We didn’t have time to wonder at his words. Shields whipped his ship around on gyros, blasted a second or two, and put her dead in space with us pronto-and used very little fuel, despite his bellyaching. I grabbed every man we could spare and managed to get the cargo clear before we swung into Earth’s shadow. Weightlessness is an unbelievable advantage in handling freight; we gutted the Half Moon-by hand, mind you-in fifty-four minutes.
The stuff was oxygen tanks, loaded, and aluminum mirrors to shield them, panels of outer skin-sandwich stuff of titanium alloy sheet with foamed glass filling-and cases of jato units to spin the living quarters. Once it was all out and snapped to our cargo line I sent the men back by the same line-I won’t let a man work outside without a line no matter how space happy he figures he is. Then I told Shields to send over the passenger and cast off.
This little guy came out the ship’s air lock, and hooked on to the ship’s line. Handling himself like he was used to space, he set his feet and dived, straight along the stretched line, his snap hook running free. I hurried back and motioned him to follow me. Tiny, the new man, and I reached the air locks together.
Besides the usual cargo lock we had three Kwikloks. A Kwiklok is an Iron Maiden without spikes; it fits a man in a suit, leaving just a few pints of air to scavenge, and cycles automatically. A big time saver in changing shifts. I passed through the middle-sized one; Tiny, of course, used the big one. Without hesitation the new man pulled himself into the small one.
We went into Tiny’s office. Tiny strapped down, and pushed his helmet back. “Well, McNye,” he said. “Glad to have you with us.”
The new radio tech opened his helmet. I heard a low, pleasant voice answer, “Thank you.”
I stared and didn’t say anything. From where I was I could see that the radio tech was wearing a hair ribbon.
I thought Tiny would explode. He didn’t need to see the hair ribbon; with the helmet up it was clear that the new “man” was as female as Venus deMilo. Tiny sputtered, then he was unstrapped and diving for the view port. “Dad!” he yelled. “Get the radio shack. Stop that ship!”
But the Half Moon was already a ball of fire in the distance. Tiny looked dazed. “Dad,” he said, “who else knows about this?”
“Nobody, so far as I know.”
He thought a bit. “We’ve got to keep her out of sight.
That’s it-we keep her locked up and out of sight until the next ship matches in.” He didn’t look at her.
“What in the world are you talking about?” McNye’s voice was higher and no longer pleasant.
Tiny glared. “You, that’s what. What are you-a stowaway?’
“Don’t be silly! I’m G. B. McNye, electronics engineer. Don’t you have my papers?”
Tiny turned to me. “Dad, this is your fault. How in Chr- pardon me, Miss. How did you let them send you a woman? Didn’t you even read the advance report on her?”
“Me?” I said. “Now see here, you big squarehead! Those forms don’t show sex; the Fair Employment Commission won’t allow it except where it’s pertinent to the job.”
“You’re telling me it’s not pertinent to the job here?”
“Not by job classification it ain’t. There’s lots of female radio and radar men, back Earthside.”
“This isn’t Earthside.” He had something. He was thinking of those two-legged wolves swarming over the job outside. And G. B. McNye was pretty. Maybe eight months of no women at all affected my judgment, but she would pass.
“I’ve even heard of female rocket pilots,” I added, for spite.
“I don’t care if you’ve heard of female archangels; I’ll have no women here!”
“Just a minute!” If I was riled, she was plain sore. “You’re the construction superintendent, are you not?”
“Yes,” Tiny admitted.
“Very well, then, how do you know what sex I am?’
“Are you trying to deny that you are a woman?”
“Hardly! I’m proud of it. But officially you don’t know what sex G. Brooks McNye is. That’s why I use ‘G’ instead of Gloria. I don’t ask favors.”