"Meaning that he may not intend to rejoin the ship. That he could have been drunk at a critical time or, if not drunk, had his mind on a bottle instead of the job at hand. Damn it, boy, grow up! The universe isn't a place of heroes! Men are what they are and no one is perfect."
"Claude wouldn't do a thing like that." Lin's eyes be shy;trayed his uncertainty. "He likes to drink, sure, but where's the harm in that? And he teaches me things. Anyway," he added triumphantly, "the old man wouldn't stick his neck out like that. There's nothing wrong with those generators. There can't be."
"Then where's the engineer?"
"I told you. He's out looking for business with Nimino."
"That's right," agreed Dumarest. "A weird out with a drunk. A happy combination. This trip should show us a lot of profit." He stressed the plural so as to let the boy know that he considered himself a part of the crew and, as such, had a right to be critical. "Do you think they'll find any?"
"I don't know," admitted the steward. "I doubt if Nimino will bother much. He's probably spending his time at some revival or other. He's religious," he explained. "I don't mean that he's a member of the Universal Church. He's that and a lot more. He dabbles in every cult going. Transmigration, Reincarnation, Starcom, Extravitalis, Satanism, Planarism, Amorphism-you name it and he's interested. His cabin's full of charms and fetishes, idols and symbols, sympathetic rela shy;tionship mandalas and inspired pictographs. When I said he was a weird that's what I meant."
"And Claude?"
"If there's a load to be found in a tavern then he'll find it," said the steward. "He got us a few crates of machine patterns-you'll have to check the temperature of those- strain-impressed molecular structure designs in a protoplas shy;mic gel. And he managed to pick up some new sonic drill recordings."
"Speculative buying," said Dumarest. "Just the sort of thing a drunk would find himself landed with. Anything concrete in the nature of paying freight?"
"Not as yet," said Lin reluctantly. "But don't get the wrong impression about Claude. He may appear to buy wild, but the things he gets have value in the Web. Ships aren't frequent out there, don't forget, and we call at a lot of minor worlds. I've known us to make a 1,000 percent profit on stuff you wouldn't look at twice on a planet like Aarn."
"All right," said Dumarest. "I'll take your word for it."
"They're good," insisted the boy. "Odd, maybe, but good. You just don't know."
Dumarest smiled. "I'm a little edgy and maybe too criti shy;cal. You know them better than I do. How long before we leave?"
The steward glanced at his wrist. "A couple of hours. Nimino will be back a good hour before then. Like to make a little bet?"
"Such as?"
"Even money that Claude doesn't come back empty-handed. Five stergols. Is it a bet?"
"It's a bet." Dumarest looked around the cabin. "Now, maybe, you'd better leave me to check my gear."
Alone, he tore the photographs from the walls, frowning at the lighter patches they left behind. A cabinet held a uniform and a suit of rough, protective clothing such as was worn by field loaders. Both were in stretch material, neither were as clean as they could have been. The uniform cap was battered, the visor cracked, and the sweatband stained and thick with grease. The late handler had not been a finicky man.
Other cabinets showed a pile of books in plain covers.
Dumarest flipped one open and listened to the soft ob shy;scenities whispering from the illustrated pages. Both voice and moving illustrations died as he closed the book and reached for another. They were all of the same type. A stack of recordings held cazenda music. A three-dimensional jig shy;saw lay in scattered pieces beside a chessboard and men. The pieces were of lambent crystal, intricately carved and of obvious worth. The board was an electronic instrument for the replaying of recorded games. A box held a few items of personal significance: a ring, a locket containing a curl of hair, a certificate issued by the medical council of Octarge, a pair of dice fashioned from animal bone, scraps and frag shy;ments of a man's entire life.
Dumarest looked further. A small compartment held a hypogun-the butt worn and the instrument almost cer shy;tainly poorly calibrated. Boxes held ampules of drugs which could be blasted by air pressure through clothing, skin, and fat directly into the bloodstream; quicktime, slowtime, anti shy;biotics, compounds for the relief of pain, the bringing of sleep, and the ease of tension. A shabby case held gleaming surgical instruments, and a thick book was an illustrated medical manual. Obviously, on this vessel, the handler was expected to double as physician.
Taking a handful of disposable tissues, Dumarest soaked them with sterilizing solution and swabbed the neck, wrists, and crotch of the uniform and protective clothing. Taking fresh tissues he wiped the sweatband of the uniform cap until it was free of dirt and grease.
Satisfied, he stripped off his tunic. The light from the over shy;head glowtube shone on the hard whiteness of his skin, throwing thin lines of scar tissue into prominence over chest and arms. The hilt of a knife showed above the waistband of his pants, the nine-inch blade gleaming as he threw it beside the tunic on the bed. The pants followed, and he stood naked aside from snug shorts.
Dressed in the uniform, he took up his own things, folded them, and stuffed them into a cabinet. Carefully he adjusted the uniform cap until the cracked visor shielded his eyes and then, after a final inspection, left the cabin and made for the section of the ship which was his responsibility.
Like the cabin, it was as he'd expected. The banks of sterilizing ultraviolet lamps showed dark patches where units needed replacing. The caskets in which livestock were transported showed obvious signs of lengthy disuse, and several of the cargo restraints were inoperative. He paused beside the crates of machine patterns, checking the temperature against the thermostat setting. There was a three-degree difference on the wrong side and he changed the setting hoping that the cargo had not suffered damage.
Thoughtfully he made his way to the salon. Here the passengers, if any, would spend their recreational time- which meant all of it on short journeys-drawing their ra shy;tion of basic from a spigot on the wall. That, at least, was functioning as it should and he drew a cup of the thick mixture, sipping the warm compound of glucose, protein, and vitamins as he studied the furnishings.
"Pretty rough, aren't they?" Dumarest turned and looked at the man who had silently entered the salon. He was middle-aged, his face thin beneath his uniform cap, his eyes startlingly direct. The insignia on collar and breast was that of a navigator. "My name's Nimino." He held out his hand. "You're Earl Dumarest. The captain told me we had a new handler. Welcome aboard."
His handclasp was firm, the skin dry and febrile. "Well, what do you think of the Moray?"
She was a bad ship in bad condition. Five men were too few to crew such a vessel, small though she was. Main shy;tenance suffered and the outward dirt was a sure sign of inner neglect. Dumarest took another sip of basic and said, "I've seen ships in worse condition."
"In a scrapyard," agreed Nimino. "So have I. But as operating vessels in space?" He shrugged. "There could be worse tucked away in some forgotten corner of the galaxy, but I doubt it. Certainly there are none in the Web. Each time we commence a journey we take a gamble with death and our profit, if any, is earned with tears of blood."
"Then why stay with her?"
"Why not? If death is waiting to claim a man-what dif shy;ference where he may be? And then again, my friend, per shy;haps, like you, I have little choice." The navigator glanced at the cup in Dumarest's hand. "Hungry so soon?"