[03] Elite: Docking is Difficult Read Online Free PDF Page B

control tower had been cleaned for the first time in years. A banner above the arrivals lounge, which previously had just displayed a contact number for the Galactic Samaritans, now wished arrivals a happy stay and pointed towards the array of new art galleries and an artisanal bakery.
    Misha finished transferring sixty recalcitrant plant-pigs from the shipping container into the big square bulk of the
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’s cargo hold and punched a few details into the automatic air traffic control unit. It bleeped at him, letting him know that a take-off slot wouldn’t be ready for another hour. Misha swore and puffed out his cheeks. A month ago he wouldn’t have had to wait at all. But where once the departure gates had been empty except for the odd broken-down shuttle bus, now he counted at least a dozen shimmering out-of-town ships. Some of them looked as if they’d come from a really long way away. Actual proper space traders with thousand-yard stares and the hunched shoulders that resulted from a hard life of interminable hyperspace jumps loitered around, looking surly. Misha wanted to talk to them. He wanted to ask if they’d ever seen a supernova, or a building with more than three storeys, or if it was true that on some planets there was enough sunlight for men and women to wander around with no tops on. But he didn’t dare, so instead he just satisfied himself with ticking off a Lakon Spaceways Type 6 Transporter and a Core Dynamics Python in his
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, and decided to get some lunch at the café whilst he waited.
    ‘Up a bit. No, it’s still not straight.’
    The President was standing by the spaceport café entrance supervising two baristabots who were in the process of hanging a painting above the sandwich bar. The painting, a lurid triptych, showed the President wrestling with a Jovian moontiger, an eagle and a mule.
    ‘Misha, isn’t it?’ said the President, spinning around as Misha came in through the door. The President was good with names, which was half the reason he was president.
    ‘Take five, guys,’ he said, clicking his fingers at the bots. He beamed. ‘Mind if I sit with you?’ he asked, already sliding into the booth opposite Misha. ‘Word of advice, don’t have the eggs.’
    Misha picked up a menu, and nodded appreciatively at the painting. ‘You’ve wrestled a lot of creatures, Mister President.’
    ‘Oh, well, you know,’ the President waved away the compliment, even though he was obviously pleased the subject had come up. ‘Some of them are a bit exaggerated. But it’s important to maintain a dynamic image. I find pictures of me wrestling creatures whilst shirtless is one of the best ways to communicate that. Lesson one from Putin’s classic work on political leadership. Putin was a famous old-world Russian dictator. One of my historical heroes.’
    ‘Oh yes, we did him at school. And he gets a few mentions in Cliff Ganymede’s book on
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’ Misha studied the picture a bit more closely. ‘Did eagles really used to have two heads?’
    ‘Apparently the old Russian ones did,’ the President said with a shrug.
    ‘I wonder how it ate? What if the heads had a difference of opinion? What if one head wanted worms and the other head wanted mouse guts?’
    ‘I don’t know, Misha – it’s a very interesting point you raise.’ The President suddenly leaned forward, and pulled a hopeful expression. ‘Speaking of raising interesting points, and of differences of opinion, did you have that talk with your dad?’
    ‘Yeah. He’s still pretty committed to the pig trading business.’
    There was a long, difficult pause. The President’s face clouded over. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘That’s a very great shame indeed.’
    ‘He’s a stubborn old bastard,’ agreed Misha.
    ‘The truth is,’ said the President, reaching across the table and putting his hand