go inside the salon,” Tyche said. “We can use the chart table and weight it down with coffee cups.”

The unfolding commenced.

It was the size of a standard bridge club card table top. Junior had timed it and got the United Nations to sign off on it. Everybody except the Federation of America and the United Kingdom ... well ... just England. The nation states loved rubbing the English noses in shit.

Every country had afixed wafers, impressions and wax seals ... some were very fancy ... all were official. Since it was issued Tuesday, six days ago it wasn’t as tattered or torn as Junior’s. Junior’s was barely readable.

Tyche’s birthdate was conspicuous in its absence. No where on either side of the license was the word ‘Beginner’ mentioned.

“Holy Shit!”

“Gimme a dollar.”

“What?”

“You swore ... If I can’t ... you can’t. Daddy ... start a new jar.”

“What makes you think I’m going to be here often enough to need a jar.”

“You think I’m cute ... and your wife does too.”

“I’m not married.”

“Yet,” Tyche said cryptically.