Hey, I changed this one, hoping it could be tailored to fit into my other Wash fics which are first person. It works fine until the end. Please give me some suggestions. should the part with Gyb and Jerryl be in italics or somehow else set apart? should the last section be in third person? should the last part be in first person? The only problem I'm having with the rewriting, is the 'surprise' ending. Please, please tell me how to improve this. I'm working on a grand Wash story that will have most of the fics of him I've written. It is in first person… ___________________________________

"Hey, at least this planet has sun." I shaded his eyes as I stepped down the ramp of the Firetoad. "Y'know, the planet I grew up on had such a thick layer of pollution that you couldn't even see the sun."

"That why yer so pale?" Jerryl chuckled.

I scowled at him. "It's possibly part of the reason."

"Jist so gorram hot. Never liked hot."

"Huh, never woulda guessed." I was subtly referring to Jerryl's appearance and that of those ladies he chose. The subtlety was lost. I rolled my eyes and followed the captain across the landing pad to the town.

The moon was small, and this township was the only real settlement. It didn't even have a real name; only Isis, like the moon.

The people were busy about their clear little ponds doing who-knew-what. I made out that they raised waterfowl. I saw a small girl leading a huge swan by a piece of string 'round its neck. Behind it waddled a dozen fluffy brown swanlings.

"Jerryl, how long you say we're here for?" I figured it could get all kinds of boring… but I'd find something to do.

"Till the damn mechanic can find the gorram part for the…" He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the engine room. Definitely a boat owner who knew nothing technical. I allowed myself another eye roll.

"So what do we do?"

"Doncha ever shut up, pilot?" Jerryl growled, clearly annoyed, and at a loss as to how to deal with his gregarious pilot.

"No, I guess not." I shot back, undaunted. The other walked way without another word, leaving me to make my own lonely way around town.

I wasn't about to admit it directly, but Jerryl was right about my pallor. I could feel the sun frying my skin as I walked. Shade was an immediate necessity. However, it took me several minutes to locate a suitable place. Of course the place of choice was the local tavern. I waded through an entire flock of small brown and white ducks to get there. The ducks were docile and quite unperturbed by my impatient steps in their midst. I did, however, receive a nasty look from their flock boy.

The interior of the tavern was cool and smoky, not unlike most taverns. I found a stool at the bar and glanced around at the people partaking. The room was not packed, as it was only just past midday, but there were nearly a dozen men an women lounging around out of the heat. I couldn't help but notice a large man and his wife sitting in a booth, each with a duck on either shoulder. Periodically, the man would lift his mug to them and they would dip their flat bills into the foam.

"Waste o' good beer, that." I nodded in their direction while looking meaningfully at the tender.

The tender in turn looked their way. "Naw." He switched gears, apparently not feeling the need to elaborate on how it was not so. "Where ye from, stranger?"

"Aw, here an' there." I answered. I was glad of a conversation, but had no legitimate answer. "Ship's down. Need a part."

"So you'll be 'round hereabouts fer awhile?" The tender brought me a fresh mug.

"Seems so. What sorta stuff d'ya have to do 'round here?" I sampled my new mug.

"Nothin' much. Just the birds really." The man shrugged and began to wipe down the already polished countertop.

"What about the birds?" I was genuinely curious.

"Off-worlders never believe me when I tell 'em. You'll have to see fer yerself."

I sighed. "When'll that be?"

"Come back this evenin'."

So I did. After checking in with the captain and learning that the part was being sent to Isis via Alliance post, I realized that they would be stuck here several weeks. So I headed back to the tavern after dark. I was prepared to be amused. I was prepared to be entertained. I was prepared even for the possibility of being bored out of my mind. But I was not prepared for what I would really find.

I entered the tavern to smoky light and raucous laughter. Nothing odd there. But when I made my way toward the front and saw what was going on, I stopped in mid-step and nearly toppled over. In front of me was the oddest sight that had ever assailed my eyes. And that was saying something, as I was prone to making faces at myself in the mirror. I stood, mouth agape, and watched the antics of three wiry young men as they entertained the crowd.

Between the three of them, they kept a steady stream of yellow puffballs in the air. It was hard to tell exactly what was being juggled because of the speed at which they flew about. What gave it away was the constant squeaking quacks that were emitted.

Oh, and they were good. They kept the dozen fluffy goslings in the air and in constant motion. The pattern changed constantly: five back and forth between the middle man and the right hand one, three between the right and the left, three between the middle and the left and the twelfth one occasionally tossed high into the air with a despairing peep.

After the initial shock, I clamped my jaw closed and moved a bit closer. As I watched, a grin began to spread.

*****

"Ready then? Where's the gorram pilot?" Jerryl glanced about.

Gyb, the mechanic simply shrugged, "I'm sure he's in town at the tavern, jist like always."

"Well, maybe you oughta jist go get him." Jerryl never asked. He only told. Gyb straightened and headed for the tavern.

He couldn't make it through the door. The place was packed with noisy people. He shouldered his way in as far as the pack would let him then tried to shout for me. His voice was lost amid the myriad others shouting the same name. Yes, they all appeared to be chanting my name over and over. Gyb was a shortish man and so was I, so there was no way he could see me, but he began to realize the truth as he saw puffs of yellow fly up above the heads in front of him. After several minutes of rib-jabbing and toe-stomping, Gyb was able to make his way to the front where he had a clear view of the festivities.

On the stage stood me, Hoban Washburn single-handedly juggling nine goslings. The grin on my face was big enough to fly a ship right into. Gyb didn't have the heart to call it off. He settled down and watched in fascination. This is what his pilot had been doing for the past six weeks.

****OR****

"Ready then? Where's the gorram pilot?" Jerryl glanced about.

Gyb, the mechanic simply shrugged, "I'm sure he's in town at the tavern, jist like always."

"Well, maybe you oughta jist go get him." Jerryl never asked. He only told. Gyb straightened and headed for the tavern.

He couldn't make it through the door. The place was packed with noisy people. He shouldered his way in as far as the pack would let him then tried to shout for Wash. His voice was lost amid the myriad others shouting the same name. Yes, they all appeared to be chanting the pilot's name over and over. Gyb was a shortish man and so was Wash, so there was no way he could see the pilot, but he began to realize the truth as he saw puffs of yellow fly up above the heads in front of him. After several minutes of rib-jabbing and toe-stomping, Gyb was able to make his way to the front where he had a clear view of the festivities.

On the stage stood Wash, single-handedly juggling nine goslings. The grin on his face was big enough to fly a ship right into. Gyb didn't have the heart to call it off. He settled down and watched in fascination. This is what the pilot had been doing for the past six weeks.

__________________________________________________

Author's Note: 'Swanlings' is a Wash-ism. I know baby swans are cygnets. I also know that most goslings are in fact brown, but I made 'em yellow for the fun of it.