We were in a station bar on Luna Three: me, Frenchy, Pico, and the Old Man, enjoying some rare down time waiting for the Earth cargo shuttle. The next table held a crew about to head outsystem on a colonization run. A big sloppy-looking guy was rousing the rabble.

 

"Even with Jump Drive it's a six year trip, but to us it's five months 'cause of time dilation. So they figure they only owe us for five months? It ain't right!"

 

"Now, Sully, no sense being greedy! They're only getting five months work outta you; whaddaya expect? Besides, the bonuses—"

 

"Bonuses?! Chump change! I say we strike, real pay for real time!"

 

"Yeah? And then what?" This was an older crewman. "I'll tell you what: Management gets sore, rounds up a new crew, and we're out on our asses. No, you listen to me, boys, and you'll do fine. This gig's all about perks."

 

He had their attention; mine too. I love learning a new trick. Frenchy and Pico were talking sports and the Old Man was zoning, so I slid back a few inches in my chair to hear better.

 

"Rent's free; food's free — hell, even uniforms's free. We come home to a paycheck, and we keep every credit. That's perks! And another thing: Compound interest. Take that paycheck, buy Luna City bonds, it doubles by the time we're back. Take five trips, you're two years older with twelve years pay. Me, I can retire now; but why would I? I'm watching it roll in! Perks — and compound interest! Save your money, boys!" With that, he drained his beer and left.

 

Sully and his cronies stayed where the beer was. He gave me the side-eye, but I pretended to be enthralled by Frenchy's monologue (something about the Indy 500) and he bought it.

 

"My idea," he said and paused. His mates were listening to Pico, who'd just announced that next year it'd be the Indy 501. Sully hammered on the table until he had their attention. "My idea is this: Wine!"

 

They were doubtful. "I like beer," said one to general agreement.

 

"No, I mean we buy wine. We don't drink it," explained Sully.

 

This had them mystified. "I can not drink plenty of wine without having to buy it," said a crewman.

 

"No, because if there's no wine to drink—" began another.

 

"Then I'm not drinking no wine," finished the first. The others nodded, but dubiously. "It ain't rocket surgery," he continued.

 

The third crewman looked up. "Hey, I am a ro—"

 

Sully hit the table again. "No, I mean nobody drinks it!" Seeing only confusion, he went on. "I mean, we don't drink it, we buy it to sell later. We... we invest!" With that, he sat back triumphantly and smiled.

 

This was new. "You mean, like opening a bar? I always wanted to run a bar," said the third guy.

 

"No, investment. I get it. Like the futures market. Common-oddities!"

 

Sully shook his head. "Naw; that's for bankers. I mean like, we buy it now, and when we get back it's got older, and it's like, vintage. So we sell it and make a bundle!"

 

This seemed plausible even to me, and I was still only on my second beer.

 

"So how's this sposta work?"

 

Sully beamed. "I got all that figured. Them fancy bars down on the surface, right, Kepler base and the tourists? They import wine from Earth. I know a guy, he arranges unofficial space on the supply shuttle, and BAM! We got us fifty cases of wine! It's cheap, right, 'cause it's fresh. We get back, we sell it to the moon guys as special vintage stuff, 'cause it's six years older."

 

They talked that over. I'd seen a problem, but figured they'd pick up on it eventually. They did.

 

"So where do we stash it for six years? Leave it in orbit, anyone could take it. Besides, it'd freeze in space, and that's no good."

 

"Actually, it'd boil. Sun hits it, no atmosphere, it boils. Common miscon... miscon... error. Common mistake."

 

"Boils?! That's even worse!"

 

The third guy began, "They boil wine for brandy..." but Sully wasn't going to let the conversation get away from him that easy.

 

"Naw, I got that figured too," he said. "We bring it on the ship with us. All we got is colonists, so we're way under mass limit. I heard the cargo chief talking about it."

 

They all started talking at once, a sure sign he'd convinced them. A waved hand brought quiet. "I got it all arranged. Wine comes in on tonight's shuttle. We each pay one share, and we sell it when we get back for, like, five times what we paid. Maybe ten!"

 

I leaned forward and refilled my mug from the pitcher; Pico and Frenchy were still at it, but at what I couldn't tell. The Old Man was watching me with a twinkle in his eye. He'd heard Sully's whole plan too, and had also seen the flaw.

 

"You gonna tell 'em, Bob?" he asked, sotto voice.

 

I shook my head. "Not my problem. Besides, even if the wine only ages five months, the labels will still be six years old. Ever know a wine snob that could honestly tell the difference?"

 

He shrugged. "Don't ask me; I drink beer. Wine drunk's a violent drunk."

 

I looked over at Pico and Frenchy, who were, for some reason only they could understand, about to come to blows. "Words to live by."

 

We separated them and got them back to the ship, where they'd sleep it off and soon be friends again. Then I went down to meet the shuttle for our shipment — and some mild blackmail. Sneaking private cargo's against regs. Normally I wouldn't, but we'd be well underway long before that colonizer's crew woke up. After that... Hell, after six years, who was gonna remember?