Part 4 (2/2)

He disappeared down the pa.s.sageway.

”h.e.l.l, captain,” the voice sounded a minute later. ”It's dead. He musta used up all his reserve juice in that last surge upward.”

”Okay,” Altman smiled--a weird, distorted smile as seen through the thick, rounded helmet. ”Come on back.” He looked at Brad. ”So you can't pull away from the trough any longer? That's tough.”

Brad wanted to say, Okay, Altman, I'll go aboard the Queen with you. But he didn't. He realized the plea would have been futile anyway as he watched the crewman rejoin Altman and heard the latter say: ”Just think, Conally, you could have come aboard. I would have let you a while back.

But you've made this thing too tough and gave my boys the chance to convince me we might have slipped up somewhere and you might be able to prove your side of the story.”

The pair retreated to the air lock. Brad stood motionless, staring, not breathing.

”The pile'll hold,” the crewman announced, ”for another four hours, just about.”

”Fine!” Altman exclaimed. ”This junk'll slip through within an hour.

That'll give us another three hours, at least, to get this stiff aboard the Queen and transfer cargo before she blows. Then we can mop up on whatever crates we've....”

But the air lock closed and the rest of his words were cut off.

If he could only get cleaned up before it came. If he could only enjoy the luxury of a bath, a shave, clean clothes. Brad laughed at the last item, wondering how clothes could be expected to remain clean if they were on someone making the spillthrough transition at coasting speed.

The Fleury lurched as the Queen cut loose and blasted away. Brad had watched the pressure gauge climb back to normal and was removing his helmet at the time. The s.h.i.+p's one-sided gravity field caught hold unexpectedly and he toppled to the deck rolling to the port bulkhead.

His hurt shoulder rammed into metal and new pain knifed into existence as the heavy helmet clattered down and crashed against his head. The blow almost stunned him. But it left him with enough awareness to wish it _had_ knocked him insensible--permanently insensible.

The scope showed more cargo had spilled out in the last lurch. The Queen started over toward the crates, but coasted past, turned and came back to take post spatially alongside the disabled craft. Already the other s.h.i.+p's outline was beginning to blur as the Fleury slipped away from her hyperspatially--down the arc.

Brad straddle-stepped on the deck and bulkhead to the control column and broke out his pack of cigarettes. Suddenly his feet left the deck. The port gray coil had gone out, he realized grimly, the current having dropped below the minimum requirements. For a moment he became concerned over weightlessness. Then he cut in the heel magna-grips of his suit and clanged onto the floor. At least, he wasn't confronted with a topsy-turvy s.h.i.+p any longer. He blew a cloud of smoke into the air and half-centered his attention on the scope. Two more crates had left the Fleury's holds. With the grav fields out on the s.h.i.+p, they did not take up orbit. They just floated away, at an almost imperceptible speed. But the Queen was still apparently not interested in picking them up. There would be plenty of time to do that; right now she must stick close to the Fleury spatially, Brad realized, so her instruments would indicate the moment the spillthrough to normal s.p.a.ce occurred, so her crew could get to work.

As though hypnotized in inconsequential thought, he watched the crates slowly draw away. Almost incredibly expensive cargo. Cargo that Altman would surely not allow to go unrecovered. Even as booty, the crated equipment would bring every bit of what it was worth. But Altman would see that they were delivered--every one of them. A contract with West Cl.u.s.ter meant a good deal more than the face value of the one s.h.i.+pment of inter-calc banks.

Brad started and his face became alive with expression as a sudden realization drove home. It was followed almost immediately by a second jarring consideration. He tossed away the half-consumed cigarette.

It wasn't more than fifteen minutes later when he stood before the mike again.

”Altman,” he called out.

Silence.

”Altman,” he shouted louder.

”Go ahead and answer him, captain. Let's see what he has to say.”

”You can't come aboard, Conally,” Altman said finally.

”If you don't let me come aboard I'll slip through and be killed.”

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