Donald A. Wollheim (ed) (14 page)

When the O.M. was gone, the captain shook his
fist under Jerry's nose.
"Jonah!
If you hadn't
been along, this wouldn't have happened. You'd better be good,
Mr.
Lord." He stopped suddenly, a new thought hitting him. "Do you
realize that means sixty hours of steady, solid work down here?"

"Naturally, since your navigators never learned more than they had
to." Jerry shrugged with an entirely false optimism. "And you'll
remember that hereafter every man on this ship will take orders from me, sir? I
must insist on absolute cooperation."

"You'll get it, Jonah or not."
Blane
stuck out a hand. "I don't like your reputation, Lord, but I do like your
guts. Good
luckl
"

In making an impressive exit, the captain forgot the oil on the floor;
he executed a jerky half-twist before his back hit
the
deck.
Ignatz
backed further out of sight and
prepared for the worst.

"Jonah!" said
Blane
,
and it covered everything with no wasted syllables.

With the wreck carted out,
the communication man came in, hooked up a phone, and coupled it by a spring
reel of wire to sponge-covered earphones. He handed over a chart of present
position and estimated orbit,
then
cleared out.

Jerry
cut in on the phone.
"All clear?"

"Waiting for orders,
sir.
Stern rocket seven has a point-
oh
-six
underblast
you'll have to counteract, and the stabilizers
only work three-five. Venus now in position—" The navigator rattled off
his co-ordinates, and Jerry set them up in his head as he reached for the main
blast rods.

"Okay. Leave orders I'm not to be
bothered by anyone but the mess boy." He pulled
Ignatz
out, patted his back, and grinned. "The room's yours, fellow. Stand to
blast!"

"Clear to blast, sir. AU-1-1 positions
set! Trim-m-m and stow all-l-l!" The time-honored call rang down the
stairwell as Jerry threw the manuals and braced himself for gravity-on.

The freighter shook like a cat coming out of
a bathtub, groaned and bucked sullenly, as the controls were thrown one at a
time; reluctantly she settled down to business. For a bottom-blaster, she was a
sweet old bus, put out with the craftsmanship of men who longed for the stars
and took out that longing in building ships to carry others. Even with the
overworked stabilizers and slight
underblast
she
answered her helm better than some of the new triangles. Jerry bit into her
levers savagely at first, then gently as she became part of him, hard to reach,
yet sweet and honest.

The navigator was shouting down co-ordinates,
drift ratios, and unnecessary pep
talk,
and the
O.M.'s voice came through occasionally, sounding almost pleasant. The crusty
old scalawag had what it took, Jerry conceded; no hysteria or nonsense about
him. Under such an example, the captain and first navigator took heart, and the
second navigator was jaunty with hope when he came on. Faith was dirt cheap in
the conning turret at the moment; Jerry could have used more of it himself, but
was careful not to show it in his voice.

The first ten hours were no worse than steady
attention and driving work could make them, and he began to get the feel of the
ship. His mind tuned in on the creaking of her girders, the sway of her deck,
and the strange harmony that couples flesh to well-built metal. The pattern of
the controls etched itself indelibly into his brain, short cuts came, and ways
of throwing his combinations in less time and with less effort, until he became
a machine integral with the parts he handled.

When food was brought down, he grinned
confidently at the mess boy and snatched it in mouthfuls as the co-ordinates
sent down and the movement felt sent him dancing across the room. Watching him,
the boy grinned back, and snapped his fingers gleefully. Hop to Venus with
ruined controls? A
cinchl

Ignatz
waited doubtfully, but nothing more seemed
likely to happen. He honked hopefully—and an answering bark came out of the
vent tubes. The exhaust blower went on noisily, but the current of cool air
stopped.

Jerry
cut in on the phone. "What happened?"

"Dust explosion in the filter chamber,
sir. I'm afraid it'll take some time to fix it."

It did. While the hours passed, heat leaked
in from the engine and refused to go out. Normal perspiration gave way to
rivulets of sweat that tried to get in the Master's eyes and made his hands wet
and slippery.

Ice and water, brought down at hourly
intervals, helped, but did not alleviate the temperature. Men were working on
the air ducts, but it promised to be a long job.
Ignatz
had secretly crawled up the maze of vent pipes to find the obstruction, nearly
got lost, and come down without success.

When the twenty-hour period was up, Jerry was
rocking on his heels, cursing the heat with every labored breath. He wore ice
packs on every safe place, and still couldn't keep cool. The blowers were
working again, keeping a steady current of air moving, but it was hot. Under
the Master's shoes were heavy pads of
rubberoid
, and
he wore stiff space mittens on his hands, but still the heat came through from
the hot floor and control rods. A few more degrees would spell the limit.

Then the temperature readied a mark and held
it. The heat seeping in and the air going out balanced, and Jerry
settied
down to a regular routine of ice packs and heat;
even the air he breathed was filtered through an ice mask.

The phone buzzed and the O.M.'s voice came
over. "One of the refrigerators overheated and burned a bearing. You'll
have to cut down to half rations of ice."

"Okay." The Master stared
thoughtfully at
Ignatz
, then caught him up and draped
him over his shoulders. "Not enough ice, fellow. You like heat, but you'll
have to cool me off. Come on, pal, show your stuff."

Ignatz
did his best. He had the finest
heat-regulating system on nine planets, and he put it to work, soaking up the
heat from Jerry's sweaty body, dissipating it out into the air. Jerry never
understood how it was done, but he knew
Ignatz
could
absorb heat or radiate it off at high efficiency; now the
zloaht
was absorbing on his flexible belly-plate and radiating from his back.

Jerry sighed with relief. "Ah, fine,
fellow. You've got the ice packs beat three ways from Sunday." His eyes
pulled shut and he relaxed against the control bars.
Ignatz
prodded him with the sharp end of his tail, waking him to his duties.

"Regular two-man crew we've got, fellow," the Master muttered.
"You'll make me win this thing through yet, maybe." His beard was
peeling off in the humid heat, and he pulled it away, along with the scar. The
brown pigment had gone hours before.

But now things were letting up a little. The
freighter had settled into the groove of her orbit, was balanced nicely, and
required little more attention until they reached Venus. Jerry had an insulated
chair rigged up and dropped into it when the pressure of the work would let
him, while
Ignatz
listened for the opening buzz of
the phone or watched gravely for a flash from the extension feed indicators.
Fifteen minutes here, twenty there, once even a whole hour; Jerry's overworked
system grabbed greedily at each minute, sucking up relief and rest like a dry
sponge. If only the drugging, tiring heat would lift.

And then, miraculously, a shot of cold air
whooshed
out of the vent ports, and Jerry jerked up
from his stupor. "They've got it,
Ignatz
; it's
fixedl
" He shivered gratefully under the draft, drew
back from it while his body begged for coolness, afraid of too sudden a drop
in temperature. "Now you can forget the heat, fellow; just wake me when I
need it."

The air was dropping down smoothly, a degree
every five minutes, and life seemed to flow back into the Master.
Ignatz
muttered
sofdy
and
relaxed. The two-way heat control had been a heavy nervous strain on him,
requiring hard mental discipline; he was thankful to fall back to normal.

The three-quarters mark
came and went, with only fifteen hours ahead—and the hardest part of the job
still to do. Under his breath, Jerry was talking to himself, ordering his
muscles as he might
a
crew of men, trying to forget the dull ache
that found every muscle of his body, the hot acid pain in his head, the feeling
of an expanding balloon against his brain. Another five hours, and they'd be
teetering down through the heavy gravity zone, where every tube would have to
be balanced until the tugs came to take over.

Old Man Barclay came down in place of the
mess boy,
a
serious,
worried O.M., but with a smile on his lips—until he saw
Ignatz
and Jerry's normal face. Then something hard shot into his eyes. He whistled.

"I had a hunch," he said softly.
But his voice was even, his face relaxed. "You always were a fool, Jerry,
even if you happen to be the best man that ever rode a star-hopper. This, and
our cursed luck, should have told me. What is it-Anne?"

Jerry nodded, patted
Ignatz
back into place as the
zloaht
moved to avoid the O.M.'s look. "Anne," he agreed. He thrust
back into the machinery as the navigator sent down fresh data, backed out, and
faced the other quietly. "Well?"

"Of course."
The old face never moved a muscle. "What I can't understand is how
your luck can reach out ten million miles and hit another ship, though. Never
mind, I'll tell you later—maybe."

Jerry
dropped limply back into his chair, and the other moved over with a drink.
Noting the trembling hands that lifted the glass, the Old Man's face softened.
"Too much work for one man, son. I used to be pretty much up on the layout
here. Maybe I can spell you."

"Maybe.
It's routine stuff now, Mr. Barclay. All you need are the feed controls
and gyro-eveners banked together there." The Master pointed them out, one
by one, while the

O.M.
nodded. "I'll have to take over in four, five hours though. Sure you can
do it till then?"

'That much, yes."
The O.M. tossed
a
blanket over the younger man and then moved over by the projecting feed
bars. "Ever strike you as funny I came on this trip?"

"Didn't
have time to think," said the Master.

Barclay squatted down on a beam, his eyes on
the controls. "I don't do things without a purpose, Lord. Venus needs
radium—needs it bad. They offer double price for three million dollars' worth.
Earth price, when delivered at Hellas. But they want it quick, so it has to be
sent in one load. You can't get insurance on that for
a
one-shipment cargo; too much risk. And no private company will ship it
without insurance."

"So?"

"So I bought the radium on the market,
had it stowed secretly with the chocolate—mutiny never happened, but it
might—and came along to watch it. That represents my entire personal fortune.
If it reaches Venus, I double my money; otherwise, I won't be there to worry
about it."

He stopped,
then
went on in the same even voice. "That's why I could cheerfully kill you
for putting a jinx on this voyage. But I won't. I have reasons for reaching
Venus in a hurry. Put
diis
ship down in one piece on
the surface of Venus, and one-third of the profit is yours—one million dollars,
cold cash, in any bank you want it."

Ignatz
honked
sofdy
—for
him—and Jerry blinked. He swung off at a tangent. "You spoke of my luck
hitting another ship across ten million miles; and now you've got reasons for
reaching Hellas quickly. Anne?"

The O.M. repeated Jerry's earlier answer.
"Anne. Saw it from the conning turret. The
Burgundy
broke a steering tube bank, had to make a
forced landing. We got the start of an SOS, but it faded off—must have ruined
the radio as they hit."