Starfire
Copyright© 2025 by Mark Randall
Chapter 25
News of the race to save Charlie 9 spread like wildfire through the ship. Soon, all hands were glued to the entertainment monitors watching Katie and Burt’s progress.
Most department heads realized that it would be better to allow their people time off to watch the drama that was unfolding.
Even Grandmother Seward was watching, under the close supervision of her secretary Elisabeth and Cheryl Holt.
Unaware of the ongoing drama, Bob Chambers was irritated, and that irritation was rapidly becoming anger. Chambers was a creature of habit, and everything in his day was planned out. Any interruption of that schedule couldn’t be tolerated. His current issue was his lunch. Every day at 1200 hours, he demanded that catering deliver a poultry club sandwich and a half-liter of lemonade to his office. It was now 1215 and catering had not yet arrived. At 12:10, he had called catering, but nobody answered the phones.
Not remembering that he’d sent Larry Martin on an inventory of agricultural spaces, his anger got worse when he found that Larry was not at his desk. Chambers then decided to complain personally to the catering chief and headed to the central kitchen.
On the way there, he was curious why there weren’t any normal noonday crowds in the passageways. But when he arrived at the kitchen, he stood dumbfounded. There was no work going on. All the staff were crowded around the monitors at the far end of the room. Seeing the catering chief on the edge of the crowd watching the monitor, he marched up and demanded, “What’s going on here. Why aren’t these people working?”
“They’re watching the news about the race,” the chief replied.
“Race? What race?” Chambers demanded.
“Where have you been, mate? One of the Dragons has called a Mayday, and his wing mates are trying to catch him. They’ve got a rescue tug on the way, too.”
“That’s no excuse for stopping work. My lunch is late.”
“Sorry about that, mate, but you’re going to have to get something from a machine. Ain’t nobody cooking in this kitchen right now.”
“This is entirely unacceptable. I demand you all return to work immediately.”
The chief slowly turned towards Chambers. “What did you just say?”
“I said return to work, immediately.”
“Look, mate, I don’t know who you are.”
Before he could continue, Chambers interrupted. “I am Congressman Bob Chambers, and I find this situation intolerable.”
“Like I said, I don’t know who you are, or what you think you are, but this is my kitchen. This is my crew, and we work on my schedule, not yours. Now get out of my kitchen.” Several of the catering crew had overheard the conversation and turned to glare at Chambers.
Bob now realized that he wasn’t in a good position and started to retreat. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he said. “I’ll be bringing this to your supervisors’ attention.”
“That’s fine, Congressman Bob Chambers, we’ll be sure to remember this the next time you order a meal.”
Chambers stood there with his mouth open, astonished that his demands weren’t being obeyed.
Realizing that he wasn’t going to get any satisfaction, he spun and stomped from the room. Once he was alone, he pondered his next move. Going to that old bat Agnes was out. She was too closely guarded by those two witches, her secretary, and that bilge rat Holt from Mars Station. Not to mention those bullies, the Chilkoot bodyguards.
Going to Captain Sullivan was out of the question as well. To tell the truth, Sullivan scared Bob. Their first meeting was less than satisfactory for Bob.
That’s when Bob’s stomach growled, and he was reminded that he was missing his lunch. Then Bob had an inspiration. The Cloakroom served bar food.
The Cloakroom was an unofficial meeting place for members of Congress. It was a pub, close to the Congress chambers, and was convenient when members needed a place to take a break or have a non-official meeting.
When Bob stepped into the Cloakroom, he was surprised at the crowd. The place was packed. Apart from the staff, everyone’s attention was fixed on the big monitor at the far end of the bar. He stepped up to the bar and waited to be served, and waited, and waited.
Eventually, the bartender came up. “Right, what’ll ya have, bub?”
Bob wondered how the bartender knew his name. “I’ll have a poultry club sandwich and a half liter of lemonade.”
“Got no lemonade. How about a hard cider?”
“Very well,” Bob said.
As the bartender poured the cider and set it in front of Bob, he said, “Your sandwich is going to be a bit, our kitchen is swamped. I’ll call you when your order is up.”
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