To Sonja's left was the porthole with its view of the gassy expanse of Jupiter. To her right was the beached whale carcass of her spent trick, spread-eagle on his back, guttural snore issuing from his flabby lips.

Making no effort not to disturb him, with some difficulty she climbed out of the bed and went to the bathroom to wash herself. She was permitted one shower per week until the plumbing crew got the station in working order and had to rely for now on sponge baths. The air in the station dried her skin out, so maybe it was just as well.

"Hey, Snooks," the trick mumbled, rolling onto his side and trying to prop up his head. He was drunk. "You wanna add on a freezestick?" That was the current term for oral sex performed on the male.

"No," said Sonja firmly, towel in hand. "I am officially done for the day. Get up."

When the man didn't move, she shoved him. Reluctantly, he forced his bulk up and sluggishly pulled on his pants. She kept on cleaning up as if she was already alone in the tiny cabin.

"You're a selfish bitch," he told her in a somewhat listless manner as he left.

Sonja was used to abusive remarks. Some interior part of her psyche did feel them, but long ago she had learned to bury them under layers of hard-edged reserve.

Unruffled, she spoke to her door. "Lock and light off," she told
it. On its other side, the large red light in the form of exaggerated lips flicked off.

She opened a drawer and removed a sealed tray to pop into a wall oven. In seventy seconds, the meal was ready and she dug in. Roast soy chicken, brown rice with walnuts and gravy, carrots and peas. Not as good a meal as if she had gone to the temporary mess hall for dinner, but the peace of being left alone, of not being harassed, was worth the isolation. Sonja usually only frequented the mess for breakfast, since it was her favorite meal. They had laying hens on board and fresh brown eggs, something she could never get enough of since her childhood on a farm in Wisconsin. They'd taken her in after her mother was widowed and six months later ran off, unable to bear the responsibility of four kids. But on the farm, Sonja had missed her brother and sisters and never felt safe, not with two stepbrothers who enjoyed using her when and where they pleased. She ran away to the nearest city at fourteen, and not since then had she tasted fresh brown eggs.

Amazing how so many thousands of miles from earth she could get them now. What she couldn't get was personal respect. Although what could a whore expect? Nothing was different in this rotating tin can than in a sleazy dive in Chicago -- while they all wanted you enough to pay for it, many belittled you when you turned your back. And sometimes right to your face.

The door buzzed. "Who?" she said.

"Luna," was the reply.

"Open," said Sonja and in walked her coworker, a frail little thing with ultra white skin, long flaxen hair, blue eyes like crystals. In contrast, Sonja looked almost masculine, though she was anything but. Good health had been the gift of her forebears and it flamed from every pore. She was of medium height with an athletic build. High jutting breasts, hard stomach, tight little hips. She wore her thick, chestnut hair short with shaggy bangs hanging over her long hazel eyes. In her simple stretch clothing, she looked like someone who could beat a person up if the situation called for it.

"Luna," she grunted.

"Hi Honey," said the visitor.

Luna was her usual lightsome, fairy self. She wore a diaphanous, fluttering thing over a pair of pearlescent tights and her hair drifted down her back. Many men found her irresistible while others were afraid to use her for fear of breaking her. Though far more beautiful than Sonja, it was Sonja who was the most popular of the seven "prossies" on board. With the engineers, electricians, computicians, builders and plumbers (all slangily called "plumbers"), that is. The officers and security staff were less likely to visit the prostitutes, although there were exceptions. Two of the officers had wives with them while most of the security staff were under the thumb of their Chief, Jeremy Westweiller, a fundamental religious man who was generous in expressing his opinion that the prostitutes were an abomination and should not be permitted on board. The matter was a constant bone of contention between him and Admiral Benson, top man on Europa station.

"The ladies keep the plumbers' morale up, you idiot," the Admiral so succinctly once told him in front of a slew of officers.

"Whatever you're planning to ask me to do, the answer is no,"said Sonja, recognizing the let's-party look on Luna's face.

Luna planted a kiss on Sonja's cheek. "Come on," she said. "Jimmy Acker's wife had the baby. Message came in this morning. They're having a little get-together for him in the saloon. You'll hurt his feelings if you don't show."

Sonja sighed. "Shit," she said. "Undoubtedly, Westweiller and his pious goons'll be there making life miserable."

"Don't pay them any attention, Sonja. Just ignore them; they're mean people."

"Hmmmmf," replied Sonja.

"You like Jimmy; everybody likes him. He likes you, too. You gotta show your support."

Sonja sighed. She'd been planning on watching a holofilm, one she'd waited to see for months. "All right, just a half hour. I'll put in an appearance, that's it. You can stay on without me."

Luna smiled. "Well, you¹re not wearing that, are you?"

Sonja had forgotten she was still in her robe. Grudgingly, she put on one of her stretch outfits, a purple one, then waved her hand in an exaggerated gesture for Luna to lead the way.

The "saloon" was makeshift, as was the mess hall and pretty much everything else in the station. Everyone, including the Admiral, roughed it to a certain extent. Projections for completion varied, depending on funds and the politics back home. The station was being created under pressure by the Vashnis, the only alien group that Earth had so far met up with. Ten years previously, they had made contact with Earth governments and introduced themselves as the ancient creators of the human race. After a world wide upheaval, people eventually settled down into a watchful state of relative equilibrium.

"You will need the station," the Vashnis had foretold in their austere way, "when you make contact with other civilizations. It will be the first point of contact, of delicate diplomacy. You do not want anyone visiting Earth before successfully negotiating that initial contact."

Nine countries jumped to participate, pushing through legislation in a frenzy, gathering their best scientists and engineers. Not an easy undertaking, but if all continued without too many hitches, Europa Station would be finished construction in two years.

Enough time for what Sonja had in mind -- making a bundle, then retiring from the profession. Why else would she endure this depressing and sometimes frightening environment, if not for the generous salary the Admiral paid her on top of the fees from the tricks?

For now, patrons partied in a huge, grim looking hall, crisscrossed with lasered steel rafters, ringing with the hit of hundreds of feet on the puckered steel floor. Not an amenity in sight other than the reasonably comfortable seats and small tables painted in primary colors.

"Lots of people are here," said Luna. "Look! There's Billy Dee -- he's my favorite John! Hands like silk!. And will you look at Georgia there, dressed up like a Christmas package -- she looks good in red, doesn't she? I love her forehead jewel!"

Luna was a talker but not Sonja. In fact, she'd never felt she was good at communicating period. People talked to her but not vice versa. "Shit," she now said, a frequent part of her vocabulary. "There's Westweiller's head goon."

"Don't let them ruin your fun, Sonja. Let's get a drink."

"Oh, was I having fun?" said Sonja.

She followed her friend to the bar, being careful to evade the zealous security people. After ordering a Neptune Zinger, she leaned against the back wall sipping it. Luna trilled off, threading her way happily through the crowd, tossing kisses and patting arms. Sonja's eyes were like slits as she watched the throng but they opened wide when the Admiral arrived in his usual bustle, this time accompanied by a Vashni couple, newly arrived on the station.

"You like those aliens, huh?" said Zed Numan, a 'puter engineer on deck five. He was an infrequent customer but a good friend.

"They're interesting," said Sonja, still glued to the strange
couple. "What are they? Two and a half meters tall? At least a head more than the Admiral for sure."

"Yeah, they¹re lanky all right," said Zed, lighting up a safe-cig. He offered one to Sonja but she shook her head. "I hear they live two, three hundred years. And they mate for life, generally. Man, living with the same mate for that long? I don't know."

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