The voice continued to pound at me.
Eventually I forced a single eye open and saw, inside a powersuit, a blurry face bent over me. It wasn’t red, and didn’t seem to have horns. But I was still hot.
Awfully hot.
“Hot,” I muttered as I felt hands tugging gently at all parts of my body. Once again I seemed to be floating, as if there were no gravity. Wherever I was, it definitely wasn’t Earth. “Hot, hot, hot/”
“Too bloody right, mate,” came the answering voice. “My suit here says it’s 51 bleeding degrees centigrade in this hellhole. It’s a bloody miracle you’re still alive!”
“Drink,” I whispered, clutching an arm. “Gimme a drink.”
I felt a bulb being placed against my lips. Water squirted into my mouth and throat. I began to choke. “Not that!” I croaked. “Gimme a drink!”
“From what it looks like, mate, you’ve drunk it all—or burned it all up.”
“Heating system,” I explained as my eye closed under the million-ton weight of its eyelid, “jus’ my liT ol’ heating system...”
When my eyes opened again I was floating in another room altogether, surrounded now by brown faces. Polynesian faces. But since I was still weightless, it was obvious that I still wasn’t on Earth. So what were all these Tahitians doing here? And why were they scowling at me so ferociously?
“You drank all of Prince Ata’s present?” demanded a voice incredulously.
“Didn’ drink it all,” I retorted indignantly, “jush made itsy-bitsy li’l’ fire to keep ol’ Jonathan warm, warm, warm...” I could feel the side of my head bumping against my shoulder. My eyes closed again.
“Wake up, White!” A hand shook my shoulder. “You’ve got to do something for us.”
“No, gotta do sump’in’ for J. Davish Alexander.” I blinked. “Don’ know what, but gotta do it.” I extended an arm imperiously. “Gimme drink, real drink.”
A bulb was placed in my hand. I drank greedily. This was a real drink, just like the stuff in the barrels.
The roundest of the brown faces leaned closer. “All you have to do, Monsieur White, is just stay in the ore-ball a little while longer.” Shiny white teeth flashed blindingly. “Not in that horrible cabin, though; in that nice big chair we’ve arranged especially for you.”
“Nice big chair?” Vague memories drifted elusively through my mind. “Nice big chair for Crown Prince—not for li’l’ Jonathan.”
“Yes, but now it’s for Jonathan.” Another bulb was thrust against my mouth. Automatically I took a swallow. “It’s just for a little while. And then we’ll give you lots and lots to drink.”
I nodded so vigorously that my chin fell against my chest and remained there. “Sure, sure, jus’ give Jonathan a li’l’ drinkie first.”
“Of course. But first—” a screenpad and stylus materialized in front of my eyes “—just sign this little release, and then we’ll give you a nice drinkie....”
I slept, I suppose, all the way down to Earth—it really was a nice chair.
Then I slept for another thirty-two hours.
When I awoke, another set of brown faces was looking down at me. Gravity—heavy gravity—pinned me to my bed.
“Felicitations, Monsieur White,” said one of the Polynesian faces. “You are the first man in history to ride an ore-ball down from orbit.”
“I am?” My eyes widened. “But... but... there was a Crown Prince. He was supposed to ride it down. You mean that I...?”
“The Crown Prince was unfortunately indisposed. You, Monsieur White, very gallantly volunteered to take his place.”
I jerked erect in horror. “I did?”
“For a very substantial bonus, of course. And for the eternal gratitude of her Majesty the Queen. The pictures of you coming out of the ore-ball and falling to your knees to kiss the Queen’s feet were most touching. Not to mention eliciting the gratitude of the stockholders of Orbex, Incorporated, as well as that of your charming associates, especially Monsieur Alexandre.”
Monsieur Alexandre: J. Davis Alexander! My heart lurched like a struggling animal imprisoned within my chest and my hands flew automatically to where the long-forgotten codecard had been taped to my bare skin. Against all probability, it was still there!
And now I remembered what I was on Earth for.
“Quick!” I yelped, somehow managing to swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “What day is it?”
“Day?” Six Tahitian faces looked at me in profound puzzlement. “Why it’s the evening after Independence Day, August 11th.”
Six hours later, thanks to a miraculous connection with the once-a-week Papeete-Paris fractional orbiter that left Tahiti at midnight, I set down halfway around the world in the spaceport carved out of the beet fields northeast of Paris. Here the ninety-minute flight had taken me into early afternoon. Twenty minutes after landing I was in a chartered air-cab on my way to Liechtenstein and J. Davis Alexander’s bearer box at the Banque Unione de Vaduz.
I was far too nervous to even look at the stupendous beauty of the Alps as they drifted past far below.
Not to mention having the father and mother and grandparents of all hangovers. Kettle drums played the William Tell Overture over and over in my throbbing skull and it was all I could do to keep from bleeding to death through my eyeballs.
An eternity later, now deep in the purple shadows of the majestic mountains, the aircab settled slowly into the bank’s tiny parking lot. I focused blearily on my watch: it seemed to say twenty minutes before closing time. On wobbling legs I staggered into the cool, dark, wood-paneled lobby. Hooten’s ship from Ceres, I knew only too well, had gone into orbit sixteen hours before. More than enough time to get the shuttle down to Earth and then to Liechtenstein....
And if Hooten had gotten to the bearer box before I did, I might as well stay on Earth: my future with Hartman, Bemis & Choupette would be very, very circumscribed indeed.
The codecard worked precisely as J. Davis Alexander had promised it would. No human being challenged me as I pushed the card into one slot after another, gradually making my way through one security measure and then another, through the lobby, along a corridor, then down to the vaults far beneath the surface. Finally I watched a set of massive steel bars swing slowly aside and I stepped into a narrow vault filled with gleaming stainless steel deposit boxes. There before me was what I had come 538 million klicks for: J. Davis Alexander’s bearer box.
With fingers that visibly trembled I pushed the card into the slot on the box’s glistening face.
Whirring softly, its door began to open.
Hardly daring to breathe, I pulled the exposed box towards me. Suppose Hooten had gotten here ahead of me....
I opened my eyes.
The box was jammed with currency, coins, glittering gold ingots, sealed manila envelopes, and colorfully printed bearer bonds.
Without examining it any further, I began to shovel everything in sight into the Air Polynesie flight bag I had picked up somewhere en route. Moments later the box was empty and the bag zippered tight.
Even the smallest gold bars are far heavier than you’d ever think possible. I was concentrating on using both hands to lug the flight bag through the door of the vault when I unexpectedly bumped into somebody rushing into the vault.