“Chance we take. The odds aren’t bad. He’s slower than us, which suggests a merchant vessel.” Flandry set the new path, leaned back and stretched. A grin spread across his features.
“My dilemma’s been solved for me. We’re off to Starkad.”
“Why? How?”
“Didn’t mention it before, for fear of raising false hopes in you. When I’d rather raise something else. But I came here first, instead of directly to Saxo or Betelgeuse, because this is the way Terran ships pass, carrying men and supplies to Starkad and returning home. If we can hitch a ride … you see?”
Eagerness blossomed in her and died again. “Why couldn’t we have found one going home?”
“Be glad we found any whatsoever. Besides, this way we deliver our news a lot sooner.” Flandry rechecked his figures. “We’ll be in call range in an hour. If he should prove to be Merseian, chances are we can outspeed and lose him.” He rose. “I decree a good stiff drink.”
Persis held her hands up. They trembled. “We do need something for our nerves,” she agreed, “but there are psycho-chemicals aboard.”
“Whisky’s more fun. Speaking of fun, we have an hour.”
She rumpled his hair. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” he said. “Merely improbable.”
The ship was the freighter Rieskessel, registered on Nova Germania but operating out of the Imperial frontier world Irumclaw. She was a huge, potbellied, ungainly and unkempt thing, with a huge, potbellied, ungainly and unkempt captain. He bellowed a not quite sober welcome when Flandry and Persis came aboard.
“Oh, ho, ho, hoi Humans! So soon I did not expect seeing humans. And never this gorgeous.” One hairy hand engulfed Flandry’s, the other chucked Persis under the chin. “Otto Brummelmann is me.”
Flandry looked past the bald, wildly bearded head, down the passageway from the airlock. Corroded metal shuddered to the drone of an ill-tuned engine. A pair of multi-limbed beings with shiny blue integuments stared back from their labor; they were actually swabbing by hand. The lights were reddish orange, the air held a metallic tang and was chilly enough for his breath to smoke. “Are you the only Terran, sir?” he asked.
“Not Terran. Not me. Germanian. But for years now on Irumclaw. My owners want Irumclagian spacehands, they come cheaper. No human language do I hear from end to end of a trip. They can’t pronounce.” Brummelmann kept his little eyes on Persis, who had donned her one gown, and tugged at his own soiled tunic in an effort at getting some wrinkles out. “Lonely, lonely. How nice to find you. First we secure your boat, next we go for drinks in my cabin, right?”
“We’d better have a private talk immediately, sir,” Flandry said. “Our boat—no, let’s wait till we’re alone.”
“You wait. I be alone with the little lady, right? Ho, ho, hoi” Brummelmann swept a paw across her. She shrank back in distaste.
On the way, the captain was stopped by a crew member who had some question. Flandry took the chance to hiss in Persis’ ear: “Don’t offend him. This is fantastic luck.”
“This?” Her nose wrinkled.
“Yes. Think. No matter what happens, none of these xenos’ll give us away. They can’t. All we have to do is stay on the good side of the skipper, and that shouldn’t be hard.”
He had seen pigpens, in historical dramas, better kept up than Brummelmann’s cabin. The Germanian filled three mugs, ignoring coffee stains, with a liquid that sank fangs into stomachs. His got half emptied on the first gulp. “So!” he belched. “We talk. Who sent you to deep space in a gig?”
Persis took the remotest corner. Flandry stayed near Brummelmann, studying him. The man was a failure, a bum, an alcoholic wreck. Doubtless he kept his job because the owners insisted on a human captain and couldn’t get anyone else at the salary they wanted to pay. Didn’t matter greatly, as long as the mate had some competence. For the most part, antiquated though her systems must be, the ship ran herself.
“You are bound for Starkad, aren’t you, sir?” Flandry asked.
“Yes, yes. My company has a Naval contract. Irumclaw is a transshipment point. This trip we carry food and construction equipment. I hope we go on another run soon. Not much pleasure in Highport. But we was to talk about you.”
“I can’t say anything except that I’m on a special mission. It’s vital for me to reach Highport secretly. If Donna d’Io and I can ride down with you, and you haven’t radioed the fact ahead, you’ll have done the Empire a tremendous service.”
“Special mission … with a lady?” Brummelmann dug a blackrimmed thumb into Flandry’s ribs. “I can guess what sort of mission. Ho, ho, ho!”
“I rescued her,” Flandry said patiently. “That’s why we were in a boat. A Merseian attack. The war’s sharpening. I have urgent information for Admiral Enriques.”
Brummelmann’s laughter choked off. Behind the matted whiskers, that reached to his navel, he swallowed. “Attack, you said? But no, the Merseians, they have never bothered civilian ships.”
“Nor should they bother this one, Captain. Not if they don’t know I’m aboard.”
Brummelmann wiped his pate. Probably he thought of himself as being in the high, wild tradition of early spacefaring days. But now his daydreams had orbited. “My owners,” he said weakly. “I have obligation to my owners. I am responsible for their ship.”
“Your first duty is to the Empire.” Flandry considered taking over at blaster point. No; not unless he must; too chancy. “And all you need do is approach Starkad in the usual fashion, make your usual landing at Highport, and let us off. The Merseians will never know, I swear.”
“I—but I—”
Flandry snatched an idea from the air. “As for your owners,” he said, “you can do them a good turn as well. Our boat had better be jettisoned out here. The enemy has her description. But if we take careful note of the spot, and leave her power-plant going for neutrino tracing, you can pick her up on your way home and sell her there. She’s worth as much as this entire ship, I’ll bet.” He winked. “Of course, you’ll inform your owners.”
Brummelmann’s eyes gleamed. “Well. So. Of course.” He tossed off the rest of his drink. “By God, yes! Shake!”
He insisted on shaking hands with Persis also. “Ugh,” she said to Flandry when they were alone, in an emptied locker where a mattress had been laid. She had refused the captain’s offer of his quarters. “How long to Starkad?”
“Couple days.” Flandry busied himself checking the spacesuits he had removed from the boat before she was cast adrift.
“I don’t know if I can stand it.”
“Sorry, but we’ve burned our britches. Myself, I stick by my claim that we lucked out.”
“You have the strangest idea of luck,” she sighed. “Oh, well, matters can’t get any worse.”
They could.
Fifteen hours later, Flandry and Persis were in the saloon. Coveralled against the chill but nonetheless shivering, mucous membranes aching from the dryness, they tried to pass time with a game of rummy. They weren’t succeeding very well.
Brummelmann’s voice boomed hoarse from the intercom: “You! Ensign Flandry! To the bridge!”
“Huh?” He sprang up. Persis followed his dash, down halls and through a companionway. Stars glared from the viewports. Because the optical compensator was out of adjustment, they had strange colors and were packed fore and aft, as if the ship moved through another reality.
Brummelmann held a wrench. Beside him, his first mate aimed a laser torch, a crude substitute for a gun but lethal enough at short range. “Hands high!” the captain shrilled.
Flandry’s arms lifted. Sickness caught at his gullet. “What is this?”