"Fine. Thanks!" Sakerson could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he paused at the control module.

"Catch," the SysEng added, flipping the empty banana skin at Sakerson. "Biodegradable, you know! This station needs all it can get." The portal closed on his healthy guffaw, and with Sakerson bereft of any suitable rejoinder.

It had been ignominious enough to have had to call in a systems engineer to check the mainframe, in the unlikely case that... recent developments were a systems malfunction. While all the stationers had examined their... inexplicable problem among themselves at great length... no one was bass-ackward enough to let a whisper of it off Three. Just like a SysEng to "know" it all before he'd even docked.

With a sigh. Assistant Portmaster Sakerson threw the skin at the nearest disposal hatch on his way back to the control center, wishing it were something else that apparently wasn't biodegradable.

When Sakerson reentered the control room, Ella was on Console, completing the debarkation routines. The SysEng's flashy little FTL drifted down-away from Space Station Three's Wheel before ignition and the flare vanished quickly in the twinkle of star blaze. Sakerson registered, and appreciated, the Portmaster's sour expression. "Well?" Migonigal asked his spacemate.

"Well," Ella replied with a shrug, giving the console one more tap. "Program sure ran smooth. But it always did. I just can't see how she could materialize, or whatever she does, in a mainframe built a hundred years after she breathed her last. It doesn't compute. It also doesn't make any sense." She rose and gave the disconsolate Migonigal a hug and a kiss, winking over his shoulder at Sakerson. "Little enough to titillate folks stuck out in the Void. Been kinda fun to have something to puzzle out."

Migonigal gave her a wide-eyed look of dismay. "But if that wag-winged SysEng spreads this around..."

"You're a good portmaster, sir, with a clean record," Sakerson said stoutly. "SS-Three's never had any effups, bleeds, crashes, or leaks. It's a good station and a good crew. Besides, we can always say it's just a new game."

To relieve the boredom of off-duty, "leisure" hours, Space Stations, Wheels, and Mining Platforms were immensely creative, given their limited recreational facilities. There was an ongoing informal competition to invent new "games," physical or mental! The good ones circulated.

"That's it, Sakersonboy, you tell him," Ella said, grinning. "He won't believe me and I've been his mate for yonks!" She glanced at the chrono. "Your watch, Sakersonboy. C'mon, Miggy, Rando says his new war starts at twenty-one hundred, and I'm gonna whip that war-ace no matter how long it takes me."

In self-defense, and to keep from thinking about their apparition and "her" habits - Rando Cleem had started a long drawn-out "war," winning battle after battle no matter who was his opponent.

"Us," Migonigal corrected her, letting himself be drawn out of the control room. "I figured out the tactics that had his forces retreating last watch..." The panel slid shut over the rest. Sakerson grinned ruefully. He envied Migonigal for Ella. She was all that a fellow could want in a spacemate. Trouble was that, when Sakerson had been assigned to Space Station Three six months ago, everyone was paired off, one way or another, with the exception of Sigi Tang, who was near retirement, and Iko Mesmet, who never left the spin-chambers. Sakerson tried not to feel like odd man out but his singleness was beginning to get to him.

He took the console seat, for it was now time for the routine station status check. When Sakerson began to log the results in, he really did see an improvement in the speed at which the data was reported. Once the report was finished, Sakerson altered his password. SysEngs were supposed to be discreet but no one liked to think that even the most closemouthed head in the galaxy had accessed personal data. There were fifty-nine minutes before any further routine, no scheduled arrivals, and his relief was not due for another two hours.

Rubbing his hands together, Sakerson ran a test check, to familiarize himself with the new internal systems check. That activity soon palled because, despite his proficiency and a half year's familiarity with SS-3's mainframe, he could not discern the subtle minor alterations. He had his hand halfway to the switch to looksee what was happening to Rando's war in the staff leisure facility, but he wasn't really that interested. Rando always won. He had reactions like the station's cat and must have been sleeping on military history and strategy tapes. Great man, Rando, even if he did see ghosts. Girl ghosts. Pretty girl ghosts. Cuddly girl ghosts! Sakerson hadn't seen a manifestation, though he'd found a lot of cherries in his bunkspace. Rando had pronounced her vivaciously attractive, which had annoyed his spacemate, Cliona, considerably.

Sakerson liked a calmer, dignified type of girl, but not as phlegmatic as Sinithia, the unflappable station medic. Tilda, who was Trev's mate, was aggressive and went in for tae kwon do with an enthusiasm only Rando matched. Trev usually watched. It didn't do, he'd told Sakerson privately, for two spacemates to get too physical with each other. (Having watched Tilda spar, Sakerson decided that she could deck Trev anytime she liked. It was shrewd of Trev to let her work steam off on Rando.) In any event, while there were some very good-looking female persons on board, not one had indicated they might prefer his company to that of their present attachment.

A green flashing light on the visual pad caught his attention. SPECIFY. Sakerson blinked. He didn't remember turning on the holography program but the amber-lit pad was on.

SPECIFY WHAT? APPEARANCE.

Some had said that the Carmen Miranda ghost had been generated by the holography circuits. The SysEng had put paid to that theory. But Sakerson gulped because he hadn't, to his knowledge, accessed the pad.

Then he grinned. Well, he could check the new software out, and have a bit of fun. He'd program the girl of his dreams and see what came up. He wouldn't mind a ghost of his own creation. Preferably one that didn't leave bananas where a guy could slip on the mushy things.

He entered in the spirit of the exercise so completely that the bells of change of watch sounded before he had quite finished the holograph. He just had time to name the file, "Chiquita," thinking of the SysEng's banana skin, before he filed it away under his new password. He grinned as Rando arrived, certain that would be one of the first things the war-ace would also do.

"Did you win, Rando?"

"No contest," Rando replied, slipping into the chair Sakerson vacated.

"How many does that make?"

"Hell, I lost count. Easily over the eighteen-hundred mark now."

Which was nearly as many as the Station's previous war-ace had achieved.

"Have a quiet one," Sakerson said in traditional exit fashion.

He had a light meal before going to his space, jetting himself clean before he netted down in his bunk. But sleep eluded him as his thoughts kept returning to the unfinished holograph. He had her a shade too short - he'd have to bend awkwardly to kiss her. Much more comfortable to just bend his head slightly. And the shape of her face should be oval, rather than round. He'd rather she had high cheekbones to give her face character, and a firmer jaw. The retrousse nose wouldn't fit the cheekbones: make it delicate and longer, and a broad higher brow. He'd got the hair just right, swinging in black waves to her shoulder blades. Sometimes she'd wear it up, the ends curling over the top of a headband. He'd seen some beautifully carved scrimshaws, plastic, but stained and polished like old ivory. One would go great against black hair.

The eyes proved a quandary. He vacillated between a medium green and a brilliant light blue. Then he compromised. One would be the green, the other the blue. He'd had a station mate on Alpha-2 with a blue eye and a brown eye. She said it was a genetic trait.

He hovered between a cheek dimple or a cleft in the chin - he'd seen a very beautiful pre-Silicon Age actress who'd had a fetching cleft. His mind made another tangent - would a cinema search break the monotony of Rando winning wars? Or better still, song titles!

"I'm Chiquita Banana and I'm here to say..."

Unbidden, the advertising jingle popped into his head. Old Rando wouldn't do well in that kind of game, now would he? All he ever read were strategy treatises and he only watched ancient war movies. Of course, that was all there were.

Having called up the silly tune, Sakerson found it hard to shake and ended up having to go through his Serenity Sequence to get to sleep.

"One thousand eight hundred and twelve wars is enough!" Trev yelled, enunciating carefully. "That is all, Rando, finito! The wars are over."

"Yeah, and what're we going to do now?"

" 'The skin you love to touch,' " Sakerson said, grimacing ludicrously and smoothing the back of his left hand with his fingers, blinking his eyes coyly. " 'Eighteen hour one.' "

Rando stared at Sakerson. "What's wrong with him?"

Trev shrugged.

"What's the reference?" Sakerson asked, snapping a finger at Rando. "A new game - spot the product from the jingle!"

" 'The skin you love to touch'?" Rando guffawed. Then he paused, rolling his eyes. Rando was a competitor: he hated to lose - anything. "Okay, how much boning up time do we get?"

"Anytime you're off shift," Sakerson replied, feeling generous. The brief scrolling he'd done in the history of advertising reassured him. Not even Rando's rattrap mind could encompass all the variations of the centuries. Hell, most big companies changed slogans three and four times a year. The Madison Space Platform was named for the industry that started on the famous Avenue, in honor of all the catch-phrases that had generated enthusiasm for The Big Step. "Warm-up game tomorrow thirteen hundred in the ward-room."

By 1400 the next day, half the off-duty stationers were there, nearly forty players, and Trev had programmed a tank to display the distinctive logos and watchwords. Sakerson got a buzz watching the enthusiasm of the players. In another day, it had become a fad to log in and out with some catchy slogan or whistled tune. A lot of people spoke to Sakerson in the aisles and corridors who had never noticed him before and he was feeling pretty good with himself. Except that, he still occupied single space. He keenly felt a woman need and there was simply no match for him on SS-3.

Out of this sense of loneness, he called up the Chiquita program again and made the alterations he had considered that first night. She was real pretty, his Chiquita, dark curls falling from the headband, a trim tall figure in her station togs. And he extended his daydream beyond physical appearance.

Chiquita had a quick mind, and a temper. She was a... medic?... teacher?... programmer... engineer... quartermaster... Yeah, quartermaster would fit in with his goal of Portmaster. Space required more and more stations as way-points, beacons in the deep Void, manned and ready to guide the merchantmen, cargo drones, and passenger cruisers as well as "shore leave" for naval personnel. A good team complemented each other, like Migonigal and Ella, Cliona and Rando, and Tilda and Trev. Chiquita would have been asteroid-belt born, comfortable with life on a space station because too often the planet-born got to yearning for solid earth under their feet or wind in their face or some such foolishness. She'd maybe have done some solid-side time in university so she had polish. A spacer should have experienced the alternative so s/he'd know what s/he wasn't missing. Sakerson hadn't minded four years' study on Alpha Ceti but he'd been bloody damned glad to get posted to the Alpha-2 Platform, and on to Station Three... in spite of recent "occurrences."

Then, too, the job was getting too much for the present Quartermaster, old Sigi. On the one hand, everyone did their best to help the old guy - hell, he was Original Personnel - but there came a time when you couldn't cover up because it endangered the Station.

Sakerson turned back to the more pleasant pastime. He tried to imagine Chiquita's laugh: some girls looked great and had laughs like... like squeezed plastic. And she'd have a real sparkle in her eyes so you had a clue to her inner feelings. And she'd have them, too. Straight dealing, straight talking, so he wouldn't have to think up alternatives the way Trev did with his Tilda.

He heard someone beyond the panel and he fumbled across the keys to save Chiquita to his personal file before Migonigal entered to relieve him of duty.

"No problems?" the Portmaster asked him, looking at the main panel with raised eyebrows.

"None, sir. None at all. Quiet watch, all status reports logged in quiet, too," Sakerson replied, staring the Portmaster right in the eye to prove his innocence.

"Hmmm, well, thought I saw a send flash. Personal correspondence has to go out in the public spurts, Sakerson."

Sakerson now looked back at the terminal but the only color showing was the green of stability and order.

"I know that, sir. Have a quiet."

Migonigal flashed him a quick look. "Is that a slogan, too?"

"Up here, maybe," Sakerson replied with a grin.

He left without unseeming haste and gave the matter no further thought. Until it was sleeptime and he had to slow himself down after a rousing game of Slogan, which he had won on points. Rando wasn't the fastest eidetic, on board, not by a long shot. In fact, it soon began to take all Sakerson's free time to keep ahead of Rando on the history tapes to air more and more esoteric slogans and score Rando down.

" 'The world's finest bread'?"

"Silvercup!"

" 'Let them eat cake'!"

"Not an advertising slogan! Disqualify!"

" 'When it rains, it pours'!"...

"What about 'Never scratches'?"

" 'Good to the last drop'?"

" 'I'd walk a mile for a Camel.' "

"What's a camel???"

" 'Nestle's makes the very best...' what?"

"Hey, does it have to be a product, Sakerson?"

"It has to be a slogan."

"Gotcha this time, then," Trev chortled. " 'Only YOU can prevent forest fires.' "

"Forest fires? That's prehistoric!" - "Yeah, but whose slogan was it?"

"I got one - 'You'll wonder where the yellow went...' "

"Not fair, you gotta give the whole slogan. Give us a break!"

" 'Call for Philip Morris!' "

"Who he?"

"You mean, what's he."

"Keep it clean, gang, keep it clean."

"That's not a slogan."

"No, good advice!"

Everyone caught the fever and the station sizzled as much as it had when the ghost rumor started. They sent the game on with the crew of the freighter Marigold, the light cruiser Fermi, and the destroyer Valhalla. Space Station Four beamed for the rules and then Tilda had the bright idea of trading them with Mining Platform Tau Five for twenty cases of prime gin: a grand change from Cookie's raw rum. A passenger liner bought Slogan for three carcasses of authentic earth beef meat and the Mess voted Sakerson free drinks for a week. Which, since he didn't drink much anyhow, Sakerson thought was spurious, but he took it as being a gesture of good will.

Of course, Chiquita wouldn't mind a drink or two, and she'd be very good at Slogan: nearly as quick as he was.

" '99 and 44/100% pure - it floats.' "

"Let's not mess up the Station now, gang!"

" 'Damn the torpedoes!' "

"Not applicable!"

"Well, it became a warcry."

"Warcries are not slogans!"

"I don't see why not! A slogan's a slogan. It stands for something!"

"What does 'damn the torpedoes' stand for?"

"Not surrendering when faced with invincible odds!"

" 'Nuts to you!' " Rando shouted, finally getting a chance to play.

The Police Vehicle hailed Space Station Three while Sakerson was on duty and protocol required that the Portmaster be summoned for such official arrivals. The PV came from Alpha, priority mission, coded urgent.

"I dunno," the Portmaster said, scrubbing his short-cropped gray hair. "What's the priority, Captain?" he asked the PV "Urgent personnel orders, Portmaster Migonigal! Just let us nose in. I've got the requisition and travel papers. Ship-shape and Bristol fashion, highest priority. I'm putting them in the scan now. Hear you've got some good gin aboard for a change."

"Commencing docking procedures, Captain," Migonigal replied stiffly. "Sakerson, you have the conn. Dock this... (the pause said 'sodding so-and-so') vehicle. I've got to tell Sigmund to hide some of the gin." The PVs had been known to drink a station dry, for hospitality decreed that the defenders of the Void should have unlimited access to Station consumables. "He would know about the gin," the Portmaster said with a rueful sigh. "And what in hell is he bringing in? I don't remember requisitioning anything recently, certainly nothing high priority that requires police escort!"

"They might just have been first available space, sir," Sakerson said, busy with hands and eyes on the delicate task of matching the three-dimensional speeds and shapes of a large space station and a very small, fast PV "Now, how the hell could this happen?" Migonigal demanded, watching the printout on the scanner. His question was not rhetorical but Sakerson could not spare a glance. "You can ask and ask and ask for something essential, even critical, and you can't get them to shift ass below and send it up. I could have sworn I hadn't forwarded Sigi's transfer to Control. And here I've got a replacement." Migonigal sounded totally mystified. "Not a bad looker, either." Migonigal snickered. "Makes a nice change from old Sigi. Time he retired anyhow."

"Ship's locked in, Portmaster," Sakerson said, leaning back with a sigh. Big ships were a lot easier to dock. He glanced over at Migonigal's screen and nearly fell out of his chair.

"Yeah, pretty as a picture," Migonigal went on, oblivious to the consternation of his assistant. "Perez y Jones, Chiquita Maria Luisa Caterina, b. 2088, Mining Base 2047, educated Centauri, specialty. Quartermaster. Not that much experience for we only need someone who can remember to order what we need and where it's stored."

Sakerson stared with panic-widened eyes at the ID scan. This had to be the weirdest coincidence in the galaxy. Granted that out of the trillions of physical possibilities, someone vaguely resembling his "dream" girl was theoretically possible, but the probability... Sakerson's mind momentarily refused to function. HOW? The mainframe had just been vetted: all the boards, the circuits; there hadn't been so much as a tangerine or a cherry appearing for a week, nothing since the SysEng's banana.

"I'll go down and greet her, give Sigi the good news. He won't believe it either. Yeah, while I'm doing courtesy, you call Sigi and tell him to save some of the gin for his fare- well blast." Migonigal left Sakerson to stare at the visual realization of his imagined perfect woman.

After his watch, it took all Sakerson's courage to enter the wardroom. He could hear the laughter, the cheerful conversation, always stimulated by the arrival of new personnel. Everyone would be getting to know her, getting to know his Chiquita! Rando might horn in, he and Cliona had had that brawl over slogans... Sakerson resolutely entered the cabin.

"You gotta avoid this guy, Chiquita," Rando exclaimed, seeing him first. "He's the weightless wit responsible for Slogan!"

As she turned to look at him, Sakerson's throat closed and he couldn't even gargle a greeting. She was his holo, from the slight cleft in her chin, to the way her hair was dressed, curling over a band, green eye/blue eye and sparkling, with a grin of real welcome on her sweetly curved lips. She held out a hand and even her nails were as he had imagined, long ovals, naturally pink. Dreamily, he shook her hand, reminding himself to release it when he heard a titter.

"I'm pleased to meet the man who invented Slogan," she said, her eyes sparkling candidly. How come he hadn't realized that her voice would be a clear alto?