“This is Pell central,” a sudden voice reached him, and the pulser stung him mercilessly, confusing him for the instant which to reach for first. He shut the pulser down, keyed in the mike, leaning forward. “You have come in at velocity above limit. Consult regulations regarding Pell operational restrictions, section 2, number 22. This is live transmission. Further instruction assumes you have brought your speed within tolerance and keep to lane. If otherwise, patrol will be moving on intercept and your time is limited to make appropriate response. Query why this approach? Identify immediately… We are now picking up your initial dump, Lucy. Please confirm ID and make all appropriate response.”
It was all ancient chatter, from the moment of station’s reception of his entry, the running monologue of lightbound com that assumed he could have begun talkback much, much earlier.
“We don’t pick up voice, Lucy. Query why silence.”
He reached lethargically for the com and punched in, frightened in this pricklishness on station’s part. “This is Stevens’ Lucy inbound on 4579 your zenith on buoy assigned lane. I confirm your contact, Pell central. Had a little com trouble.” This was a transparent lie, standard for any ship illicitly out of contact. “Please acknowledge reception.” In his ear, Pell was still talking, constant flow now, telling him what it perceived so that he would know where he was on the timeline. “Appreciate your distress, Pell central. This is Stevens talking, of Stevens’ Lucy, merchanter of Wyatt’s Star Combine, US 48-335 Y. Had a scare on entry, minor malfunction, put me out of contact a moment. I’m all right now. Had a backup engaged, no further difficulty. Please give approach and docking instructions. I’m solo on this run and wanting a sleepover, Pell central. I appreciate your assistance. Over.”
Communication from Pell ran on, an overlapping jabber now, as the com board gave up trying to compress it and created two flows that would drive a sane man mad. He slumped in the seat which embraced him and held his aching bones, unforgiving even in its softest places. He blinked from time to time, kept his eyes open, to make sure the lines on the approach graph matched. He listened for key words out of the com flow, but Pell seemed convinced now that he was honest—still possible, another, dimmer voice insisted in his head, that some patrol ship could pop up out of nowhere, meaning business.
Station op, in the long hours, began to send him questions and instructions. He was on the verge of hallucinating. Once station queried him sharply, and he woke in a sweat, eyes scanning the instruments wildly, trying to find out where he was, how close—and too close, entering the zone of traffic.
“You all right, Lucy?” the voice was asking him. “Lucy, what’s going on out there?”
“All right,” he murmured. “I’m here. Receiving you clear. Say again, Pell central?”
Getting in was nightmare. It was like trying to line up a jump blind drunk. He stared slackjawed at the screens and did the hairbreadth lineup maneuvers on visual alone, which no larger ship could have dared try, but he was far too fuzzed to use comp and read it out, only to take its automated warnings, which never came. He was proud of himself with a manic satisfaction as he made the final touch, like the same drunk successfully walking a straight line: only one beep out of comp in the whole process, and Lucy nestled into the lockto dead center.
He was so satisfied he just sat there. Dockside com came on and told him to open his docking ports, and his hands were shaking so violently he had trouble getting the caps off the switches.
“This is Pell customs and dock security,” another voice came through. “Have your papers ready for inspection.”
He reached for com. “Pell customs, this is Stevens of Lucy. We’ve come in without cargo due to a scheduling foulup at Viking. You’re welcome to check my holds. I’m Wyatt’s Star Combine. I’m carrying just ship-consumption goods. Papers are ready.” He tried to gather his nerves to face official questions, suddenly recalled the gold stored in a drop panel in the aftmost hold, and his stomach turned over. He reached and opened the docking access in answer to a blinking light and a repeated request from dock crews on the shielded-line channel, and his ears popped from the slight pressure change as the hatch opened. “Sorry, Pell dock control. Didn’t mean to miss that adjustment. I’m a little tired.”
A pause. “Lucy, this is Pell Dock Authority. Are you all right aboard? Do you need medical assistance?”
“Negative, Pell Dock Authority.”
“Query why solo?”
He was too muddled to think. “Just limped in, Pell Dock.” The fear was back, a knot clenched in the vicinity of his stomach. “This is a hired-crew ship. My last crew met relatives on Viking and ran out on me. I had no choice but to take her out myself; and I couldn’t get cargo. I limped in all right, but I’m pretty tired.”
There was a long silence. It frightened him as all thoughtful reactions did, and sent a charge of adrenalin through him. “Congratulations, then, Lucy. Lucky you got here at all. Any special assistance needed?”
“No, ma’am. Just want a sleepover. Except—is Reilly’s Dublin at dock? Got a friend I want to find.”
“That’s affirmative on Dublin, Lucy. Been in dock two days. Any message?”
“No, I’ll find her.”
A silence. “Right, Lucy. We’ll want to talk to you about dock charges, but we can do the paperwork tomorrow if you’re willing to leave your ship under Pell Security seal.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I need to come by your exchange and arrange credit”
A pause. “That was WSC, Lucy?”
“Wyatt’s Star, yes, ma’am. A twenty, that’s all. Just a drink, a sandwich, and a place to sleep. Want to open an account for WSC at Pell. Transfer of three thousand Union scrip. I can cover it.”
Another pause. “No difficulty, Lucy. You just leave her open all the way and we’ll put our own security on it while customs checks her. What’s your Alliance ID?”
Apprehension flooded through him, rapid sort in a tired brain. “Don’t have that, Pell Dock. I’m fresh from Unionside.”
“Unionside number, then.”
“686-543-5608.”
“686-543-5608. Got you clear, then, Lucy, on temporary. Personal name?”
“Stevens. Edward Stevens, owner and captain.”
“Luck to you, Stevens, and a pleasant stay.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He reached a trembling hand for the board, broke contact and shut down everything, put a lock on comp and on the log; and already in the back of his mind he was calculating, about the gold, about turning that with a little dock-side trade, a little deal off the manifest, very quiet, putting the profit into account, making it look right. There were ways. Dealers who would fake a bill. It might be good here. Might be the place he had hoped to find. And Dublin…
She was here.
He hauled himself out of the cushion and walked back to the access lift at the side of the lounge, opened the hatch below and got a waft of mortally cold air. He got a jacket from the locker, shrugged it on and patted his coveralls pocket to be sure he had the papers, then committed himself and took the lift down into the accessway, got out facing the short dingy corridor to the lock, and the yellow lighted gullet of the station access tube at the end. He shivered convulsively, zipped his jacket, and walked down and through the tube into the noise of the dock and the thumping of the machinery that was busy blowing out Lucy’s small systems.