Nursery Sam

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I was trying to get away from the senator who wanted to marry me. So I’m sitting in the Clipper—riding tourist fare—waiting for the engines to light off and fly us to my zero g hotel, when who traipses into the cabin but Jack Spratt and his wife.

With a baby.

I scrunched way down in my seat. I didn’t want them to see me. I had enough troubles without a pissed-off former employee staring daggers at me for the whole ride up to orbit.

His name wasn’t really Jack Spratt, of course. It was Larry Karsh, and he had been a pretty key player in my old company, VCI. But that goddamnable Pierre D Argent, the silver-haired slimeball, had hired him away from me and Larry wouldn’t have gone to work at Rockledge if he hadn’t been sore at me for some reason. Damned if I knew what.

OK, maybe I shouldn’t have called them the Spratts. But you know, Larry was so skinny he hardly cast a shadow and Melinda was—well, the kindest word is zaftig, I guess. She could just look at a potato chip and gain two kilos. Larry could clean out a whole shopping mall’s worth of junk food and never put on an ounce. So with him such a classic ectomorph and Melinda so billowy despite every diet in the world, it just seemed natural to call them Jack Spratt and his wife.

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