Chapter 9: Bare Truth

Despite the Spica-flagged SS Diane Webber being a relatively new luxury interstellar liner, her bridge was tiny. There was space for five people: a helmsman, a navigator, communications technician, the captain and the duty officer. There were also a couple of acceleration couches for visitors.

None of the five individuals present wore a stitch, aside from a wristband, a black cap that bore the logo of the Ursa Major Shipping Line, a pair of leather sandals, and a collar indicating the rank of the individual. None of the ship's crew, and certainly none of the ship's passengers, were permitted by Spican law from wearing more than footwear, headgear and minor accessories.

Commodore Matthäus Schoepke, the Webber's tall, muscular, blond-haired captain, was at 55 years of age the senior active-duty officer of the Ursa Major Shipping Line, highly experienced and intensely competent. The fact that there were few other Captains in Spica's diminutive four-ship merchant marine fleet didn't actually reflect negatively on him: Spica's ships had a reputation for highly skilled crews and exacting standards, for there was a fierce competition for the handful of berths available. He was also very well known for his genteel manners at the Captain's Table during the supper hour, and passengers vied for invitations to dine with him. So far, no diner, even the very youngest, had been left disappointed.

Orbital Control guided his ship to its unanticipated orbit competently enough. Aside from the passenger freighter Loch Neldricken, taking on ores for processing in the micro-gravity of the Asteroid Belt, there was no other traffic in the vicinity. The infamous Icarus had long since made herself scarce, and was somewhere between Triton and Earth. They could dock with the tiny orbital control station at the port opposite that of the Loch or make their own way in Titan's orbit, if they wished. Clearly from the nervous, noncommittal way the Controller in the orbital control station worded it, she wasn't sure if she wanted the Webber to dock or not.

Matt smiled ruefully. He was used to this reaction, from many trips to star systems with cultures less body-friendly than Spica's. It still galled, though – he had been born and raised in a naturist environment, indeed in all his 52 years he'd never worn more than the outfit he currently proudly bore. He found it difficult to comprehend the terror that people who had spent their entire lives constricted by clothing felt when confronting someone for whom attire was just not required. Still, he'd yet to encounter someone who was completely unaware as to the dress code on board of any ship he'd commanded, especially as both his previous command, the SS Princess Eugenie, and his current command, the SS Diane Webber, had been named for prominent naturists of the 20^th century.

Perhaps he could be excused, then, for thinking that Tom and Barbara Lucas knew exactly what kind of transportation their campaign headquarters had agreed to.

Tom Lucas was, unfortunately, completely ignorant of the significance of the name of the ship he was about to board, nor was he aware of the flag that Ursa Major Shipping Line sailed under. Not that it would have mattered much if he had remembered hearing of the vessel when it had been in the press some two months previous, during the nastiness at Arcturus. With the election a week and a half away, he desperately needed to get his campaign back on some sort of schedule, and at that point if he needed to hop a ride from a honey barge, he'd take it.

He and Barbara had had another nasty shock when they went to the hotel room that Chet Atkinson and his staff had scrounged for them. Their luggage, including all toiletries, were aboard the Icarus, somewhere between Titan and oblivion.

Chet was apologetic. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, ma'am. They just took off, as quick as they could."

Barbara rolled her eyes. "So, we don't have a change of clothes?"

"We can have what you're wearing laundered before you board the cruise ship," offered Chet. "The hotel will handle that, and give you a housecoat while they do."

"That will have to do, I suppose," she sighed. "In the meantime, we also need to replace our toiletries – those were in our luggage."

"Yes, ma'am." Chet reflected on his options at the moment. The hotel, with just 20 rooms, couldn't justify having so much as a tuck shop, and most of the stores in the main shopping arcade would have closed an hour ago. If they were lucky, the local pharmacist would still be open. "We'll have to be quick, though."

In the hotel lobby, as Chet and his charges were exiting, a knot of strangely-dressed reporters made note of the trio.

"Hey, Tom!" one yelled.

Tom turned and beneath the garish garb, Devadas Chatterjee, from the Solaria News Network. Of the non-Brenner News Network reporters in the press pool following him around, Tom had found Devadas to be one of the more honourable, respectful members. He didn't trust the man – no politician who wants to remain one ever fully trusts a reporter – but at least he didn't feel that Devadas was nursing a grudge against him.

Tom's eyes flicked over the flowery shirt. "What, Dev? You look like you're off to a luau at Pavonis Mons." Pavonis Mons was one of the biggest tourist areas on Mars, with tons of all-inclusive domed resorts.

"Yes, cute, isn't it? I grabbed this from the local haberdasher's," Dev smiled ruefully, doing a comic pirouette. "It seems that Buzz is having his little fun this trip. His own reporters managed to retrieve their own luggage, but ours are still aboard the Icarus."

"Does the store have anything more business-like?" wondered Tom, concerned lest he end up looking like something from an ancient Pacific travelogue show.

"Not really, and it's closed now," Dev advised him. He rolled his eyes. "This one-horse town rolls up the sidewalks at six. And shirts like this were practically all that little store had at the moment."

Tom turned his attention to Chet, who was busy clearing his throat and rolling his eyes at the hotel's ceiling.

"Remember, boss, we're getting the hotel to launder your clothes," Chet advised Tom. "And I'm sure you'll be able to buy a couple of souvenir shirts on board the Diane Webber in the morning."

"I'm sure," Tom glowered as the local Representative led him and his wife to the local drug store.

As the trio departed, they missed Dev's eyes boggle and his mouth go in an "oh" of surprise as he realized the implication of the liner's name. Surely, he asked himself, they knew what star system that ship belonged to? He turned away, muttering, "Now I have to decide whether I'm going with them."

Xanadu's retail sector consisted of a single alley, labelled "Shopping Arcade". As Dev had pointed out, most of the shops were closed now, as it was well after six in the evening. One of the few exceptions was a tiny shop that bore the label, "Xanadu Apothecary". A small sign advised that prescriptions were filled on a 24-hour service, by asking the local hospital contact the pharmacist who owned the place.

The owner, a small, fussy Chinese woman, was on the verge of following her fellow vendors in closing her establishment for the evening, and hustled Tom and Barbara through as expeditiously as possible. They felt as if the elderly lady was throwing them out as she locked the door behind them. A mesh security door was slammed shut immediately after their departure, and the sign's light then promptly winked out. They found themselves in a darkened shopping arcade as the few shops that had been open when they arrived had by this time been shuttered as well.