The Millennium Seagull was three hours out from Outpost 42, a refueling station that was mostly famous for its cheap hydrogen and terrible pie.

  Ford was not thinking about pie. He was thinking about survival.

  He sat in the cargo bay (which was now empty, doubling as a rehearsal space) watching Sheila walk from one bulkhead to the other.

  "Stop," Ford said, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the building headache.

  Sheila stopped mid-stride. Even her stop was elegant. She pivoted on her heel with the grace of a ballerina.

  "What is it now?" she asked, smoothing her flannel shirt.

  "You're walking like you own the room," Ford said. "You're striding. You're projecting authority. People don't look at cargo haulers with authority. They look at us like we're invisible."

  "I am simply walking," Sheila protested. "How should I walk?"

  "Slouch," Ford instructed. "Drag your feet a little. Look like you've been sitting in a chair for twelve hours and your back hurts. Look... tired."

  Sheila attempted to slouch. It looked like a swan trying to be a duck. She hunched her shoulders, but her chin remained defiantly high.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  "Better," Ford lied. "Now, let's try the dialogue again. Scenario: The Customs agent asks you where you're from."

  Sheila cleared her throat. She adopted a serious expression.

  "I hail from the Sector of Mining," she declaimed, her voice projecting to the back row of a non-existent theater. "My father is a humble extractor of minerals, and we journey to the market to trade our wares!"

  Ford put his head in his hands.

  "No," he groaned. "No, no, no. You can't talk like that! You sound like a bad holonovel."

  "I am articulating clearly!"

  "That's the problem!" Ford stood up. "Nobody articulates clearly out here. We mumble. We use contractions. We swear. You sound like you're about to knight someone."

  He walked over to her.

  "Try this: 'From Sector 9. Boring rock. Just passin' through.'"

  Sheila took a breath. She narrowed her eyes.

  "From Sector Nine," she announced, enunciating every consonant. "It is a boring rock. I am just... passing through."

  It sounded like a Queen addressing her subjects about the state of the gravel industry.

  Ford stared at her. He looked at her regal posture. He looked at the determined fire in her violet eyes that no amount of flannel could hide. He looked at the way she held a wrench like it was a scepter.

  "We're going to die," Ford whispered.

  "I am trying!" Sheila stomped her foot. "Acting is a noble art! I had the best tutors on Aldebaran!"

  "You were trained to play Lady Macbeth," Ford sighed. "I need you to play 'Grease Monkey #2'."

  He checked his chrono. They were docking in twenty minutes.

  "Okay," Ford said, changing tactics. "New plan. You don't speak. You don't walk. You carry this heavy box."

  He shoved a tool kit into her hands. It weighed thirty pounds.

  Sheila grunted, her shoulders immediately slumping under the weight. Her posture collapsed. She looked miserable.

  "There!" Ford pointed. "Perfect! That look of heavy, miserable burden? That's a trucker. Keep that face."