It was deep into midwatch and it was just me and the cargobots down in Cargo Hold Three. One of the bots had gone rogue and was hiding in among the farm tractors that made up the bulk of this load, and for the life of me I couldn't find the little bugger. This had started happening at least once every trip, and what was causing the glitches was beyond me.

 

Then again, reprogramming robots was a job for the ship's engineer, not me. My night ended when I finally found the damned thing; it was industriously cleaning and replacing every bolt on a brand-new John Deere. I shut it down, told one of its fellow bots to haul it down to Frenchy's shop in Engineering, yawned mightily, and popped over to the galley to grab some cold cuts and coffee before bed.

 

The next morning when Davies delivered my reset cargobot, I was still one bot short. Turned out, the one I'd sent down to deliver it had never returned. Before I went looking I stopped by the mess for coffee... and there it was, doing what looked startlingly like the foxtrot right in the middle of the floor. It was less that and more the way everyone else studiously ignored it that finally clued me in: This had all been one of Frenchy's elaborate pranks. I stifled a sigh, sent it dancing on down to Engineering, and decided to think up a fitting revenge.

 

Now, I want to be clear: I'm not a vindictive man. I don't really enjoy practical jokes, but it's obvious Frenchy does, so why not humor him? Besides, these were harmless; what's the worst that could happen?

 

That was my thinking when I sent my message ahead to Luna Three, with a special order.

 

* * *

 

We were only two days out when Frenchy struck again, and I was ready. Each cargobot now had a tiny tracker hidden inside, so it only took me about five minutes to find the thing. I shut the bot down, set my trap, and then carefully poured pine resin all over the grippers, the joints, and the access panel. Then I set it under a heat lamp and went to bed. By morning it had about half-dried, and I sent it on down to Frenchy.

 

Well, of course he couldn't very well complain about cleanup if his own prank had ruptured something in the hold; besides, he was probably chuckling, thinking I'd have plenty to clean up myself. His mate Reese told me it took him three shifts and four different solvents to get the joints clean. I'm a thoughtful soul so I passed on a tip: isopropyl alcohol will take it right off, no problem.

 

About twenty minutes into the third shift the signal came, and I woke up to watch the recording. I'd hidden a button cam inside the repair bay and another under the access panel, so I got it from two angles: Frenchy scrubbing and scrubbing until he could finally pry the panel open, getting his face good and close and then flipping up the lid — only to get a spring-loaded faceful of the stinkiest cheese I'd been able to find on Luna. It's actually called Stinking Bishop, it had cost a week's pay, and I was spreading it on toast when he made it into the mess the next morning, still reeking. As a bonus touch, both videos were playing on repeat on the overheads.

 

Of course you know: that meant war.

 

* * *

 

I'd anticipated an escalation and had vacated my quarters that morning. I left the hatch standing open to taunt him; he saw it, looked straight into my button cam (how he found it I'll never know) and gave me the evillest grin imaginable. I shoulda known better; for the next three days I was nervous as a three-tailed cat at an Irish dancing contest. Finally he glued me into my chair in the mess and it was on.

 

Through Jump and for two days after, we went back and forth, me with my storebought gags and him with thirty years of experience and an unmatched reservoir of pure cussedness. For all that I was hopelessly outclassed, I did fairly well. The itching powder was a huge hit.

 

Then he caught me in the head with the old reverse-pressure trick; it was unspeakable. The showers only had icy water with bright green dye. I left them for the next guy and crossed to the starboard head.

 

Unfortunately for both of us, the next guy was the captain.

 

* * *

 

I've never seen the Old Man so mad. He was bright green and dripping, and neither Frenchy or me so much as cracked a grin. He ripped right into us, tore up one side and down the other, went on about company property and damage to the ship and morale, and docked us both two weeks pay. I was genuinely sorry by the time he finished with, "And now, you two: shake hands and be done with it!"

 

We turned to face each other. I said, "Sorry, Fre- uh, Jacques."

 

"No 'ard feelins, ma friend; you done good."

 

He grinned at me and stuck his hand out, and I reached for it. Suddenly the captain bellowed, "TAKE THAT DAMNED JOY BUZZER OFF!"

 

I can take a hint. I did as I was told.

 

Then Frenchy sighed, reached behind him, and unplugged a power cord from the wall. He pulled the high-tension cable out of his sleeve, grinned that evil grin at me, and stuck his hand out again.

 

"Now, we call it a draw, eh?"