Jerome mused, half to himself, as he rubbed his chin. “I remember your numbers, I’ve read the reports. So be it. What do I have to do to finalize the financial arrangements?”

Pascal spoke slowly, not wishing to reveal how anxious he was to get JB’s approval. “I’ve already reserved Thorn, a used barkentine. You just need to sign the commitment for outfitting her. Once that’s done, the orbital factories will start fabricating the sails—we’ve already sent them our specs. We’ll use the Jovian funds for both of those efforts. The only cash outlay you need to worry about will be our transport out to Jupiter.”

“Which leaves only the human element,” Jerome said. “Even now I find it hard to believe that we can win this race.” He swiveled in his chair to face the woman who sat beside Pascal. She was the best captain in his fleet and winner of more sailboat races than he could count. She’d been unusually quiet since she came in the office.

“Do you think you can race one of those barques, Louella?” he asked her quietly. “Do you think you can sail a boat on the seas of Jupiter?”

Pascal held his breath as he awaited her answer. The success of their entire enterprise, and the payoff for the past year’s worth of intense training, rested on her reply. The answer she gave would make or break the deal.

“I could sail a fucking bathtub on the Sun if the price was right,” she spat back. “Now how the hell do I get a drink around here?”

Rams had stopped at the station in the hopes that there would be an opportunity for business. That, and a chance to restock his supplies. In order to keep his ship, Primrose, he had to take advantage of every opportunity that came his way.

Jake, an irritable old scamp who knew everything there was to know about sailing the winds of Jupiter, had taught Rams how to sail. Rams learned that every ship had its own personality. He learned how to balance keel and ballast, how to adjust the ship’s buoyancy to ride the turbulence.