"Eighteen thousand, one hell of a haul. I didn't think you had that kind of luck anymore." The scrapper slid a thin, translucent screen across his cluttered wooden desk as Clay pressed and held his thumb next to the dotted line, the snap of a shutter is heard a few times as a canned voice of 'Thank you' is heard. Hopefully it would be enough to get his crew back into to black and on their way to greener pastures.
"'Luck' is getting resupplied and back into orbit before the end of the cycle. Security always tightens up during tourist season." Clay picked up the small screen and tucked it into a pocket in his long wool coat. The solid color of his once black coat had faded into a stern gray, a well-worn defense against the cold despite it being peppered with pellet-sized holes. "Not to mention the cost of refueling, every station from here to the Gate doubles their price to meet the 'demand' and offset their costs of a slow winter. Ninety days of pristine beaches and warm weather - four hundred in the driving cold. I still don't see why you stick around this place." Clay drew out a pack of cigarettes as he made his way closer to the door and into the busy world around them. He struck the cigarette against the side of the pack, the paper turning a crimson hue as the end sparked to life with a faint sizzle and a puff of gray smoke.
Frank the scrapper followed in right behind him, a heavyset man in greasy overalls, his brow dripping with sweat even though he had stepped away to the comforts of his office. A life spent salvaging broken down equipment and derelict transports had taken its toll on the old man, every inch of his exposed skin looked scarred or calloused except for the ring finger on his left hand which was cut off right above the knuckle. The noise and the machinery quickly surrounded them as they stepped out into the busy salvage yard. Machines worked in unison to process the latest addition to their stock of material, sorting and moving scrap metal to the long conveyor belts that fed the factory at the heart of the complex.
"I stay because this is the closest place anyone can get fabricated parts without shipping it from off-world sources by the metric ton and have you priced a load of pure steel lately? This little camp can supply both at a much cheaper rate and side-step a few taxes in the process. Even if they wanted to buy from someone else, no one would risk it. Any pilot with half a brain wouldn't chance landing a freighter in the dead of winter and they don't want to deal with them assholes at the Port Authorities neither....always 'fill out this form, declare this, we'll get back to you, surprise inspection - let's tear our your hull and see what's in there.' It's enough to make you go mad. You can land that little puddle-jumper any place covered in ice and you're small enough to go unnoticed so I'd say the inclement weather gives guys like us a niche in this temperamental hell-hole of a paradise."
Frank raised a hand to pull the cigarette from Clay's mouth, dropping it to the ground and meeting it with a firm stomp of his boot. "It's just a shame you can't afford a piece of solid ground to call your own around here. You get used to the winter months and we'd make money hand over fist."
"I'd just spend it all on cigarettes...you can see how expensive that can be, sparking up every other minute." Clay pulled out another cigarette, striking it against the pack and lighting up once again. Had it been his last cigarette, there might have been a problem but it would never stop Frank from prodding him into quitting. "I can see why you quit." Clay looked out to the shuttle with a small smile, the scrap in its cargo bay being unloaded by a large machine as one of his deckhands began arguing with the lift operator.
"Yeah, that sweet smell does take me back...but the ex-wife couldn't stand it, If she only knew how skinny I would be if I didn't quit-" Frank started to laugh again, a series of chuckles erupted into a coughing fit that seemed to rack the man to his core. "I suppose it wouldn't be the worst thing I'd be inhaling around this place." business came the usual chat about local politics, the costs of doing business, the dancing puppet of an "elected" leader and the men behind the curtain pulling the strings.
Frank ended the casual banter, two distant friends catching up between ports of call. "The poor stay poor, suffering through the brutal winters, and the rich come down to visit, weather permitted. Those in the middle get by on what they can, however they can, living it up in the summer....trying to survive the winter. It's a vicious, parabolic cycle."
Clay ended it with a sigh, counting down the minutes before he had to hop back into his ship and get back to work...and it's such a shame, he had just gotten used to the ground beneath his feet.