As is normal, the party members meet up for breakfast to discuss their plans for the day. Most of the party members have little to occupy themselves, but Max has a busy day needing to arrange for delivery of the gasoline and chemicals and also try to try and see if he can find a buyer for the Ruthenium. He is hampered by the fact that there is no internet or cellphone coverage on the primitive planet and so he spends much of the day pumping credit coins into payphones and thumbing through directories.
His first call of the day is to the local branch office of Hortalez et Cie. He arranges a meeting for 10.30am the following day. He then calls the broker for the gasoline and chemicals before heading back to the ship in order to wait for the transport to arrive.
There’s not a lot for the rest of the party to do apart from to wait for the meeting with the bank manager while heeding Marc’s warning that it’s not particularly safe for Impies outside the fortified starport. The starport is not a particularly thrilling place to spend a day as it’s more like a fortress than a transport hub. It brings back memories to those who have served in the armed forces as there is a huge military presence here, with half the occupants seemingly Imperial Marines or hired mercenaries.
A couple of hours after he made the call, the transort arrives. The Moffett Field Stevedores’ Union, the licensed workmen who load and unload starships here, quite cheerful and happy to get the job done and quickly. As the cargo is HAZMAT, their special team conducts the offloading process from Unguin’s Princess. The Fuel cargo is directly offloaded onto four heavy 18-wheeled tractor trailers bearing the logo Janus Truck & Transport Company and taken away. The fertilizer containers are loaded directly onto nine similar ground vehicles, bearing the name Trailways Transport Carriers.
Max notes that the HAZMAT loaders, while friendly, do get a bit short with the truck drivers about how they back up, and the use of their turn signals during the operation.
“Chill out man,” Max says to the loader, just wanting to get the exercise finished and the paperwork signed as quickly as possible. “What’s the big deal?”
“The drivers are scabs,” the loader says with disgust, "New-hires – strike breakers, and aren’t up to speed like the former drivers.”
Max shrugs, not wanting to get involved in politics. “Facking stevedores,” he mutters to himself. “Bunch of facking commies the lot of them – they think they’re so facking important and all they do is move boxes from here to there. A facking trained monkey could do it. Soon as they’re replaced by robots everywhere, the easier my job will be.”
The tension between the stevedores and drivers calms down, the cargo is finally loaded and the trucks drive away. Max takes the paperwork to Port Authority Chief, Glandar Rumpl, who signs off on the receipt bill of lading.
“Nice one,” Max mutters to himself once more. “That should be another 150k in the bank.”
He heads back to the Novetel to pass on the news that everything went fine with the cargo and has lunch with them before getting back on the phones, trying to find a buyer for the Ruthenium.
Max follows up a few leads during the afternoon, and meets the others at the end of the afternoon.
“Managed to sell the Ruthenium,” he announces. “Can’t say I got that great a price on it. We made just under 40k on it. I was ‘opin’ for more, but it could take forever on a primitive little world like this with no internet and no metropolises. I just want to get shot of it so that we can move out of here as soon as possible and claim the other 150k for shipping the HAZMAT.”
Max decides that his day’s work still deserves a ‘big night out’ and so the party members spend the evening bar hopping in the rather rough and ready bars of Moffett Field, all of which are pretty lively as the Marines and mercs spend their wages getting out of their heads.
It’s a good night, but not a late on as everyone is aware that they have the meeting with the bank manager the next morning and so they don’t want to ruin it by turning up with hangovers, so everyone is in bed by midnight.