Part 26 (2/2)
From behind him came a husky whisper. ”Strange to be old-” Ghost of a rich girl's laugh. ”Did I ever tell you about the time the field s.h.i.+fted, on Tethys?”
”You told me.”
Ragnarok was stirring.
”Stars,” she said dreamily. ”Hart Crane was the first s.p.a.ce poet. Listen. Stars scribble on our eyes the frosty sagas, the gleaming cantos of unvanquished s.p.a.ce. O silver sinewy-”
Gollem heard the hull clang.
Someone was trying to sneak out of Ragnarok.
He launched himself down-shaft to the freightlock, found it cycling and jacknifed back to get outthrough his boat at the main lock. Too late. As he sprang into his cabin the screens showed a strange pod taking off from behind that new bubble.
Dummy, dummy- He suited up and scrambled out across Ragnarok's hull. The new bubble was still soft, mostly nutri-gel. Pus.h.i.+ng his face into it he cracked his breather.
He came back to Topanga in a blue rage.
”You are letting a phage-runner park on Ragnarok.”
”Oh, was that Leo?” She laughed vaguely. ”He's a courier from the next zone-Themis, isn't it? He calls by sometimes. He's been beautiful to me, Golly.”
”He is a stinking phage-runner and you know it. You were covering for him.” Gollem was sick. The old Topanga would have put ”Leo” out the trash hole. ”Not phage. Not phage on top of everything, Topanga.”
Her ancient eyelids fell. ”Let it be, Golly. I'm alone so long,” she whispered. ”You leave me for so long,”
Her withered paw groped out, seeking him. Brown-spotted, criss-crossed with reedy pulses.
k.n.o.bs, strings. Where were the hands of the girl who had held the camp on Tethys?
He looked up at the array of holographs over the port and saw her. The camera had caught her grinning up at black immensity, the wild light of Saturn's rings reflected in her red-gold hair....
”Topanga, old mother,” he said painfully.
”Don't call me mother, you plastic s.p.a.cepig!” she blazed. Her carca.s.s jerked out of the pilot couch and he had to web her back, hating to touch her. A quarter-gee would break these sticks. ”I should be dead,” she mumbled. ”It won't be long, you'll be rid of me.”
Ragnarok was set now, he could go.
”Maintain, s.p.a.cer, maintain,” he told her heartily. His stomach knew what lay ahead. None of it was any good.
As he left he heard her saying brightly, ”Gimbals, check,” to her dead computer.
He took off high-gain for Franchise Twelve and West Hem. Just as he had the log tied back into real time his caller bleeped. The screen stayed blank.
”Identify.”
”Been waitin' on you, Gollem.” A slurred tenor; Gollem's beard twitched.
”One freakin' fine s.h.i.+p.” The voice chuckled. ”Mainmouth by Co'onis truly flash that s.h.i.+p.”
”Stay off Ragnarok if you want to keep your air,” Gollem told the phage-runner.
The voice giggled again. ”My pa'tners truly grieve on that, 'Spector.” There was a click and he heard his own voice saying, ”Topanga, baby, I can't save you one more time.”
”Deal, 'Spector, deal. Why we flash on war?”
”Blow your clobbing tapes,” Gollem said tiredly. ”You can't run me like you run Hara.”.
” 'Panga,” the invisible Leo said reflectively. ”Freakin' fine old fox. She tell I fix her wire fire?”
Gollem cut channel.
The phager must have made a circuit smoke to win her trust. Gollem's stomach wept acid. So vulnerable. An old sick eagle dead in s.p.a.ce and the rats have found her....
They wouldn't quit, either. Ragnarok had air, water, power. Transmitters. Maybe they were using her caller, maybe she'd been telling the truth. They could take over. Shove her out through the lock....
Gollem's hand hovered over his console.
If he turned back now his log would blow it all. And for what? No, he decided. They'll wait, they'll sniff around first. They want to take me too. They want to see how much squeeze they have. Pray theydon't find out.
He had to get some power somewhere and jump Ragnarok out. How, how? Like trying to hide Big Jup.
He noticed that he had punched the biomonitor into a sick yellow blob and hurled it across the cabin.... How much longer could he cool Coronis?
Right on cue, his company hotline blatted.
”Why aren't you at Franchise Two, Gollem?”
It was marnmouth Quine himself. Gollem took a deep breath and repeated his course reversal plan, watching Quine's little snout purse up.
”After this clear with me. Now hear this, Gollem,” Quine leaned back in his bioflex, pink and plump.
Coronis was no hards.h.i.+p station. ”I don't know what you think you're into with Franchise Three but I want it stopped. The miners are yelling and our Company won't tolerate it.”
Gollem shook his s.h.a.ggy head like a dazed bull. Franchise Three? Oh yeah, the heavy metal-mining outfit.
”They're overloading their tractor beams for hot extraction,” he told Quine. ”It's in my report. If they keep it up they'll have one b.l.o.o.d.y hashup. And they won't be covered because their contract annex specifies the load limits.”
Quine's jowls twitched ominously. ”Gollem. Again I warn you. It is not your role to interpret the contract to the policyholder. If the miners choose to get their ore out faster by abrogating their contract that's their decision. Your job is to report the violation, not to annoy them with technicalities. Right now they are very angry with you. And I trust you don't imagine that our Company”-reverent pause-”appreciates your initiative?”
Gollem made an inarticulate noise in his throat. He should be used to this. Coronis wanted its piece quickly and it wanted to avoid paying compensation when the thing blew. The miners got paid by the shuttle load and most of them couldn't tell a contract annex from a flush valve. By the time they found out they'd be dead.
”Another item.” Quine was watching him. ”You may be getting some noise from Themis sector.
They seemed to be all sweated up about a bit of rock.”
”You mean those Trojans?” Gollem was puzzled. ”What's there?”
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