“But why? The fungus isn’t worth it. There isn’t enough market. You’re pulling a bluff, Chris. What do you want? A bigger cut?”
Christie regarded his meerschaum. “Nope. Remember the ore tests twelve years ago? There’s valuable ores on Fria, Logger. Only it’s got to be refined plenty. Otherwise it’s too bulky for shipment.
And the equipment would cost too much to freight by spaceship. It’s big stuff-I mean big.”
Hilton glanced at Danvers. The skipper was purple now, but his mouth was clamped tightly.
“But-hold on, Chris. How can Transmat get around that? By sending the crude ores to Earth in their gadgets?”
“The way I heard it,” Christie said, “is that they’re going to send the refining machines here and set ’em up right on Fria. All they need for that is one of their transmitters. The field can be expanded to take almost anything, you know. Shucks you could move a planet that way if you had the power!
They’ll do the refining here and transmit the refined ores back Earthside.”
“So they want ores,” Danvers said softly. “They don’t want the fungus, do they?”
Christie nodded. “It looks like they do. I had an offer. A big one. I can’t afford to turn it down, and you can’t afford to meet it, Skipper. You know that as well as I do. Thirteen bucks a pound.”
Danvers snorted. Hilton whistled.
“No, we can’t meet that,” he said. “But how can they afford to pay it?”
“Quantity. They channel everything through their transmitters. They set one up on a world, and there’s a door right to Earth-or any planet they name. One job won’t net them much of a profit, but a million jobs-and they take everything! So what can I do, Logger?”
Hilton shrugged. The captain stood up abruptly.
Christie stared at his pipe.
“Look, Skipper. Why not try the Orion Secondaries? I heard there was a bumper crop of bluewood gum there.”
“I heard that a month ago,” Danvers said. “So did everybody else. It’s cleaned out by now. Besides, the old lady won’t pay for a trip like that. I’ve got to get an overhaul fast, and a good one, back in the System.”
There was a silence. Christie was sweating harder than ever. “What about that drink?” he suggested.
“We can maybe figure a way.”
“I can still pay for my own drinks,” Danvers lashed out. He swung around and was gone.
“Jehoshaphat, Logger!” Christie said. “What could I do?”
“It’s not your fault, Chris,” Hilton said. “I’ll see you later, unless-anyhow, I’d better get after the skipper. Looks like he’s heading for Twilight.”
He followed Danvers, but already he had lost hope.
Chapter 3. Danvers Lays the Course
Two days later the skipper was still drunk.
In the half-dusk of Twilight, Hilton went into a huge, cool barn where immense fans kept the hot air in circulation, and found Danvers, as usual, at a back table, a glass in his hand. He was talking to a tiny-beaded Canopian, one of that retrovolved race that is only a few degrees above the moron level. The Canopian looked as though he was covered with black plush, and his red eyes glowed startlingly through the fur. He, too, had a glass.
Hilton walked over to the two. “Skipper,” he said.
“Blow,” Danvers said. “I’m talking to this guy.”
Hilton looked hard at the Canopian and jerked his thumb. The red-eyed shadow picked up his glass and moved away quickly. Hilton sat down.
“We’re ready to jet off,” he said.
Danvers blinked at him blearily. “You interrupted me, mister. I’m busy.”
“Buy a case and finish your binge aboard,” Hilton said. “If we don’t jet soon, the crew will jump.”
“Let ’em.”
“Okay. Then who’ll work La Cucaracha back to Earth?”
“If we go back to Earth, the old lady will land on the junkpile,” Danvers said furiously. “The ITC
won’t authorize another voyage without a rebuilding job.”
“You can borrow dough.”
“Ha!”
Hilton let out his breath with a sharp, angry sound. “Are you sober enough to understand me? Then listen. I’ve talked Saxon around.”
“Who’s Saxon?”
“He was shanghaied on Venus. Well-he’s a Transmat engineer.” Hilton went on quickly before the skipper could speak. “That was a mistake. The crimp’s mistake and ours. Transmat stands behind its men. Saxon looked up the Transmat crew on Fria, and their superintendent paid me a visit. We’re in for trouble. A damage suit. But there’s one way out. No hyper ship’s due to hit Fria for months and the matter transmitter won’t be finished within two months. And it seems Transmat has a shortage of engineers. If we can get Saxon back to Venus or Earth fast, he’ll cover. There’ll be no suit.”
“Maybe he’ll cover. But what about Transmat?”
“If Saxon won’t sign a complaint, what can they do?” Hilton shrugged. “It’s our only out now.”
Danvers’ brown-splotched fingers played with his glass.
“A Transmat man,” he muttered. “Ah-h. So we go back Earthside. What then? We’re stuck.” He looked under his drooping lids at Hilton. “I mean I’m stuck. I forgot you’re jumping after this voyage.”
“Pm not jumping. I sign for one voyage at a time. What do you want me to do, anyhow?”
“Do what you like. Run out on the old lady. You’re no deepspace man.” Danvers spat.
“I know when I’m licked,” Hilton said; “The smart thing then is to fight in your own weight, when you’re outclassed on points, not wait for the knockout. You’ve had engineering training. You could get on with Transmat, too.”
For a second Hilton thought the skipper was going to throw the glass at him. Then Danvers dropped back in his chair, trying to force a smile.
“I shouldn’t blow my top over that,” he said, with effort. “It’s the truth.”
“Yeah. Well-are you coming?”
“The old lady’s ready to jet off?” Danvers said. “I’ll come, then. Have a drink with me first.”
“We haven’t time.”
With drunken dignity Danvers stood up. “Don’t get too big for your boots, mister. The voyage isn’t over yet. I said have a drink! That’s an order.”
“Okay, okay!” Hilton said. “One drink. Then we go?”
“Sure.”
Hilton gulped the liquor without tasting it. Rather too late, he felt the stinging ache on his tongue.
But before he could spring to his feet, the great dim room folded down upon him like a collapsing umbrella, and he lost consciousness with the bitter realization that he had been Mickeyed like the rawest greenhorn. But the skipper had poured that drink.
The dreams were confusing. He was fighting something, but he didn’t know what. Sometimes it changed its shape, and sometimes it wasn’t there at all, but it was always enormous and terribly powerful.
He wasn’t always the same, either. Sometimes he was the wide-eyed kid who had shipped on Starhopper, twenty-five years ago, to take his first jump into the Big Night. Then he was a little older, in a bos’n’s berth, his eye on a master’s ticket, studying, through the white, unchangeable days and nights of hyperspace, the intricate logarithms a skilled pilot must know.
He seemed to walk on a treadmill toward a goal that slid away, never quite within reach. But he didn’t know what that goal was. It shone like success. Maybe it was success. But the treadmill had started moving before he’d really got started. In the Big Night a disembodied voice was crying thinly: “You’re in the wrong game, Logger. Thirty years ago you’d have a future in hyper ships. Not any more. There’s a new wave coming up. Get out, or drown.”