The Weight Limit

The departure clerk lifted the stone out of Mara’s suitcase.

It was flat, black and heavier than its size suggested.

“No geological samples,” he said.

“It’s for bread.”

“Then it’s cooking equipment. Same allowance.”

Above his desk, the departures board showed twelve minutes until the last shuttle to the colony ship. Mara had spent two years earning her place. She had weighed every shirt and cut the handle off her toothbrush.

The stone had belonged to her father.

She took out a pair of boots.

“Still over.”

Her winter coat.

“The colony has winters.”

“I know.”

Behind her, a man sighed into his boarding papers.

The clerk turned the stone over. A pale crescent marked the underside.

“Does it need to be whole?”

Mara stared at him.

“The heaters are smaller out there. I checked the housing plans.”

“My father used this one.”

“For how many loaves at once?”

“Six.”

“How many are you taking with you?”

“People?”

He nodded.

“Just me.”

He brought out a canvas pouch containing a hammer and a blunt chisel.

“Cargo repairs,” he said. “Your decision.”

Mara laid the stone on the floor. She remembered her father tapping its surface with his knuckle, listening for cracks. He would have hated what she was about to do.

Then she remembered him breaking an overlarge loaf against the table because nobody could find the bread knife.

She placed the chisel.

The first blow did nothing. The second left her with a piece large enough for one small loaf.

At the scanner, the clerk handed back her coat.

The man behind her picked up the larger fragment.

“My wife’s already on the ship,” he said. “She packed all my clothes. I’ve got room.”

Mara looked from his empty case to the stone.

“Six,” she said. “It makes six.”

“I’ll tell her to invite someone.”