Chapter 12: Coverage

Tom and Barbara had to agree that the lunch they'd just had was the tastiest in quite a long time. Too often, they'd been unwillingly dining on mock chicken made from under-seasoned tofu, with lumpy mashed potatoes and over-boiled carrots, and if lucky accompanied by a gravy that didn't resemble mucilage. The wine as well had proved to be a wonderful accompaniment to the food.

In addition, without having to worry about dripping food or drink on clothes, and without the constriction of tight trousers or skirts, they'd been able to simply relax and enjoy the meal. The fact that everyone else in the room, from ship's captain to stewards to fellow passengers, had been nude as well helped them feel like they fit in. It hadn't taken long into the salad course for Tom to lose himself in his wife's loving eyes.

Barbara, her new hairdo protected by a towel wrapped around her head, was now being pummelled by a trained expert in Swedish massage. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her husband soaking in the nearby hot tub, drinking a glass of red wine and talking animatedly to a couple in tones too low for her to hear. She realized she was on the twilight edge between wakefulness and sleep.

Gently she slipped into slumber, propelled by the kneading of her flesh by the talented masseuse. In her dream, she was ten years old again. She was walking the halls of her school, wearing her school uniform. It was embarrassing: all of her classmates and her teacher were the ones who were nude. Her dream-time self rushed to shuck the tight, clingy uniform lest she sweat to death. Yes, that felt so much better.

Tom, meanwhile, was enjoying the hot tub, the wine and the conversation. The warm, bubbling water and the glass of red merlot were making him feel mellow. The people who he was chatting with were completely disinterested in the politics of Solaria, which was both a relief and a refreshing change. The couple, a businesswoman and her husband, were travelling to Earth to negotiate some contracts for her firm, and were pumping him for any cultural hints he could give them that would help the negotiations. They also talked about their children – the couple had two, both boys in their early teens, who were high school students, staying with an aunt and uncle while the parents were off on this business trip.

"So, you're going to be negotiating with Solarians? Will you be in the nude during the talks?"

"Yes," the lady assured him, her accent revealing a lifetime lived on Spica II. "We would be far too uncomfortable wearing anything as senselessly constricting as clothing to negotiate sensibly. Our Solarian contact has booked space at a resort called, what was it, love?"

Her husband came to her rescue. "Sunny Glades, my dear." He turned his attention to his new friend, Tom. "I understand you still have restrictions on what is considered 'proper attire' here."

Tom nodded, not realizing his leg was being gently pulled. His face screwed up in recognition of the name. "I know of it," he confessed. "Yes, wearing what is considered 'normal' on Spica would, I fear, cause an uproar. You've heard a bit about the controversy involved in President Yamashita's visit to Spica, a few months back?"

Both nodded. The woman couldn't resist a smirk.

"Well," Tom continued after taking a sip of the merlot, "I seem to have stepped into it myself, in similar circumstances."

"Oh?" the woman asked. "How so?"

"My daughter, it turns out, has spent a few weekends at that self-same Sunny Glades Resort. And my party had made a great deal of fuss about the President's tour of Spica, so it has proved quite the scandal – it's really come back to bite us in the butt."

The man raised his eyebrows, and his wife cocked her head inquisitively.

"Word got out, and now I'm accused of leading a party of hypocrites," Tom confessed. "My daughter has now 'come out' as a naturist. If I reject her, I'm a reactionary and anti-family. If I accept her, then I should have accepted the President's being in the nude on Spica. Whichever way I go, I lose."

"And the election with it, I imagine?" the woman observed sagely.

Tom nodded. "Yeah, that's the way I see it. I'm fighting for a lost cause, and really it's all our fault. If we'd just waited, like that one member of the senior leadership team suggested, we wouldn't be in this situation, but there you go." He shrugged and took another swallow of the red wine. "Sin in haste, repent at leisure."

Deciding this line of conversation was getting maudlin, Tom changed the subject. "So what is it that your firm does?"

"Tourism," the woman answered affably. "My firm specializes in booking escorted tours of Spica. We are also looking at booking entertainment willing to come in from overseas, but that is a new area for us."

"Ah," Tom nodded. Even though the "seas" in question were the vast emptiness of space rather than oceans of water, the old word fit well. "Any luck so far?"

"There are tourist agencies who are willing to work with us, and a representative of the Solarian music industry that is interested in creating a standard contract for any acts we can convince to come to ours on tour."

Tom nodded in comprehension. "If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"Thank you," the woman responded politely. There was no way she was going to let this politician know that Thomas Kinkade's office had smoothed the path before her, opening doors and providing a reference for her services. TK, after all, was a member of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party.

Just at that moment, the steward manning the desk of the ship's spa came over, data pad in hand. Like every other crew-member he'd met aboard the vessel, she was nude aside from neckerchief, sandals, wrist device and identity lanyard. "Excuse me, Mr. Lucas, you have a message from the Conservative Party headquarters on Luna. It's marked 'Urgent'."

Tom acknowledged the steward and accepted the data pad. The pad held a message from the Party Whip about the invitation to his daughter to be in the off-screen audience of Dorothy Chandler's political analysis show. He was so startled that he almost dropped the device into the bubbling cauldron he was sitting in, not that such a mishap would have damaged the waterproof device.

He eyed his wife. This was probably a decision that she should make with him, but she was so obviously peacefully asleep. He hated to disturb her at this time – up to now this trip had been so stressful.

Picking up the stylus, he wrote a reply back. "Advise against it. Have to consult with Barb, but if Melanie wants to, nobody can stop her." He pressed 'send' and the reply began the electronic voyage back to Luna.

He handed the data pad back to the steward and considered both his options and the implications of such an invitation. What exactly was Chandler the Handler up to this time?